by Ava Miles
And now he really needed to work on his speech.
He hunkered down to research famous inventors and see if there was a theme he could use. Thomas Edison was considered spacy, to use a modern term, and home-schooled. Henry Ford started as a machine apprentice. Orville and Wilbur Wright attended high school but didn’t matriculate.
The longer he investigated, the clearer one thing became. There were no patterns.
A potential first line for his speech took shape. “Inventing is not something that can be taught.” He stared at the legal pad and then scrawled out the next line. “But it can be fostered.” Isn’t that what he wanted to do with this new center? He wanted a high-tech facility for young minds to use, one with access to the materials they would need to bring their imaginations to life. If MIT hadn’t had labs like that, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to invent INV-333.
He wrote what he suspected was complete gibberish. Researched more famous inventors. And when he got stuck, he researched oratorical abilities. Martin Luther King, Jr. came up right away. Okay, that was intimidating. He couldn’t deliver a speech like that guy.
Chase really needed to help him.
But he knew his friend wouldn’t. He had to do this on his own. A real billionaire inventor and entrepreneur knew what to say and did so with confidence.
This is what he’d chosen to do. This was the man he wanted to be, the one he wanted Margie to see, the one he hoped she would want to spend her life with.
He could do this.
His head was spinning with too many words, and since he was having trouble massaging his sentences on the computer, he switched to paper. The Grand Mountain Hotel had fine stationery in its desk drawers.
When a knock sounded on his door, he looked up. He’d lost track of time. Had he ordered more room service and forgotten? The sun was waning in the sky now, signaling the onset of evening.
When he opened the door, his heart seemed to crack his ribs. Margie was standing in front of him wearing the yellow chef outfit with purple polka dots. In her hands was a large bakery box, and his nose twitched when he smelled her famous cinnamon rolls.
“Hi!” she said, brightly, spinning around in her outfit. “Oh, Evan. I love my chef outfit.”
And he loved her. So much. Seeing her again, especially so happy and vibrant, was like stepping into sunshine after a month of non-stop rain. “I’m glad. I couldn’t find one in yellow, and then I remembered how much you like purple too.” He was babbling, but she was grinning back at him.
Fighting the urge to snatch her up in his arms and kiss her senseless was tough. Like flying that first airplane off a tough cliff. And if that comparison wasn’t proof enough that he’d fried his brain with his inventor research, he didn’t know what was.
“I do love these colors,” she said, stepping inside. “The polka dots are so happy, and the skirt is fabulous. Simply fabulous.”
“I know it’s supposedly safer to wear pants,” he said, and he knew because he’d researched that too, “but that’s mainly for people making soups and sauces and frying stuff in hot oil. You don’t do that.”
“But you had them include yellow and purple pants anyway,” she said, coming further into the penthouse. “And I love them too. I’ll wear them in the wintertime when it’s cold.”
“Maybe I can have ones made with fleece or a high-tech weather repellant,” he said, already thinking about the different kinds of seasonal fabric that would be available.
Her hand touching his arm brought him back, and it was so soft and fleeting, she might as well have been a yellow monarch butterfly. “I think I’m good for now. Thank you, Evan.”
Since he couldn’t touch her, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his cream pants. His matching jacket was lying over a chair, and he tugged on his blue shirt, hoping it wasn’t wrinkled. Okay, he was nervous.
She seemed to sense it because she frowned. “You didn’t give me this gift yourself because you weren’t sure I’d accept it.”
It wasn’t a question. “You’re right. I wasn’t sure.”
“Well, I did, and I’m grateful. It was the most thoughtful gift ever.”
Her gaze rested softly on his face, and he could feel it happening again. The love she felt for him was blunting some of the edges she had about his billions. Accepting this gift was a huge sign. But they still had more to explore before they were out of the rocky shoals and out on the open sea.
“You’re welcome,” he said softly in kind, matching the intimacy in her tone. He wanted to say thank you for accepting it, but he didn’t need to point a high-beam flashlight at their issues. “You look beautiful in yellow and purple.”
They stood there, staring at each other. He took in everything: the slow rise of her chest as she breathed, the emerald light of her eyes as she gazed back at him, the way her pulse beat in her neck like it always did when she was nervous—or aroused.
She finally thrust out the baker’s box. “These are my gift to you. To welcome you back to Dare Valley.”
He opened the white flaps and lifted the lid. Inside were four giant cinnamon rolls, and on the other side of a divider were two croissants, two pains au chocolat, and a thick slice of bread with sunflower seeds on top—the kind she was making when he arrived on her doorstep yesterday. It had been wise of her not to bring him one of her baguettes, and he expected the choice had been intentional.
“Everything looks delicious,” he said. Like you do. “Would you share one with me?”
Her mouth paused only a fraction, but he saw it. His body tensed, and they both stood there in the quiet.
“Those are all for you,” she said, tucking her hands behind her back.
“I couldn’t possibly eat all of these,” he said and then shut up. He wasn’t helping either one of them handle the desire racing through them right now. “I’ll share with some friends. The guy bringing me room service would love some, I imagine.”
“Room service, huh?” she asked. “So that answers my question.”
“Which was?” With reluctance, he closed the bakery box and set it down on a nearby end table.
“Whether you have plans for dinner,” she said, bouncing a little in her adorable white shoes. “I wanted to take you to dinner. If that’s okay.”
He gave her a measured look. “I’d love that. Why do I have a feeling there’s more to it?”
“I thought about cooking for you, but honestly, I’m kinda tired after today. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Neither did I,” he admitted.
“And since this is my town, and you hosted me in Paris, I want to take you out for dinner.” She stopped bouncing and looked at him. “Will you let me?”
This was part of the balance they were trying to find. “All right. So long as you promise to hold my hand when we go to dinner.” He just had to touch her somewhere, some way.
“Oh, Evan,” she said, holding her hands in front of her this time. “I miss you. I missed you last night. Okay, and now I’m stopping. You told me what you needed, and I respect that.”
His throat was so dry now he wished he had a bottle of water to wet it. “Just to be clear. I’m not back on my celibacy kick again.”
Her mouth curved. “I know that.”
“It’s not as if I don’t want you like crazy.” He took a step toward her and then stopped.
“I know that too.”
Then? he wanted to ask. He wanted to shove aside every obstacle between them, everything that seemed to be holding them back.
“Can I run home and change?” she asked. “I…ah…got all excited when I got your gift, and there were things to wrap up at the bakery. I’m getting ready to do payroll for the first time.”
“Let me know if you need any help with that,” he said, rocking back on his heels, hearing how flustered she sounded. “I’m pretty good at automating things. I can tailor some small business tools for you if you tell me what you need.”
“Thanks,” s
he said with a twinkle in her eyes. “I might take you up on that.”
Her willingness to let him continue to help her with her dream made him pause. “I’ll always be here for you, Margie.”
“I know that, Evan,” she said, wringing her hands.
“Over dinner, I’ll tell you about the ideas I have for my speech next week,” he said, wanting to share something of his business side with her too.
“And about the new center,” she said eagerly. “It’s all Gary can talk about. What you’re planning to do is going to mean a lot to a lot of people.”
“I hope so. How about I pick you up for dinner in, say, thirty minutes?” He looked over at the clock. It was a little past six. “You need to be home in time to get some rest.” It took steely control not fantasize about her in bed. Besides, thinking about her in bed without him was depressing. How was he supposed to survive dinner without touching her?
“I can be ready that fast.”
They walked to the door, letting their hands brush against each other’s in a tantalizing caress.
“You know this means you’ll be riding in my Ferrari,” he said, searching her gaze for any hints of resistance or discomfort.
“I know that too,” she said. “Evan, I really want you to kiss me now.”
He pressed his hand to the door to keep himself from reaching for her. “If I kiss you, I won’t be able to stop there, and we…”
“Need to be surer,” she said softly. “If you stayed here…with me…where would you want to live?”
He’d thought about that question long and hard. “You love the Victorian, so we’d live there if you wanted. But I’d want to make some improvements. Your toilet in the bathroom sometimes leaks, and the showerhead sucks.”
Her smile beamed so bright, it seemed to turn into every shade of gold at once. “Not in my bathroom.”
He gave her what he hoped was a flinty look. “I haven’t seen your bathroom.”
“Or my bedroom,” she added in a husky voice.
“Are you flirting with me, Margie Lancaster?”
“I am, Mr. Michaels,” she said. When she leaned in and drew a heart on his chest with one finger, he could hardly breathe. It was one of the ways she’d always showed her affection—one he’d missed like a man in the desert misses water. “I’ll see you in thirty.”
She opened the door, and he stood in the frame watching her walk off. In her hands, she held his every wish and desire for his new life.
When she disappeared from view, he closed the door and headed to the bakery box she’d left. He took out one of her cinnamon rolls and brought it out onto the terrace. Then he sat in the waning light and feasted on the bread made from her hands once again.
***
Margie was humming in the kitchen of Hot Cross Buns the next afternoon as she made her weekly order for ingredients with her supplier. The bakery was closing in a few minutes, and finally all would be quiet. They’d sold out of cinnamon rolls by eight o’clock, only an hour after opening, so she and her staff had worked hard to make two fresh batches, which had sold out by one o’clock. They were going to have to increase their supply, that was for sure. They were already outselling Kemstead’s numbers three to one. The changes she’d made had been spot on. They were drawing in a wider crowd of people. She did a little jig in place to celebrate.
“Margie,” her sales clerk, Lori, called from the swinging door.
She looked away from her laptop. “Is everything closed up?”
The bubbly woman she’d hired shook her head. “A guy’s still out here. He’s been here for a couple hours—reading the local paper, talking on his phone, and working on his laptop. When I told him we close at three, he said he wanted to talk to you. He’s…not from around here. I mean, he’s wearing a pretty fancy suit.”
She frowned. Was he part of the press corps descending on Dare Valley to cover Evan’s gift to the university? She knew from Lori’s occasional updates that there had been a few out-of-town customers earlier.
She hoped they weren’t speculating about her relationship with Evan, although everyone eating at Brasserie Dare last night had seen them together. Going to the restaurant with him had been both joyful and a bit nerve-racking. People had openly stared at the billionaire inventor in their midst. Some had even thanked him for his gift to the university. The attention had made him tense too, and it was obvious he wasn’t used to receiving so many accolades from strangers. But their eyes had met sometime during the main course, and together they’d fallen into that place where nothing else existed. The cassoulet had saturated her tongue with its intensity, and when the dessert of berries, Chantilly cream, and a decadent rhubarb sauce had arrived, she’d let Evan feed her a few bites. It had been arousing and heart-opening, which had made it even harder to part ways without a good night kiss.
But he had texted her when she was getting ready for bed, and his sweet wish for her to have cinnamony dreams had made up for it—mostly.
“Go ahead and head out,” she told Lori, wondering why the guy wanted to talk to her. He was likely from the press if he was wearing some city-slicker suit. Not even the university professors dressed that formally. “I’ll kick him out if it comes to that.”
Lori went out the back while Margie headed to the front.
There was no one else in the bakery except for a ruggedly handsome dark-haired man wearing a gray suit, a white dress shirt, and a pale blue silk tie. He was working on a sleek laptop, typing like he was possessed. Then he stopped suddenly and looked her way.
His eyes were the same pale gray as his suit, and even though he’d shaved, he was the kind of man who couldn’t stay clean-shaven for more than a few hours.
“I’m Margie Lancaster,” she said, not coming past the baking case.
“I know,” he said, closing the screen of his computer and standing.
He was tall and well built, but she didn’t feel intimidated.
“You’re Chase, aren’t you?” she asked. Something about his voice had tipped her off.
His smile was a winner. “I am, indeed. It’s good to finally meet you in the flesh. Not only because you’ve captured Evan’s heart, but because few people can cold-call the switchboard of a major Fortune 500 company and find a way to be put through to the CFO.”
“Evan mentioned your concern over him talking to me about his inventions, so I decided to use that when they wouldn’t listen to reason.” Since she didn’t want any customers to interrupt them, she crossed to the front door and locked it, then turned the Closed sign to face the street.
“Concerned, huh? Guilty.” He held up his hands.
She noticed all he had on his small table was a half-full cup of their regular coffee. “Why don’t you let me pour you another drink? We can talk in the back of the shop.”
He gathered his computer into a leather satchel and carried his cup over to her, which surprised her. Clearly he wasn’t a man who expected anyone to wait on him.
“Can I get you anything else to eat?” she asked.
They didn’t have much left in the trays. She’d made arrangements for her leftovers to go to a local church. Andre had made his impact on her there as well. Bread would never be wasted in her shop.
“I had one of your incredible cinnamon rolls earlier. I can see why you’re already such a success.”
She poured him a fresh cup of coffee. “It’s not my recipe, but I’ve learned how to make it well.” The key was to make it her way—something she’d learned at her baking internship in Paris.
“I’d say that and more,” Chase said, lifting his cup to her in a mini toast.
Together they went into what she called the heart of the bakery. Since she didn’t sit down often—no one did—she gestured to the single chair she’d been using while doing the ordering. He declined.
“So…you’re here in Dare Valley,” she said, not knowing where to start.
“Yes. Evan needed me to find him a secure lab to work in while he’s here,
and there were some details to finalize with the university regarding the center.”
“Ah, the center. It’s a wonderful idea. Evan is really excited about it.” His eyes sparkled whenever he talked about it, but that probably wasn’t the kind of thing Chase wanted to hear.
“Yes, he is. And then there’s the speech. Evan is really stepping into his own. I’ve pretty much been the mouthpiece for Quid-Atch since he started the company. It will be good for the world to finally hear from him. He’s a unique man with a unique vision.”
She heard the warning a mile away. “And you’re worried I’ll hurt that.”
“If I thought that, I’d be dealing with you in a very different way, Margie,” he said, and now she could hear the steely tones of the corporate executive. “Evan wants you in his life, and since he doesn’t let many people in, I was hoping we could be friends. Assuming you’re able to accept everything he is, billions and all.”
Yeah, that part. “I’m doing my best. We still have a lot to work out.” Like could he really live in her house and be happy with minor improvements like better showerheads? She’d seen his penthouse in Paris. He liked luxury—something her home wasn’t.
And then she realized her error. She was talking about her home, not theirs.
“Marriage is a big step,” Chase said with a wry smile. “I speak as someone who failed miserably at it. I’m glad you two are talking about the practicalities. That’s what it boils down to in the end.”
Was it? She wondered. When she couldn’t sleep, all she could think about was how much she loved him. But that hadn’t been enough before. Could it be now?
“I’m glad you approve,” she said dryly.
Chase’s brow rose. “I can see why Evan likes you. You don’t mince words much, do you?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Why waste the time? You hope I can handle it, and judging from your thoroughness, I expect you know my background.”
“I do, yes, although I don’t have the misfortune of knowing your parents.”