by Kent, Alison
Again with the sucker punch, this one making it hard for him to breathe. “What do you mean, your last year?”
The motion of her hand slowed. Her smile slowed, too. “I’m quitting,” she said, and he frowned.
“What do you mean, you’re quitting?”
She lowered her hand to her side, toying with her sweater’s hem; was he making her nervous? “I gave notice before school started.”
“What about Addy?” It was the only thing he could think about, his little girl and how much she adored her teacher.
“Adrianne will be in first grade next year. I wouldn’t be her teacher even if I were still here.”
“Oh, right.” Duh. He started thumbing through his keys again, not liking her news or his reaction. Because, you know, it makes perfect sense to hate her resigning when this is Addy’s only year with her, and you met her for the first time today. “What’re you gonna do?”
She lifted her gaze, tucked her hair behind her ear. “More than likely I’ll still be teaching, but I’ll be doing it in Italy. I’m going there in June.”
“What do you mean, you’re going to Italy?” And at that he was just about ready to strangle himself. Her meaning—all of her meanings—were obvious. For some reason, he was being particularly slow.
She watched him fumble with the keys until he finally found the one he wanted. “I used to be married. My husband’s family is there, and they’re really the only family I have anymore. He died two years ago. On the job. He was a firefighter. And as a wedding gift, as strange as it sounds, he’d taken out an insane amount of life insurance. Enough that I can afford to work with his cousin in an English language program she’s starting. If I’m a good fit.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “About your husband,” he added. Then he shoved the key into the lock while processing all she’d just told him. She wasn’t just unmarried. She was a widow. For some reason, that had him seeing her with more gravitas and less, well, lust.
“Thank you.”
It was a simple exchange—I’m sorry. Thank you.—and it covered the basics, but he felt as if the words conveyed nothing, as if he needed to offer something deeper, as if she deserved hearing something more.
But all he could come up with was, “Italy, huh. What part?”
“Cinque Terre. Vernazza, actually. It’s on the Italian Riviera.”
“Bet that’s gorgeous,” he said, gesturing for her to go inside. The back door opened into the shop’s shipping center and stockroom. The shelves running the length of the space held plain cardboard cartons, tape, packing peanuts, and Bliss’s custom-designed candy boxes, along with polycarbonate molds, paint rollers, bowls, peels, scrapers, and airbrushing supplies.
All these years later Callum still found himself awed by those personalized boxes: the particular shade of dark sepia matte he’d taken forever to choose, Bliss’s name and logo gold-foiled on the front, his signature printed inside each lid. The interior packaging that kept the chocolates secure.
Stupid, really, to be so proud of a box, but there it was. Proof positive that, bad choices or not and against all odds, he’d made this work.
A laptop and printer sat on a desk flush with one of the shorter walls, and flush to the opposite was a similar desk, though this one and its child-sized chair sat closer to the ground. The surface held Addy’s puzzles and glue sticks and sticker books and the set of bendable toy characters from the Disney movie Frozen his mother had insisted her granddaughter have.
It was that desk that drew Brooklyn’s attention. “Adrianne must love this. Her own space. Her favorite things.” She reached down and picked up the Olaf snowman figurine. “Does she still sleep with the plush version?”
He nodded, not quite sure what to think of her knowing his daughter that well. “I’ll put a platform beneath the desk as she gets older, raise it until she doesn’t need it anymore, though I guess by then she’ll be old enough to catch rides home with friends rather than having her old man pick her up.”
“On his Harley. You forgot that part,” she said, one brow teasingly arched.
“Yeah, well . . .”
“I don’t think she’ll ever be too old for that.”
“She’s not the one I’m worried about,” he said, grumbling as he added, “I’ve already found five gray hairs this week.”
She laughed, then asked, “Does she spend a lot of time here?”
“Unless I’ve got something going on, like Valentine’s Day, she hangs out most days after school while I work.” He looked around, leaning a shoulder against a shelf. “It’s not usually so crowded or so cluttered in here. I like to run a tight ship, but Valentine’s Day always gets out of hand.”
“And it’s driving you crazy, isn’t it?”
Like she wouldn’t believe. “C’mon. You’ve seen Addy’s domain. Let me show you mine.” He led her into the rear hallway and pointed toward the various doors. “Restrooms, kitchen, showroom, the closet that serves as my office. Take your pick.”
Brooklyn stepped into the space painted the same Irish cream as the walls in the shop, set off with molding in the same matte sepia as Bliss’s boxes, and hung with photos of his portfolio of colorful artisanal candies. The door closed behind them, but she didn’t move, standing to take a deep breath. “It smells amazing in here. You know that, don’t you?”
It smelled like work. It smelled like his life.
It smelled like chocolate.
“I’m not sure I notice it anymore. Except sometimes doing laundry and catching a whiff on Addy’s clothes. Makes me wonder what I smell like.” And that was a thought best left right where it dropped, he decided, pushing open the door to the kitchen—the room took up a quarter of the leased space; two of its walls, the front and the left, faced the showroom—and avoiding the flurry of the shop.
Brooklyn walked to the window of one-way glass above his marble work counter. It looked out over the display case, from behind which Lena and the temp took care of the customers. “That’s some kind of traffic. Two lines. Both five or six customers deep. And there’s the door opening again.” Arms crossed, she turned, the look on her face approving. “Very impressive, Mr. Drake. Especially since I know what those candies cost.”
“Those candies are made by hand. With the highest quality ingredients to be had. They’re worth every penny,” he said, not minding at all that he sounded proud.
She took that in, considering him. He could nearly see her mind working behind her bright blue eyes. “What’s your favorite?” she asked.
“To eat or to make?”
“Both.”
Hmm. He’d never really thought about it. “The kid in me likes the Peanut Butter Crackle. I grind peanut brittle—and I make that, too—mixing it into a natural peanut butter I get from a supplier in upstate New York, then wrap it all up in a creamy milk chocolate.”
“Yum,” she said appreciatively. “And the adult in you?”
He walked toward her, put his hands on her shoulders, and spun her to face the showroom’s display case, leaning close as he released her and catching a whiff of something soft and natural, perfume or soap or shampoo.
His gut tightened, and his heart thumped hard, and it took him several seconds to find his voice. Nope. This hadn’t been a good idea at all. “See that shiny green geodesic dome? The shell’s a dark bittersweet, but inside it’s fresh lime juice and añejo tequila in a white chocolate ganache.”
“The shell’s chocolate? Even though it’s green?”
“The green is cocoa butter.” He pointed to the right and a row of scalloped rounds. “Just like the frosted white with the brown splatters on that one is cocoa butter.”
“What flavor is that one?”
“S’mores.”
“Seriously?” Her eyes, when she lifted her gaze to meet his, were wide and bright and so much like his daughter’s that anyone who saw them together and didn’t know the truth could easily mistake Brookly
n for Addy’s mom.
Yep. Bad idea. Very bad idea, he mused, grinding his jaw. “I make the marshmallows, toast them, layer them with a milk chocolate ganache, and sprinkle on crushed graham cracker crumbs before sealing them up.”
“No doubt you make the graham crackers, too.”
He couldn’t decide if what sounded like admiration was sarcasm instead, but he nodded as she glanced through the window again. “What about the orange speckles on the red one there?”
“That’s a raspberry caramel.”
“They don’t look like chocolates at all.” She shook her head, as if finding the concept hard to believe. “How do you do that?”
He thought back to the first artisan chocolates he’d seen at a shop in San Francisco, his fascination with them, and how it had grabbed hold. “The magic of iridescent powder and airbrushing the molds with red cocoa butter. I do that before pouring in the chocolate for the shell. The shells harden, I pipe in the filling, cover it all with more chocolate, then let it set.”
“You make it sound so simple,” she said, and this time without a hint of anything but awe.
He liked that, coming from her, but he didn’t stop to analyze why. “It’s as simple as teaching kindergarten. Meaning once you’ve been doing it awhile, you know the ins and outs and all the things that can go wrong.”
“What can go wrong?”
At the beginning? So many things he’d lost count. “Not tempering the chocolate correctly is the most obvious, but I’ve got a machine for that, even though I can pretty much tell the temperature by touch when I do it manually. Less obvious is coming up with a filling that seems like a good idea but ends up tasting like crap.”
She stepped back from the window and looked at him. “Have you done that?”
“It’s been a while, but yeah.” When her expression grew questioning, he said, “Let’s just say I won’t be offering hot buttered rum popcorn again.”
Her laughter filled the small kitchen. “That actually sounds really good.”
“Sounds. Not tastes,” he said, his hip braced against the center island as he watched her make a circle through the small room.
She ran a finger along the edge of the countertop range he used to prep some of the fillings. “It’s so clean in here.”
“That’s because I worked as late as Addy would let me last night to get ahead, and I haven’t dirtied anything up yet today. Stop by six hours from now and you’ll be singing a different tune.”
That earned him a rueful smile. “I guess that’s my cue to go home.”
He wasn’t ready for her to, but she was right. “Our tours do include a complimentary sample, so before we head back, what’s your pleasure?”
“Ooh, I’ll have one of everything,” she said, laughing as she returned to the window. Hands on the counter, she leaned forward, as if getting six inches closer would give her a better view.
She made him think of Addy, again, as if his daughter had inherited her traits: the way her eyes grew wide with excitement, the way she held her mouth to one side as if doing so helped her think.
Dangerous thoughts to be having, he realized, pushing them away to say, “We can go into the store, you know. Get you a better view.”
But she shook her head. “Why don’t you surprise me?”
“Okay,” he said, though his ideas of what made good flavor combinations weren’t what every customer enjoyed. “What do you like?”
“Something spicy. Cinnamon or cardamom, or even chilies.”
He looked out at what was left in the cases, then knocked on the window. Lena Mining, his right-hand woman, held up one finger where she stood at the register counting out a customer’s change before telling the others in line she’d be right back.
Moments later, she met him at the door, the longest swath of hair on her head falling over her right eyebrow and leaving the rings on the left brow—one silver, one bronze, one gold—exposed.
“Can you grab me a Queen Cayenne?” he asked.
“Sure thing, boss,” she said.
Callum stayed where he was, and seconds later she returned, shocks of her multicolored hair sticking up in artful clumps. Makeup in the same bright pinks and blues shadowing her eyelids, she glanced over his shoulder at Brooklyn while handing him the candy in the brown glassine cup.
“She’s Addy’s teacher,” he told her when her disconcertingly perceptive expression asked the question. “Don’t be getting any ideas.”
“Sure thing, boss,” she said again. She said that a lot. Then she winked and returned to the store.
“She’s cute,” Brooklyn said, gesturing through the glass to where Lena was already at work filling a box for another customer.
“She’s a pain in my ass, and I don’t know what I’d do without her.” He offered her the candy. “Bottoms up.”
“This is way too pretty to eat,” she said, taking the pyramid-shaped sweet from the paper and setting it on her palm, the kitchen’s bright overhead lights picking up the molded brickwork of reds in the dark chocolate shell. “But something about it makes me think of Machu Picchu.”
And then she popped the entire thing into her mouth and chewed.
He’d expected her to bite off the top, to listen to the crack of the shell, to feel the sting of the pepper on her tongue. To look into the base of the piece at the color of the creamy filling. To breathe deeply of the chocolate and the chilies and the buttery ganache.
But nope. She tossed it back as if it were a handful of M&M’S. And he loved it. Loved her smile as she savored the tastes. Loved her eyes going big behind her glasses and her lips tightening when the heat of the chilies hit.
Loved that she’d appreciated his artistry, but hadn’t made it into a big deal. She’d done what he’d wanted her to do. Enjoyed herself. And that made him feel as if he’d made the best choice in the world with his life.
Though Brooklyn insisted she could make her own way back to the school for her car, Callum insisted on taking her. She wouldn’t have minded the walk; it wasn’t but a couple of miles. Or, though she would’ve had to wait awhile, she could’ve used one of her taxi apps to call for a car.
But no. Callum had brought her to Bliss, and, he said, he’d take her back. She didn’t put up much of an argument. Not really. She’d enjoyed the wind blowing through the fabric of her clothes, tugging at the knot of her hair. The bike growling beneath her like a big jungle cat.
The return trip was just as consuming, her legs open, her lower body pressed tightly to his, gripping his, clutching his. It was an incredibly intimate position to be in, while having nothing to do with the familiarity implied. Yet just for a moment, before they arrived, she let herself imagine what it would be like if he were doing more than taking her for a ride.
He stopped next to her car, the only one still parked in the teachers’ lot, and waited for her to slide from the seat behind him. Once she was on her feet, her legs shaking, her heart tripping, he kicked the stand and pulled off his helmet, taking the second she handed him, one that truly was an extra, because it was too big for a six-year-old. He lashed it in place, his gripped between his thighs.
“I had fun,” she said, flexing her fingers into her palms so she didn’t reach for his hair. It was too long. It was in his face. She couldn’t imagine him wearing it any other way. “And the candy . . . I can still taste the peppers. It’s like they’re sitting right at the back of my throat.”
“But not too hot.”
It was a statement, not a question, as if he’d worked long and hard to get the flavors just right. She imagined he had. “Perfectly hot. Especially since the chocolate is still there, too. Thank you for showing me what you do.”
He nodded, holding tight to her gaze, his searching. “Do you feel better about Addy now?”
“I never felt bad about her. I see your influence in her every day. How polite she is. How inquisitive. I was more worried about you.”
�
�Me?”
Tucking her hair behind her ear, she nodded. “I didn’t want you to be missing out on these years with her.”
For a moment she thought she’d gone too far. His hands tightened around the handlebars, and he looked away, his jaw clenched. But then he glanced back and said, “It’s getting dark. Let me follow you home.”
“You don’t need to.” She gestured toward her car, flinging away the nerves tickling the length of her limbs. “I’ll be fine.”
“Please,” he said, and at last she nodded, and that was that.
The thrum of his bike vibrated behind her as she drove. The headlight pierced her car’s back window like a beacon. His following her made her strangely anxious, when having spent the last hour with him, she should feel completely at ease. He wanted to make sure she got home safely. That was all.
She’d been getting herself home safely for years. Yet having Callum behind her, his big bike, his big body, his hands . . . what was wrong with her? He wasn’t coming home with her to take her to bed. He was just being kind, she told herself, pulling into her driveway and hitting the button to open the garage, reminded again, as the door slid up, that she needed to replace the lightbulb.
She parked inside. She turned off the car. She climbed out.
He cut the bike’s engine, and she turned into the stillness, her steps in sync with the beat of her heart and loud on the driveway’s concrete. She should tell him thank you. Tell him good-bye. But those weren’t the words she found tumbling into her mouth as she walked to where he straddled his bike.
“Would you like to come in? I can make you an espresso. Or I have Tia Maria. And illyquore. I don’t think I have any Kahlúa, though I could open a bottle of wine . . .” And then she stopped because all she was doing was rambling about coffee liqueurs, and because he was standing now, and swinging his leg over the seat.
“I’ll pass on the alcohol, but will take you up on the caffeine. I’ve got a long night ahead.”
She answered with a nod and reentered the garage. Callum followed, and once he was inside, she hit the switch to lower the door. It creaked down behind him, and the last thing she saw before she was swallowed up by the darkness was the silhouette of his heavy boots moving toward her.