by Kira Archer
“I know Natalie. She would never do something like that.”
“Even so, it’s for your own protection—”
“Fine, have your lawyer look into it. But I’m sure he’ll find everything is as it should be.”
“It never hurts to explore all your options.”
Eric kept his mouth shut, hoping that would be an end to it. He held his breath while his dad stared him down. Finally, his father gave a sharp nod. Eric allowed himself to relax a bit.
“Fine. If you want to waste your vacation time playing baker with some food truck girl, that’s your decision. But for once in your life, will you take my advice and keep your eyes open? It’s an odd situation, to say the least. And until we know for sure what’s going on, it’d be best to err on the side of caution and not sink too much into the place. Or to your…business partner.”
Anger flashed through Eric at his father’s insinuation but he kept his mouth shut. Arguing about Nat would just make his father more certain there was something going on and he knew his dad was just trying to protect him. There was no point getting into the issue with him when Eric didn’t know himself what was between them. Instead, he nodded. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he said.
“Good. If everything is on the up-and-up, we’ll see about chipping in whatever you need to get things started.”
“That would be great, Dad, thanks.”
His dad nodded and got back to his meal. Eric released a pent-up breath and took a deep drink of his wine. He hoped whatever their lawyer dug up would put their minds at ease, so they’d be willing to back him, if necessary. Which it probably would. Especially since he would eventually need to buy Nat out and waiting for the bakery to make enough of a profit to do that would take a lot more time than he’d like. But that wasn’t something he needed to worry about just yet.
For now, he was thankful he’d gotten off so easy and he wasn’t going to stir the pot any more than necessary.
Chapter Seven
Nat closed her eyes and tried to count to ten, her fingers gripping the clipboard she held in an effort not to chuck the thing at Eric’s head. All thoughts of their night together and any worries over awkwardness or her vague answers to his repeated texts over the past week had evaporated within five minutes of his arrival at the bakery. They didn’t agree on anything. Literally, nothing. From paint swatches to the menu to baking equipment to the basic layout of the store. Nothing. And Nat had about reached her limit. If he wasn’t going to take her advice, why was she even here?
“Look,” she said, “I know this is your bakery, so you have final say. But if you are going to do something, you might as well do it right. You asked for my help because I knew what I was doing, so why do you question everything that I say?”
Exhaustion pulled at her. She’d already been up for hours, getting the cupcakes for the truck ready to go and helping Gina stock up for the day before seeing her off. Being tired certainly didn’t help her mood.
Eric’s voice penetrated the tiny cocoon of calm she’d almost created for herself before she hit seven on her countdown.
“I don’t question everything. But I don’t see what’s wrong with putting baklava on the menu. It’s a popular dessert.”
Nat took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Eric frowned, his frustration as apparent as hers. He leaned against the counter in the kitchen, bulging arms folded across his chest in what would normally be a delicious display of manly yumminess. But right now, his good looks weren’t buying him any brownie points.
“Baklava would be great. For a Greek bakery. Not for an Italian bakery. It’s all about branding. If you want to name the bakery Tuscan Treats and serve Italian pastries, you need to focus on Italian pastries. You can’t just slap a Greek dish on the menu because it’s popular. Your customers need to know what they’ll be getting when they come here.”
“Isn’t that what the menu is for?”
Nat sighed, rubbing a hand over the dull ache that was beginning to form at her temples. “Yes, but a customer looking for baklava isn’t going to see Tuscan Treats in the phone book and think ‘Ooo, Greek desserts.’ You are trying to entice people who want Italian pastries. It’d be like going to a mattress store and buying a dining room table. Just because they’re both pieces of furniture doesn’t mean they belong in the same store.”
“Who uses a phone book anymore?”
“Eric!”
He threw his hands up and edged a little farther away from her, his lips twitching. If he smiled, he was going to get a whisk shoved where the sun didn’t shine.
“That’s not my point, and you know it.”
“Fine, I get it. No baklava.”
Nat sighed. Finally, a decision on something. She glanced back at the list on her clipboard.
“So, I guess calling the bakery Schneider’s Tuscan Treats would be out of the question, too?” Eric asked, grinning at her.
Nat’s eyes narrowed. “Not unless you want people wandering in looking for fresh baked strudel and a chef in lederhosen.”
“Hey, I would rock a pair of lederhosen. I totally have the legs for it.” He hiked one pant leg up and shoved the exposed limb in her direction.
Nat tried to keep the laugh in but it came out in a sort of strangled snort. Eric’s eyes widened and Nat turned around, her cheeks flaming. “Put that leg away or I’ll make you put a hair net on it.”
Eric laughed. “I’m not that hairy.” He looked at the limb in question, squinted at the mass of curly blond hair covering it and lowered his pant leg. “Okay, fine. I’m all covered up and decent. What’s next on the list, Boss Lady?”
Nat ran her pen down the checklist. She wasn’t sure why she’d bothered to alphabetize it. Getting Eric to stick to any sort of organization was futile. “You still have to make a final decision on decor, get someone in here to check all this equipment, since you insist on using it, then—”
“Why can’t we use it? I don’t see the point in buying new equipment when we have a kitchen full of it already.”
“Because, like I’ve already said, this stuff is fifty years old, at least. You don’t even know if it works or if it’s up to code, and I seriously doubt it is. Repairing and restoring it will probably cost a lot more than just replacing it.”
“Maybe, but if it does work and is up to code, I’d like to keep it. It adds to the ambiance of the place.”
“No one will even see it.”
“You can see a hint of it from the outside counter.” Eric ran a hand over the ancient stove. “They don’t make them like this anymore. Besides, it was my aunt’s. I’d like to keep some part of her here.”
That was surprisingly sentimental. Not what Nat had expected from him. It was…sweet. “All right, it’s your kitchen, but it still needs to be checked out, so I’ll make a note to call someone to come look at everything.”
Eric nodded. “Fine. As for the decor, we already discussed that. I want the old plaster look, vines, plantation shutters. Make it look like an old villa.”
He waited, probably expecting an argument, but he relaxed a bit when Nat kept her mouth shut. She’d already voiced her opinion that making it look like every other Italian restaurant/bakery/shop in the country was a bit cliché, so she wasn’t going to try and change his mind again. It probably wouldn’t be fatal. And she could hopefully slip in a few modern touches that would make the place look like an Italian villa without making it look like a mini Olive Garden. The seating though…
“The decor is fine, but as for the tables—”
“I don’t see what your objection is to outside seating.”
“I have no objection,” she said, trying to keep her tone even and patient. “My objection is to only having outdoor seating. This is New Jersey. It gets cold in the winter. Your customers might enjoy someplace warm to sit and enjoy their dessert.”
“Yes, but the front area is fairly small. If the place is busy, which I hope it will be, there won’t be much room for customers to com
e in and browse. We’ll definitely need some tables on the sidewalk out front. And the little side alley is perfect for garden seating if we get a permit. You know, once we clean it up and get some plants out there.”
“Yes,” she said, her tone getting a little less patient, “but if there is nowhere to sit down inside once they’ve purchased something, they might not bother purchasing anything at all. Not everyone will be getting something to go. Some might want to eat their purchase here. Inside.”
“Yes…” His tone matched hers. “But I don’t see how we’ll fit in the new counters we talked about and still have booths for seating.”
Nat bit her tongue. His concern wasn’t entirely unfounded. But people had to have somewhere to sit. “Okay. So, why don’t we cut out the booths and instead do some small tables? The pretty wrought iron bistro sets that only sit two or three people. That would discourage large groups from hanging out all day but would still give people some seating options for when the weather is bad.”
Eric paused for a second and then nodded. “All right, we can at least draw up the plans and see what it’ll look like.”
“Good.” Nat smiled and jotted some notes on her growing list of things to do.
“Why don’t we take a break for a little bit. Go grab some lunch,” Eric said.
The mention of food seemed to remind Nat’s stomach that she hadn’t fed it anything since six that morning. The small cramp would give way to a full-on growl soon, but she hated to stop now that they were actually making progress. She frowned and checked her watch. “It’s only eleven thirty.”
Eric shrugged. “We’ve earned it. Come on. We’ve gotta eat.”
Her stomach agreed, erupting in a growl that had Eric’s eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. Nat gave in to a rueful grin. She couldn’t argue with him and her rumbling belly. She put down her clipboard. “All right. A short break. Where to?”
Twenty minutes later, she was seated in the Greek restaurant down the street, a steaming plate of chicken souvlaki with lemon rice and potatoes in front of her. Along with a platter of sticky sweet baklava. Eric winked at her and popped a piece in his mouth.
“Ah,” he sighed. “Sweet nectar of the gods.”
Nat laughed and picked up her fork. “Do you always eat dessert first?”
“Why wait for the good stuff?” he asked, taking a bite of another piece and licking a few honey-encrusted crumbs from his lips.
Nat froze, watching the trail his tongue took across his full lower lip. Her fork hovered in the air near her mouth, her breath in sudden short supply. When he put his finger in his mouth and sucked the last bit of honey off it, she forgot to breathe altogether.
Eric stilled, watching her watch him. A slow smile spread over his lips and he leaned over, holding out the pastry. “You want a bite?”
Nat sat back, the blood rushing to her cheeks again. She’d been staring at him like a cat drooling over a bowl of cream. A delicious, infinitely lickable bowl of cream. “No, thanks,” she mumbled, shoving a piece of chicken in her mouth.
Eric shrugged. “Don’t know what you’re missing.”
Actually, she did. That was the problem. Just thinking of the night they’d spent together had certain body parts quivering in remembered ecstasy, and warmth pooled in her belly. She desperately ached for more.
He finished the baklava and then turned to the lamb gyro on his plate.
“So, what else do we need to accomplish today?” he asked.
Nat relaxed, grateful for the return to safe conversation. She didn’t know what her deal was with this guy. He got under her skin like no one else. Their night, far from scratching the itch, had made every cell in her body crave more of him. How could she be so turned on by someone who drove her absolutely insane? The man knew nothing about baking, let alone running a bakery, and having to teach someone how to do something she’d dreamed of doing her whole life was tough to take. It seemed like her brain was constantly debating between shoving him off a cliff or sticking her tongue down his throat. He unnerved her, to say the least.
But he also made the blood pulse in her veins like liquid fire. She was going to get seasick from the roller coaster her emotions were on if she didn’t get her head back in the game and keep her hormones in the locker room where they belonged.
“Not much,” she answered him. “We’ve got enough to get going, for sure. I’ll call some people this afternoon about coming to look at the equipment in the kitchen. I think that’s the most important thing for right now. Can’t very well have a bakery if you can’t bake anything. And then, the next big project is cleaning the place up and getting it redecorated. I’ll draw up some plans for possible layouts for the space. We can visit some places I know of where we can get some good deals on furniture. The display cases already there might work fine if we refurbish them a bit.”
She scooped a forkful of rice into her mouth, but only about half of the stuff made it inside. The rest took a nosedive off her silverware and trickled into her bra. She sighed and lowered her fork. “Every time,” she muttered, peeking into the dark recesses of her shirt.
Eric laughed. “Need a little help with that?”
Nat narrowed her eyes at him but couldn’t stop a sheepish grin from breaking out. She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “No, thank you.”
“Mamma Mia” rang out from Eric’s phone. Holy crap, that woman called a lot. Nat stood. Might as well give him some mommy time and go clean herself up.
“Excuse me,” she said as Eric answered the phone. She stood and made her way to the bathroom, trying to ignore the chuckle that followed her. She went into the first stall and started digging rice out of her bra. She’d always been blessed with ample cleavage and, if she were honest, had enjoyed the benefits of a nice full C cup. Having food fall down her shirt on an almost daily basis wasn’t one of the perks. Unless she was wearing something with a tight neck, any bits of food that might not make it all the way to her mouth (something that happened with distressing frequency) tended to slip right into the nice cavern created by her chest.
Once she’d vacated the food from her lingerie, she went to the sink and washed the traces of oily lemon seasoning from her hands. She glanced in the mirror.
“You have got to chill,” she told herself. She needed to finish helping Eric with his bakery so she could get away from him and get back to her regular life.
Though, with her new parking spot attached to his bakery and part of her payment for helping him being the use of his kitchen, she wouldn’t be able to escape him totally. But anything was better than this roller coaster. And it was only Day One.
“You’re in such deep shit,” she said to her reflection.
She took a deep breath and went back out to face the object of her obsession.
When she got back to the table, Eric was standing there waiting for her. Their food was boxed, bagged, and paid for.
“Are we leaving?” she asked.
“I’m sorry. A friend is flying in and my mother wants me to play taxi driver.”
“Don’t they have actual taxi drivers for that sort of thing?”
Eric’s lips pulled into a wry grin. “Yes. But Courtney is a family friend and my mom wants me to play nice. We can finish up whatever is next on your list tomorrow. I promise.”
“Courtney, huh?”
Eric’s grin widened. “She’s just a friend. And the daughter of one of my father’s investors. So…”
“So, you have to play nice.”
“Exactly.”
“All right, go play chauffeur. But I’m holding you to your promise, Gelato. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Cupcake.”
Chapter Eight
One week and six furniture stores later, Eric was ready to buy anything Natalie showed him, just to end the torture. Well, almost anything. The newest “store” was actually an old warehouse that had been converted into an antique store of sorts. Nat stood next to so
me ridiculously flimsy arts and crafts project with a hopeful look.
Eric stared down at the table with a frown. “This is the table you’re suggesting?”
“Yes. Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s so girly. Isn’t there something a little more manly we can choose?”
“Sure. I suppose we could drag in some ratty old pool table for your customers to eat on. Is that what you had in mind?”
“No,” he said, his voice tight with irritation. She’d dragged him to more furniture stores than any man should have to visit and they still hadn’t found anything they could agree on. Her reasoning made sense and definitely showed she knew what she was doing, so it was hard to argue with her. But now, she wanted him to buy a flimsy little table that looked like the ratty lace things his grandmother used to put under her potted plants. And the two chairs that came with it didn’t look like they’d fit a toddler’s ass, let alone a full-grown human’s. He jammed his fingers through his hair and concentrated on taking a few deep breaths.
“No,” he said again. “But I’m sure we could find something that doesn’t look like it belongs in a dollhouse.”
Nat rubbed her forehead but not before he caught a distinct eye roll aimed in his direction.
“They aren’t that small,” she said. “And they are perfect for the atmosphere you are going for. It is exactly something you would find on the terrace of a Tuscan villa. They’re beautiful and they are small, so they won’t take up much space. Which means we’ll be able to put in enough to have adequate seating without cluttering up the shop. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“Yeah, that sounds great. But I would like my customers to be able to fit their entire ass on their chair without having one cheek hanging off.”
The corner of Nat’s mouth twitched up and though she tried to keep from smiling he could see she was losing the battle.
“They aren’t that bad.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve never even sat in one before.” She pointed to the chair nearest him. “Try it before you totally veto it.”