"Which could break up a marriage or two, hurt someone's children…"
He did have a point. "It could turn out that way, but that's the pessimistic point of view," she said. "We could just take it far enough to see what we're dealing with, then make a decision."
"That's exactly what you said when you asked me to go with you to Cameron's house."
"Well, that didn't work out so bad. At least we know his father lives there, so it's not just his batty grandmother watching him. And I dropped it after that."
"His father who I never wanted to see again and who never wanted to see me," he reminded her.
"You both came through the encounter without any mortal wounds."
"You're going to do this whether I help you or not, aren't you?"
"I am," she agreed. "But I'd rather have your help. I know you're curious, despite your cynicism. You want to know what happened to them, too."
He stared back at her. "You're very persuasive."
She smiled. "Is that a yes?"
"I have to go down to the county offices tomorrow to check on some permits. I could possibly go by the Hall of Records and see if I can get a list of the previous owners of this house."
"Would you? That would be perfect. I'd love to go with you, but I am swamped with baking this week, and I only have Susan's help for a few hours tomorrow. I might be able to do it later in the day, but I can't commit."
"Don't worry about it. I'll see what I can find out and let you know."
"You're being very nice, Roman."
He laughed. "Just saving myself time trying to argue you out of this idea."
"Smart man."
"Am I?" He gave her a bemused look. "When I left your apartment last night, I told myself I probably shouldn't see you for a while."
Her heart quickened. "Why would you tell yourself that?"
"You know why. There's something between us."
She licked her lips at his blunt response. "I'm not dating Doug, if that's a concern to you. I'm not interested in him."
Roman's gaze darkened. "I'm glad."
"Are you?"
"Yeah. But…"
She waited a moment, then said, "Are you going to finish that sentence?"
He let out a sigh. "Maybe when I come up with an ending. You know I'm leaving, Juliette. I don't know when, but it will probably be soon."
She swallowed hard at the reminder. "I know."
"So…I should walk you out."
She really didn't want to leave it like that, but Roman was already on his feet. She slowly stood up. "Do you mind if I hang on to the letters?"
"No, I think you should."
"Okay." She followed him out to the front door, not sure what to do next. Should she kiss him? Should she say good-night and just leave?
While she was thinking about it, he grabbed her arms and hauled her up against his chest in a possessive manner that stole her breath away.
"Not so fast," he murmured. "I didn't get my kiss yet."
"I didn't think you wanted one."
"Oh, but I do."
His mouth touched hers with a heated warmth that melted her insides. She leaned into his kiss, inviting his tongue to tangle with hers, wrapping her arms around his neck as she pulled his head down.
It wasn't so much as a good-night kiss as a let's-keep-this-going kiss. But all too soon it ended.
Roman lifted his head, his gaze unreadable as he stared down at her. "That sweet mouth of yours packs a punch."
"Only with you," she murmured.
"I like that."
"I figured you would. And it's the truth."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
She nodded, then his lips touched hers again, one last teasing taste that she savored all the way home.
Ten
"Juliette," Susan said. "We need more Wish cookies."
She stared at her assistant in confusion late Tuesday afternoon, realizing she'd been completely lost in thought. That had been happening a lot since she'd met Roman. She spent way too much time thinking about him. And last night's dreams had certainly been filled with his image.
"There's more in the back," she said. "I'll get them." She went into the kitchen and then brought out another tray of the popular cookies.
When she put them in the display case, an older woman with jet-black hair and bright-pink lipstick gave her a huge smile of relief.
"Thank goodness," the woman said. "I was afraid you were out of those cookies."
"How many do you want?"
"I'll take the whole tray."
"Really? All of them?" she asked in surprise. "There are thirty-six cookies here."
"And I have a lot of friends who want to make wishes. I'm Dolores Baker. I work at the Morning Glory Retirement Center. We're having a pre-Valentine's Day party tomorrow, and I can't tell you how many of the residents asked me if I was getting your Wish cookies."
"That's sweet," she said, grabbing a large box.
"My mother is one of those residents. She told me that fifteen years ago, as a widow, she bought a cookie from your father. She wished that she would find love again. It seemed impossible to her at the time; she was still grieving for my dad. But at the Valentine's Day Sweetheart's Dance, she met another widower, Malcolm Hodges. They started talking and they ended up married six months later. He made her happy for twelve years. Sadly, he passed away three years ago. I think these cookies are just what she needs to be hopeful again, even if it's just all fun."
She was touched by Dolores's story. "That's really sweet. I'm glad you shared that with me, and I hope these cookies bring a lot of happiness to all of your friends."
"I'm sure they will. And at the very least, they'll taste good."
She rang up the purchase, then said good-bye.
"I think that's it," Susan said, letting out a tired sigh as she finished with the last customer. "Busy day. And it looks like you're headed for an early morning with more baking. The orders continue to pour in. At some point, you may just have to say no. There's a limit to how much you can do."
"I can make it all work. I don’t need much sleep."
Susan gave her a doubtful look. "I think you should reconsider the dessert order for the Wayfarer restaurant. It's just too big. They want six toasted almond cakes and six molten lava chocolate cakes, and they called it in twenty minutes ago for tomorrow's lunch. What were they thinking?"
"They said they were hoping for a miracle. I'm going to give them one."
"And kill yourself in the process."
"I'll be fine." She paused, looking at the clock. "You can go. I'll close down."
"Are you sure? I hate leaving you to handle all this baking on your own, but you know I'm no good in the kitchen."
She nodded. She had tried to use Susan a few times, and she just didn't have the enthusiasm or skill set for baking. "You've already worked hard enough today. Go and be with your husband."
"Okay, but you do need to start thinking about getting an assistant to help with the baking. I know you don't trust anyone, but you only have two hands."
"I am thinking about it. I just feel like I can't sell anything I haven't made myself."
"You have to get over that."
"I'm sure you're right."
Susan took off her apron. "I've been meaning to ask—what happened with Doug the other night? You never said how your dinner was."
"It was fine."
"That doesn't sound very exciting."
"It wasn't. We just didn't have any sparks."
Susan looked disappointed. "That's a shame. I was thinking you'd make a good mayor's wife."
She laughed at that. "I'd make a terrible politician's wife. I often speak before I think."
"That can be refreshing."
"Or career killing," she said, following Susan to the door. "See you tomorrow." After her assistant left, she locked the door and turned the sign to Closed, then started to unload the display cases, and put some of the items back into the refrigerator.<
br />
When that was done, she grabbed a quick bite upstairs, making some soup to go with a salad. Then she headed back downstairs around seven to start prep for the next day. She'd just re-entered the kitchen when she got a text from Roman.
Her heart zinged at just the sight of his name. She really needed to get a grip on her emotions. His text said he had some information for her.
She told him to come to the bakery. She was really curious to see if he'd discovered the identity of the letter writer.
He said he'd be there in about a half hour, so she decided to get some work done before then. Setting down the phone, she put on her apron and turned her attention to her prep work.
She was deep in flour, butter, and cream when her phone buzzed again with a text that Roman was out front. She quickly hurried out to the front door to let him in.
He looked better than dessert, she thought, his hair mussed from the windy evening, his cheeks glowing, his brown eyes sparkling.
"Cold out there, warm in here," he said with a grin, as he unzipped his jacket.
"I'm preheating the ovens. Come in the back."
He followed her into the kitchen, then pulled a big envelope out of his pocket before hanging his jacket on the hook by the door.
"So this is where the magic happens," he said.
"This is it." She waved her hand around the room. "But it doesn't look much like magic right now. I have a huge order due tomorrow by eleven, so it's going to be a long night."
"We don't have to do this now if you're busy."
"Of course we have to do this now. I'm busy but I'm also curious."
"Did anyone ever tell you curiosity killed the cat?"
"My dad used to say that to me a lot, but I'm not a cat, so I'm not worried."
She waved him toward a stool by the island counter. "Have a seat." He sat down and she took the stool next to him. "So what did you find out?"
"I went down to the county courthouse and was able to get the list of recorded deeds on your property."
"That's great."
"I have to warn you that this data doesn’t reflect tenants. So if your letter writer was a renter and not an owner, she won't be in here."
"Got it. Let's start with the owners."
"Okay." He pulled a piece of paper from the envelope. "It's not too long of a list. The house was built in 1917, and there have been seven owners in the last hundred years, four owners before your parents and two afterward, including my grandfather."
"Seven," she muttered. It wasn't a lot for a hundred years, but it reminded her again that her story was just one of the many stories the house would tell.
He arched an eyebrow, giving her a speculative look. "What did I say?"
"Nothing. Who are the owners?"
"Jeremy Bascom built the house and lived there for eighteen years. He moved out in 1933."
"That was during the depression. I wonder if he had to sell."
"Possibly. I was also talking to the woman in the recorder's office, and she told me that most deeds up until the 1950s were held in a man's name only, regardless of his marital status. So when I give you a man's name, it doesn't necessarily mean he was single."
"It's hard to believe that it wasn't that long ago that women couldn't own property in their own name. Who's next on the list?"
Roman consulted the sheet of paper in front of him. "Harry Sackmore. He owned the property from 1933 to 1958. Next was Max and Jane Grayson, from 1958 to 1972."
"Wait, are the Grayson sisters related to Max and Jane?"
"If those were their parents, I'd say so, but I don't know for sure."
"That's interesting. Who's next?"
"Connie Jacobson owned the house from 1972 to 1987, when your parents bought it. I don't know if she was a single woman or just held the deed in her name." He paused. "Do we need to go on with the owners after your parents?"
"There was just one, wasn't there?"
"Yes, Dee and Bill Hannington, from 2003 to 2016. Then my grandfather purchased the property. That brings us to now."
She thought about what she'd just learned. She had names, but she needed more.
"Let me ask you something," Roman said. "Was that bedroom and closet carpeted when you lived there?"
"I think so," she said slowly. "I feel like all of the bedrooms were carpeted."
"Do you remember your parents putting down new carpet?"
"No, not really. Why all the questions about carpeting?"
"Just trying to see if we can rule out anyone. If the carpet was placed over the boards where the box was hidden, then it probably happened before you moved in."
"That's true, but who knows how many times it was re-carpeted? I think we have to base our theory on the fact that the letters sound old-fashioned."
"I agree," he said with a nod. "Her language, and her concern about her father forcing her to marry, sound dated."
"So we need to research the four owners before my parents. That shouldn't be too difficult." She paused. "Maybe I should start with the Graysons."
He groaned. "If you want to start there, I'm out. You'll get further on your own."
She knew he was right, but she didn't want him to be out. She wanted him to be working with her. "Then let's start at the beginning. I wonder what we can find out on the Internet."
"Probably quite a bit. Do you want to start now?"
"I really do," she said, "but…"
"But you have cakes to bake. No problem. This can wait. Those letters have been hidden for years. There's no real urgency to figure out who owns them now."
"Except that I really want to, but it will have to wait until tomorrow night."
"I should let you get back to work."
"Or…" she said impulsively.
He gave her a wary look. "I don't think I like the sound of that."
"You could help me bake. I could use another set of hands." She couldn't quite believe she was asking Roman to help when she'd already turned away Susan's offer, but she just hated to see him leave again so soon.
"My hands?" he asked doubtfully. "I don't think I'll be much help."
"I'll tell you what to do."
"What are you making?"
"Toasted almond cakes with mascarpone cream and Amarena cherries, decorated with pink and red hearts."
"That sounds hard."
"They're not difficult, but they are time-consuming. And I need six of them. I also need six molten lava chocolate cakes. It's a special order for a private luncheon. That's why I could use the help."
"And you don't have anyone else to ask?"
"I really don't."
"You're going to regret this, Juliette."
She smiled. "I don't think so. You're a smart guy. And you said yourself you used to cook for you and your mom."
"I also said I made hot dogs and spaghetti."
"You can do it. I'm a great teacher."
"Well, you're filled with confidence tonight." He got to his feet and pushed up the sleeves of his sweater. "Fine. You're on. I am yours to command."
"Great." She stood up and moved over to the built-in set of drawers, pulling out an apron and a baker's hat. "First, you dress."
"You want me to wear an apron?" he asked doubtfully.
"And a hat. Health regulations."
"No one is here to see what I'm wearing."
"I'll see. And what happened to—I am yours to command?"
"Fine," he grumbled, putting the apron on and tying it behind his back.
She put the hat on his head. "You look sexy."
"I seriously doubt that," he said dryly. "Save your buttering-up for the cake pans."
She laughed. "That's a good one. But you do look sexy, and if you do an amazing job tonight, I'll prove it to you." Her reckless dare brought a gleam to his eyes.
"Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?"
"You'll have to wait and see. First, you have to show me you can follow instructions and let me be the boss."
"I'm a go
od soldier," he said lightly. "What do you want me to do first?"
"Get the pans ready."
"Okay, that sounds easy."
"It is, but if you mess it up, the cakes won't come out of the pans, and we'll have to start over again."
"So a little pressure then. Way to build my confidence, boss."
"I just want you to know what's at stake," she said. "All kidding aside, Roman, these have to be perfect. This is my business, my brand, and it has to be amazing."
"I get it," he said, giving her a reassuring smile. "I'll do the best I can. But at any point you want to fire me, just say the word."
She probably shouldn't have hired him in the first place, but spending the night baking with Roman sounded a lot more fun than doing it by herself.
* * *
Juliette was tough, Roman thought two hours later, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead with a paper towel. She'd told him that she took her business seriously, and she hadn't been lying. Once they'd gotten into the baking, her instructions had been crisp, clear, purposeful, and her attitude had gone from sweet and easygoing to serious and perfection-driven.
He wished he could say he liked her less now, but it was just the opposite. He could see her passion, her drive, her determination to do well, to meet her own very high standards, and her willingness to do things over and over until they were done exactly the way she needed them to be done.
When she'd asked him to help, he'd sort of expected he'd be playing around in some flour, cracking some eggs, and watching her sweet, sexy body move around the kitchen, but instead he'd been taught how to make toasted almond cake, filling, icing, and pink and red hearts to add decoration to the top of the cakes. He'd felt a bit clumsy throughout most of the tasks, but he had to admit he'd enjoyed the work.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, he realized it was almost ten. The last almond cake was in the oven, but they had yet to start the chocolate cakes. Juliette still had a lot of work ahead of her. He had a feeling her enthusiasm for everything might be leading her into over-booking herself.
"One more to go," she said, giving him an absent-minded smile, as she checked the oven. "Then I'll let everything cool before I decorate. While that’s happening, I can start on the chocolate cakes."
Sweet Somethings Page 13