Her Client from Hell

by Louisa George

  His hand ran along his stubbled chin, the dark shadow creating a dangerous edge to his striking features. She got the impression he was used to getting his own way and not being challenged. Well, unlucky. Part of the success of a wedding day was the quality of the food; she wouldn’t allow him to jeopardise that for his sister’s sake or risk Sweet Treats’ reputation by taking part in a fiasco. Her business depended largely on positive word of mouth or all her hard work would have been for nothing.

  She sensed his irritation rising as that smooth deep voice took on a harder tone. ‘Let’s reframe this, shall we? I haven’t taken away her choice, I’m going to free up her time, remove some stress and help her enjoy her special day.’ The way he said special made Cassie believe he didn’t think there was anything valuable in a lifetime commitment, just a whole host of stupid. ‘I’ll present her with my plan when I’ve decided who is going to be my caterer.’

  ‘You’re interviewing others?’

  His perfect lips curled upwards at the edges. He had a kind of reluctant smile that was almost there, almost whole, but somehow stopped short. Cassie wondered what stopped it from fully blossoming. ‘Of course. I have two lined up for tomorrow morning. I always keep my options very open.’

  ‘I bet you do. Good idea. Excellent plan. But no one’s going to agree to taking on a contract unless they have more concrete details this close to the day. Seriously, she might hate my ideas, or at the very least have some pretty fixed ones of her own.’

  ‘Sandwiches. Quiche. Something God-awful called quinoa, which sounds more like a tropical disease than anything edible.’ He visibly shivered. ‘If I stood back and let her loose on that it’d be the worst wedding ever.’

  ‘Forgive me for saying this, Mr Brennan, but with a bossy brother interfering behind her back it already is.’ If she didn’t take control he’d be bossing her too. Forthrightness was next to sound business, right? ‘Now, I’ve printed these off thinking you might not have had time to look at them. I’m going to talk you through some ideas, on the proviso you go right back and tell her about the options available.’

  Carefully opening the folder in case they blew away again, she gave him copies of her menu suggestions and ignored the black look he threw her. ‘I’ve done a few quirky weddings in the past, themed receptions…anything goes, really. Some really embrace the idea of a breakfast, offering waffles and pancakes, French crepes, homemade pop tarts with hearts baked in them, that kind of thing. At the other end of the spectrum, cocktails are popular at the moment too, and local produce is a big hit.’

  ‘Like jellied eels, pie and mash—that kind of thing?’ The brown in his eyes glittered with hints of gold, which she imagined would be quite attractive. In another lifetime. On a more smiley man.

  ‘If it floats your boat—you’d be surprised how many people do ask for it. Oh, but if you decide on food stations I’ll have to hire a few other people—I can’t wok and grill at the same time.’

  His eyebrows rose. ‘You do surprise me.’

  ‘I can hire in waiter service from the local catering college to save cash if you go for that option. Although family-style is pretty on-trend too.’ There she was, trying damned hard to be businesslike and professional, but those eyes….

  He dropped the menus on to the table and shook his head. ‘You’re blinding me with science. What’s family-style?’

  ‘Where the party sits at one large table and passes the food around to each other. You know, like a regular family dinner.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. A regular family.’ His gaze dipped down; he seemed to be pulling a thought or a memory from a distant place. Not a happy one. And something in her heart melted just a little. When he looked at her again his eyes were clear and bright and any vestige of emotion had fled. ‘Don’t you just have a set thing for the clueless? Wedding 101?’

  ‘No.’ She found her best smile. ‘We believe in choice at Sweet Treats.’

  An eyebrow peaked. ‘We? Please don’t tell me there are more of you?’

  ‘Sorry. I,’ she corrected herself. ‘I’m adjusting to a new regime. It’s just me. And that’s really exciting.’ If she said it enough times it might even come true.

  ‘Maybe if you took a little time to crank down a gear or two. Slow to a more manageable speed?’

  ‘Yes, well…’ That would be lovely. Luxury. At least a pace where she could breathe and take stock, plan past tomorrow. But it wouldn’t happen this side of Christmas. Or even this side of the decade. If she stopped, her business would die and she’d lose her apartment, along with her self-respect.

  Sometimes she felt as if everything was teetering on a knife-edge. She tried to hide the flush of panic but it rolled through her, like it did sometimes in the dead of night, wakening her with a thick cold weight in her chest, and especially when she stared at those rows of numbers that made little sense.

  So, whatever else happened, she had to keep him on side—or, rather, keep him on the side of twenty-nine pounds a head times fifty. ‘I’m managing just fine.’

  ‘Really? Which school of customer relations did you attend? Because you might want to ask for your money back.’ He smoothed his hand across his jaw, all the time keeping his dark eyes on hers. ‘Being late is just fine? Losing a booked table is just fine? Keeping a client waiting is just fine?’

  So he didn’t speak in brackets, he just repeated things. Over and over to make his point. She got it now.

  ‘No. Not at all.’ She cleared her throat. She was trying her hardest, dammit. ‘This afternoon I made three dozen red velvet cupcakes, decorated a fairy castle birthday cake and prepared finger food for twenty-two toddlers with every allergy imaginable. Then I drove over to Kilburn and presented them to a very happy and satisfied customer. Who then fell in the backyard and split her head wide open. What would you have liked me to do? Leave her to bleed out? Happy birthday, little Hannah, sorry about the concussion but I have to go because I have an appointment with a man who doesn’t know what he wants for a sister who doesn’t know he’s doing it?’

  Jack took a slug of wine and looked at her; something in his stance stiffened. ‘No, of course not.’

  She leaned back in her chair. ‘Apology accepted.’

  ‘I— That wasn’t an apology…’

  ‘Well, it should have been.’

  ‘This is getting nowhere.’ He stood up.

  Scraping her chair back, she stood and faced him. Or at least faced his buttoned-up, Italian cotton-shirted rock-solid chest that looked just perfect to lean against, and peered up at his taut jaw and narrowed eyes. Then remembered some of the cardinal rules of customer service that Patrick had drummed into her, back when he wasn’t embezzling. Or maybe he already was.

  Keep them happy. Jack didn’t look happy.

  Fulfil promises. She’d been late, and the room had been given away, and the wind had blown everything…

  Go above and beyond. She’d done it for Hannah. But not for Jack Brennan.

  And so that was it—not one tick in any of those boxes—and she’d bet anything Jack Brennan was the box-ticking type. He was angry because of her and she’d lost the job. Hurrah. Things just kept getting better.

  It was hard. Running her business was hard. Saving her business was harder still. She tried to smile. But none came. Nothing. She didn’t have any left.

  In that moment the stress of the day—her life—boiled up inside her, too raw and fresh to hold back. ‘Of course I was concerned about keeping you waiting. My business is my first priority and my clients are everything to me. But really? You have no idea how hard I’m trying and it feels like some days I’m going backwards. The cooking’s fine and a real hit, but I couldn’t help the head injury. And I squeezed you in when I probably should have made an appointment for a different day, but I didn’t want to lose this chance.’

  He opened his mouth to speak but she got in first, hearing her voice rising, louder and more high-pitched, but with no way to stop it. ‘I have to do everything
now—the ordering, the admin, the delivering. I don’t have time to do the little stuff. But then suddenly I find out that the little stuff is actually quite important. Things like VAT and tax…’

  ‘Very important, actually. Keeps the world going round. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’ He turned away, his back rigid as he took a step across the gravel.

  ‘No. Stop. Wait. You probably have no idea how hard it is to prove yourself to people. To have a dream that you want to take a chance on…and you have it there, almost in your grasp. Then someone comes along and snatches it all away. Have you ever had someone steal your dreams, Jack?’

  That seemed to have an effect. He stopped abruptly and turned round, taking his time to face her. He studied her for a moment, which made her hot and cold at the same time. Suddenly she felt totally exposed in front of someone who kept his emotions clearly locked away because there was no way she could tell what he was thinking.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘Okay. I’m listening.’

  ‘I just need a chance.’

  ‘And I just need food.’

  Not your life story. I know. ‘I can do food. I can do damn good food.’ She stopped talking then as she realised her voice was actually shaking, and he didn’t need to know all of this. He just wanted someone to do a job for him. And for all she knew he was in cahoots with Nate and Sasha and would go running back and tell them about yet another failed venture from the girl who couldn’t stick at anything.

  Something pricked at the back of her eyes. She squeezed them closed. Oh, for goodness’ sake, no tears.

  When she opened them again he was still staring at her. Just staring, with a niggly frown dancing across his forehead.

  After that outburst he was bound to go, but it felt strangely good to get it off her chest. Even to a grumpy stranger who clearly thought she was mad.

  His head cocked to one side as he sat down again and indicated for her to do the same. ‘You can’t hire someone? A bookkeeper? An admin assistant?’

  Besides the fact she had no desire to hand over her precious business management to someone else again, she had no cash for even part-time wages. ‘Not unless I can pay them in doughnuts.’

  ‘I hear they’re considered legal tender in some parts of the world. Or at least they should be.’

  He could joke too at a time like this? So maybe he was human after all. Surprising. Nice, actually. A glimpse of another side to him—something softer. Definitely more that she was intrigued by. Dammit.

  She raised her glass to him and noted her hand was still trembling. ‘Unfortunately, man cannot live by doughnuts alone.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But it would be interesting to try. For a day or two.’ He picked up his glass and his hand brushed against hers. At the contact their eyes met for a beat, two. His gaze roved her face, her mouth, then dipped to her throat. Lower. And heat intensified in all the places he looked at. Unexpected. Inconvenient.

  And something simmered there in his gaze too.

  She pulled her hand away, reframing her thinking. She needed to get out of here quick sharp. She’d exposed her soul to him and now she was thinking strange thoughts. Was it hot out here? No, she was hot inside. ‘So, take these menus to Lizzie. Show her. Discuss them with her. Tell her I’m more than happy to make other suggestions. I’d love to know what she thinks and to meet her, and the groom. Then, when you’re done showing her, call me and we can talk further.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, his hand reaching out to her wrist, but she stepped back before he reached it. No more skin-on-skin action needed, thank you. ‘I need to have this sorted. I’m away in Reykjavik next week, and after that it’s getting far too close. I need certainties and decisions.’

  ‘Well, like you, I have no time to waste and I am trying to be fair and honest with you.’ Cassie sighed, projecting a calm that she didn’t feel. ‘She may insist she’s going to do it herself; it may be her lifelong dream to do it—who knows? She’s probably already started prepping and freezing things, then all this talk here with you is a complete waste of time.’

  ‘Really? You think so?’ He looked at her again and something zipped between them.

  Under his searching gaze, Cassie felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights. For some reason his intensity slammed up against her resolve and threatened it. Luckily, Frankie arrived with the food. She hoped that would be enough to distract her from Jack Brennan’s dark eyes and even darker voice—although she seriously doubted it.

  THREE

  So he’d been sucked in by a bleeding heart and a pretty face. Not for the first time and probably not the last.

  No. Definitely the last. Jack didn’t usually allow himself to be carried away by a sob story—unless it was for work, in which case it was the soppier the better; soppy made damned good TV. Soppy falling headlong into breakdown turned compelling into a road crash—the ratings always peaked. Great for his career, but out of bounds for his personal life.

  But those big wide eyes and the crack in her voice had tugged at something deep inside him. He knew exactly what it was like to have someone steal his dreams. Time and again—and always just as he started believing they might finally come true.

  So he’d stopped making dreams, simple as that. He’d clamped down on any kind of wishful hope that he was important enough for anyone to care about. Buried himself in study and work and stayed away from deep and dangerous, too burnt to foster anything more than a flimsy connection that he could break before someone else did.

  But Cassie deserved a break. Right? And that was easy enough to do. So why did he feel as if he’d made a huge mistake just sitting here?

  She looked a little nervous as she spoke between mouthfuls of the best taco shells he’d ever tasted.

  Less hysterical, but nervous. ‘Does your sister know about the car and the photographer?’

  He wondered just how much more to tell her and decided to give her the basics. ‘She wasn’t going to have any frills. Friends are taking photos and she asked me to drive her to the venue in my car. She’s a struggling artist marrying an equally struggling musician. They don’t have cash to throw around; they can barely make the weekly rent. She’s also a self-taught cook, and pretty bad, never having anyone to show her how to do these things growing up. But you try telling a woman that. Chances are she’ll give everyone botulism.’

  ‘I imagine the closest she’ll get to hurting anyone would be killing you when she finds out about all this.’ Cassie’s brow furrowed into tiny lines. ‘Provocation. Any jury would let her off.’

  He ignored her little joke. ‘Look, I want to give her the magical day she always talked about growing up—the whole meringue dress and rose petals shindig. But I’d like to get to the end of it without a trip to the emergency department or fending off an insurance claim.’

  The frown deepened. ‘Are you always this negative?’

  Negative? Him? ‘You don’t know my sister. I prefer to see it as realistic. Plan for the worst, and so on.’

  ‘And hope for what? The saying is: plan for the worst and hope for the best, right?’ She pierced him with those eyes.

  Hope that this marriage-fest would be over soon and he could get on with his life, guilt-free.

  He watched Cassie take a long slow lick of a drip down the side of her hand and swallow the coriander and minty goodness. The way her tongue dipped across her suntanned flesh, the curl of a lock of hair framing her face, the light in her eyes as she caught him watching—a guilty twinkle. God.

  His groin tightened.

  Hope for what, indeed? A taste of her?

  What? No way. No way. Na-ah. Pretty, yes. Attractive, even. But more than looking he couldn’t—wouldn’t—contemplate.

  He ignored it. Tried to ignore it. Tried, too, to shake off the unnerving feeling that when she looked at him she saw a whole lot more than he wanted her to see.

  Luckily, he was heading to Iceland tomorrow afternoon. The great thing about his job was that he was never anywhe
re for long. Guaranteed to stop any kind of meshing of minds. Meshing of bodies he could do—that didn’t take too much investment. ‘Hope that I can find a caterer who cuts me a bit of slack and stops talking in a foreign language about food stations.’

  At this her eyes twinkled some more. ‘My mum used to say that often things you’re looking for are right in front of you. Which is usually the case for me—things I want are way too often in front of me, in a shop window display begging to be bought. Now, talking of mothers, what about the mother-of-the-bride? Is she likely to want to give her opinion too? Father?’

  He felt his shoulders snap up at the mention of the woman who’d given birth to him and his sister, the blackness that filled that corner of his heart. She’d been no mother. Or the subsequent string of women who’d tried in vain to create the one thing he’d craved but had always had ripped away. Connection. Connection—like Lizzie was trying to create with Callum. He felt the blackness rise—that would mean putting his heart on the line again. No way. ‘It’s just the two of us.’

  Pink patches took up residence on her cheeks, seeping down her neck in a rush. ‘Oh. Okay. I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped—’

  ‘Don’t be. Now, are we done here?’ He waved a pen-scribble action towards the door and a waiter nodded and disappeared for the bill. He needed space.

  ‘I guess.’ She looked a little put out at his brutal tone, and it might have been easy to clear the air—easy, maybe, for someone else. But hearts on sleeves was messy. Messy wasn’t his thing.

  While they waited for the bill he searched for something uncontroversial to cut through the heavy silence. Which was, after all, his fault. ‘So what made you go into catering?’

  ‘You mean my sister didn’t give you the low-down of my life already?’

  ‘Your sister’s pretty protective where you’re concerned.’

  ‘She’s lovely and everything, just sometimes a little stifling.’ Fiddling with her bag, Cassie gave a gentle smile. ‘Make that a lot stifling. Like you, maybe? With Lizzie?’

  He felt the guilt shimmer through him. ‘No. I don’t stifle; it’s hard to stifle when you’re not even in the same country for most of the year. I’m always on the road shooting or editing. I’m not here enough, so she tells me. But I was asking about you and your career choice.’