A Fine Romance

by Christi Barth

  “I don’t want the money.”

  Her candidness threw Mira for a loop. “That’s an unusual approach to take in a job interview.”

  “Honesty is everything, right? What would I gain by beating around the bush? My clothes don’t look like hand-me-downs. And you hid it well, but I saw the way you eyeballed my wedding set. Whatever your story is, you certainly recognize fine jewelry.” Helen began worrying those same rings, sliding them up to her knuckle and then back down. “I want a purpose, a passion. Something more than shopping for gala dresses, salon trips to prep for said galas, and talking with the same sixty people at every damn gala. I’m on boards and committees, but volunteering seems to be more about who wore what to the committee meetings than actually helping people.”

  It sounded all too familiar to Mira. It was the life she’d fled. “I understand.”

  Helen barreled on. “I need a reason to get up in the morning beyond having dinner with my husband twelve hours later. And cooking is truly my passion. I’d love it if you would give me the chance to pursue it.”

  The impassioned speech tugged at Mira’s heartstrings with the keening delicacy of a master harpist. She sat back down, and patted the other stool. “Why don’t you show me what’s hiding in that basket?”

  Gratefulness—or possibly unshed tears—sparkled in Helen’s eyes. “Now that you’ve heard my story, you see that while I do have experience, it isn’t the kind of thing that fills a resume. So I decided the best thing to do is wow you with samples.” She lifted the cover and pulled out a bottle of white wine. “I know drinking is usually frowned upon in interviews, but this sauvignon blanc would be a perfect accompaniment to my food. And I wasn’t sure if you planned to sell alcohol.”

  “I’ll apply for a liquor license eventually, but we don’t have one at the moment. I do appreciate a well-paired wine. Unfortunately, as I mentioned, I have to leave for my date soon, so I’ll abstain.”

  “As I didn’t stomp the grapes or bottle them, it makes no never mind to me.” Helen pushed it off to the side and lifted out a series of plastic containers. “Samantha and I didn’t have the chance to go into details, so I’m not sure if this is exactly what you had in mind to serve to your customers.”

  “Nothing’s set in stone. I’d hoped whoever we hire would take the lead on menu planning.”

  “Great. Let me start by saying I can make anything you want. But I did burn the midnight oil thinking about the sorts of romantic situations your customers needed a light repast. That was the key for me. Keep it light. Nobody feels sexy after filling up on a huge porterhouse and loaded baked potato. Satisfied, sure, but not in the mood for nooky.”

  Mira ignored the urge to glance at her watch. As eager as she was to see Sam, she couldn’t wait to taste the delicious tidbits in front of her. Helen unfurled a lacy place mat and fussed with each morsel, positioning them just so on gold-rimmed plates. “I agree. In that refrigerated case we’ll carry a small but varied selection of cheeses, and the shelf below will hold crackers. But the daily specials should lean more toward delicious than hearty.”

  “My example of an appetizer is a goat cheese tartlet with roasted zucchini and parmesan curls.”

  The phyllo shells oozed with creamy cheese, contrasted beautifully with the bright green zucchini ribbon and golden toasted pine nuts. “Helen, you’ve brought enough to feed at least four people.”

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d hired an assistant sales clerk yet, and wanted everyone to be able to have a taste.”

  “You’re going to tempt me to ruin my dinner.” Mira took a bite and knew she’d hit the mother lode. The flavors melded into a single burst of deliciousness that melted on her tongue. If the rest of the food was as good as this one bite, Helen would be a huge asset to the store. “I like this. I especially like that it’s finger food. It’s easy to picture a couple lying on the lawn, feeding each other bites.”

  “I’d keep the focus seasonal, so we can work with farmers’ markets.” She arranged the plates in a semicircle, and pointed to each one in turn. “As summer wanes, I’d serve this chicken and couscous salad with tomatillo sauce. The citrus kick gives it zest, and the salad can be served at room temperature. Instead of a sandwich, I went with the more compact and less messy wrap, of rare roast beef, spinach, blue cheese and a drizzle of horseradish.”

  Mira finished her tart and resisted with all her might the urge to go back for seconds. “This is a very thoughtful presentation. The needs of our customers are balanced with a variety of tastes and textures.” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry, I sound like a food critic, and a stuffy one at that. It all looks wonderful.”

  “Wait, let me get this all out. I rehearsed, after all.” Helen sucked in a deep breath while Mira dug into the salad. “I’m a big fan of Lyons Bakery. Samantha explained your two stores plan to have a symbiotic relationship, urging customers to sample the wares of the neighboring shop. It’ll provide both of you with a constant influx of new customers. That being said, I think A Fine Romance needs to offer a single, signature dessert item. I’m leaning toward chocolate-covered macaroons or chocolate-covered shortbread. I brought both, just to be on the safe side.”

  It was a smart idea, and Mira liked it. She still wouldn’t touch anything covered in chocolate with a ten-foot pole, however. But if she took them home, chances were good Daphne could be convinced to take one for the team and sample them. Mira bit back a moan as she bit into the roast beef wrap. There wasn’t a person alive who wouldn’t wolf it down. Samantha Rhodes had sent her a kitchen magician. Not to mention considerably shortening her to-do list by shaving off days’ worth of calls and interviews in the ever-tedious hiring process.

  “You’ve got an impeccable reference. More to the point, your food is divine.” A breath away from offering her the job, Mira’s phone rang and vibrated its way across the counter. “I’m sorry, I need to check this. I’m waiting to hear from a glassblower in Alabama who might work with us.”

  “Please, you already let me hijack your afternoon. Take your time.”

  It took no time at all to read the four-line text. Sorry. Emergency. Mom needs help for bunko night. Rain check? Mira set the phone down slowly, but didn’t let go. Her thoughts spiraled, all the different emotions mixing into a giant black funnel cloud. The first hit, the real left jab into her solar plexus that sucked away her breath, was disappointment.

  For four days, not to mention sleepless-with-excitement nights, she’d looked forward to their date. She and Sam had shared an honest, deep moment on that boat. The kind of connection that usually doesn’t spring up until several weeks into a relationship, if ever. For some completely unknowable reason, she’d dropped her defenses and revealed her vulnerability. He hadn’t mocked or turned away. What he did do was listen, and thoughtfully respond. Follow up that emotional honesty with one of the best kisses of her twenty-nine years, and she was hooked.

  Mira hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Which was odd, since she’d nursed a grudge as strong as a double shot of tequila against Sam for the entire first week of their acquaintance. They’d stuck to their guns and not opened the door between their stores even once. Since one last, scorching kiss when the ship docked, she hadn’t seen him at all.

  So the thought of not seeing him tonight, of not running her fingers through that thick, dark lock of hair that kept slipping onto his forehead, of not splaying her hand across his super-defined lats as hard as the tectonic plates below L.A....well, it was a letdown.

  Vying for equal time in her pout zone was disbelief. Mrs. Lyons wasn’t in any danger. She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t only here for the night before embarking on a two-year trip around the world. No, Sam stood her up to help his mom with a stupid game. What sort of emergency was even possible during an evening of brownies, cider and dice rolling?

  And what about sex? Mira knew men, at least as well as an
y other woman. The whole “men think about sex every three seconds” stat might be a bit excessive, but it did rule their world. She didn’t assume they’d have sex tonight, not on their first official date. But a serious make-out session had definitely been an agenda item. What kind of guy walked away from any amount of potential sex...for his mom?

  That’s where she made a hard turn straight into righteous pissiness. Mira knew she had better than average looks, a good figure, and she’d planned to spend more than an hour buffing and polishing everything to be at her best for Sam. For a guy she thought wanted her right back. How could he cancel on her to—what—help his mom fold napkins? Properly plate the cookies?

  “Mira?”

  “Hmm?” She looked down to watch Helen tug the phone away.

  “You sort of zoned out on me there for a minute. Do you feel okay? Do you need some water?”

  “Water? No, water won’t fix this.” Mira reached for the wine bottle. “Before my phone rang, I was about to offer you a job. But it is important to note that I have not yet done so.”

  Helen furrowed her salt-and-pepper brows. “I don’t entirely understand. If it would help, I can come back tomorrow with more samples?”

  “No need. I want you to come back tomorrow, when I will officially ask you to join our team.” Mira got up, walked around Helen to rummage in her picnic basket until she triumphantly brandished a corkscrew. “Tonight, however, I’d like to ask you to stay and help me eat these orgasmically delicious tidbits. If you’re willing, I’d also like you to help me with this bottle of wine, so I don’t have to drink alone. I need a friend right now, more than I need a new employee. And if you look at this place,” she waved her arm at the piles of inventory in the middle of the floor, “you’ll know that’s saying quite a bit.”

  “I can’t pinpoint if it’s my mother’s or women’s intuition, but one of them just kicked into high gear.” Helen pulled out two wineglasses. Then she gently took the corkscrew from Mira and deftly opened the bottle. “Let me guess. Bad news?”

  “On several different levels.”

  “And if you want me to stay longer, I suppose that means Mr. Gorgeous and Complicated won’t be enjoying the pleasure of your company tonight?”

  Why couldn’t she stay focused on the righteous anger? Why did it have to feel so lousy? “Right again.” In one long glug, she drained her glass and pushed it forward for a refill. “The short version, as Oedipal as it sounds, is that he stood me up for his mother.” Mira popped two more tartlets. Even through her haze of emotions, the flavors sparkled in her mouth and gave her pause. “Are you interested in the long version?”

  “You couldn’t pay me to leave without hearing it.”

  “I love that you turn my money away at every chance. This is going to be fun.”

  Chapter Six

  “Are we done yet?” Ben Westcott wore the downtrodden air of a man being marched to his own execution. Head bowed, his feet barely shuffled, his eyes were downcast, and an unattractive grimace marred his otherwise handsome face.

  Gib, moving beside him with the effortless grace of a panther, snorted. “We’ve been jogging for five whole minutes. And calling it jogging is generous, as two power walkers just passed us. You’re an embarrassment, Westcott. I don’t know why I bother with you.”

  “I’m confused.” Mira bumped her way in between the two men. It was a beautiful morning for a jog. With the sun glinting off of it, Lake Michigan was the color of a Tiffany’s box. A wide swath of white sand bordered their running path. Loads of toned, muscular men passed them with regularity, giving her plenty of eye candy to distract her from the repetitive slap of her shoes against the blacktop. Of course, none of them was as attractive as Sam, but she was trying not to sully her brain with thoughts of that mama’s boy.

  “Ben, you look like you’re about to need an oxygen tank.” She’d hoped to take advantage of this time to get to know Ivy’s fiancé better. Hard to do if they’d have to haul him to the nearest emergency room to check on his imminent heart attack. Ben’s entire face was the same color as the tomato atop her morning breakfast bagel. “But when you invited me to come running with you, I got the impression it was a regular thing.” Or could this be an initiation ritual? In order to be accepted by Ivy’s friends, did she have to pass a test? Were they going to push her in the lake? Run away and make her find her way home?

  “Oh, indeed it is. You’ll find me running along here at least twice a week,” Gib said. He waved a hand down the expanse of his torso. Being shirtless, the move showed off every rippling muscle, and there were plenty. “One of the many ways I keep myself in performance-ready shape. Because you—”

  Ben interrupted. “Because you never know when a beautiful woman will need a round of slap-and-tickle. We’ve heard you say it a million times.”

  “See, when you say it, Ben, you sound ridiculous. But I bet if Gib said it in that lovely, plummy accent of his, I might very well be interested.” Mira gave him an exaggerated, Marx brothers leer. He responded with a dexterous eyebrow waggle.

  “Stupid British euphemisms,” Ben groused. “Your people are always trying to make things sound proper, even when they aren’t. Why is it, in your country, you politely pinch things instead of stealing them? Or go to see a man about a dog, instead of admitting you’re headed to the bathroom. Mira’s a big girl. Tell her what you really mean. You exercise twenty-five hours out of the day in case a hot chick—”

  “—needs a shag?” Gib finished the sentence for him.

  These guys were funny. Mira could picture them leaning against a fireplace mantel, dressed in tuxedos, each holding a scotch and hurling wisecracks at each other. Gib’s dark hair set off eyes a deep indigo. Even though he’d been in this country more than ten years, he still had the classic pale English complexion. Ben projected an air of careless ease with shaggy blond hair and a tan that could fit in on the beaches of Saint-Tropez. The contrast between the two gorgeous specimens, both showing off more muscles than she could count, would make any girl’s thoughts head straight to the bedroom. Or at least, any girl who hadn’t been kissed boneless by Sam Lyons.

  “Sorry, but I have to tell you that from a woman’s perspective, Gib’s the real deal. Anything sounds dreamy with a British accent. The way he says the word shag makes even the prospect of a filthy quickie in a bathroom stall sound appealing.”

  Ben threw his hands in the air. “I give up.”

  Gib slowed down enough to drop behind Mira. He switched places with her to elbow Ben in the ribs. “If you gave up talking, you’d have the breath to pick up the pace.” He returned to Mira’s side. “I started Ben on an exercise regimen a few months ago. But he’s been zipping around the country for his show the past couple of weeks, and it’s obvious he never once darkened the door of a hotel gym in all his travels.”

  Ben produced a reality television show about wedding consultants, called Planning for Love. He and Ivy fell in love while he taped her first season, which Mira found to be blissfully romantic. While her friend loathed being the center of attention, Ivy agreed to do the show in order to raise the capital to open A Fine Romance. Mira couldn’t wait to watch their romance unfold on the small screen. Plus, if it wasn’t for the show, she wouldn’t have a job now. Gratitude alone would make her a hard-core fan.

  “I pumped some weights.” Ben flexed a bicep in his own defense. “In every city I hit, I left my sweat on the weight rack. Does that satisfy you?”

  Gib shook his head, utterly unimpressed. “Not in the least. You’ve always pumped weights. I’m trying to train you that cardio is just as important. Look at Mira, here. She’s got great form, a healthy glow and she breathes right. Do you do marathons?”

  “Are you nuts?” Mira shuddered in mock horror. “All those people crowded together, the pressure to finish no matter what—sucks all the joy out of it. I just like t
o run.”

  Back when her parents first had her delivered to Camp Ticonderoga, it only took her a day to discover she was attending a fat camp. Not just from the array of similarly chubby girls, but because they exercised nonstop. As the counselors tried every possible way to get her to drop the pounds, they’d introduced her to running. Mira didn’t want to like it. She didn’t want to do anything but sit on her bunk and read comic books.

  But even during those first few attempts when she lurched along like an elephant rather than a gazelle, she loved it. Her mind didn’t wander and zip to a hundred different topics like normal. When she ran, it was all about one foot in front of the other, making her oblivious to everything else. As she grew older, she realized that clearing of the mind, the meditation of it, was a remarkable stress reliever. To Mira, running became more than just another way to work out. Running kept her sane, kept her grounded. Which is why she’d been thrilled when Gib offered to show her some jogging trails.

  “Good to hear. Once this miserable blighter next to me loses interest, perhaps you and I can set up a regular schedule.” Gib picked up the pace a bit. Mira had no trouble matching him, but Ben muttered something very nasty under his breath.

  “I’d like that. I’m looking for things that will make me fall in love with Chicago. A few good places to run will be a step in the right direction.”

  “Perfect, as we’re about to hit one of Chicago’s most famous landmarks. I guarantee you’ll take one look at Buckingham Fountain and fall in love.”

  “Hey, don’t shut me out.” Ben put on a burst of speed to get in front of them. Then he turned to face them and kept jogging, backward. “I want to come along. This is way better than when Gib sticks me on the treadmill at his hotel. At least out here he can’t push a button and increase my rate to just short of the speed of sound. He may look all civilized, but Gibson Moore is a holy terror of a trainer.”