by Ani Gonzalez
She could add it to the list, between "made out in haunted library loft," and "had sex in front of fireplace."
The last thought made her blush.
"I didn't know you still played," she said, trying to cover up her reaction.
Zach chuckled, glancing at the piano. "Neither did I."
There was a lot of wonder in his voice, as if he'd just witnessed a miracle.
And maybe he had.
"Doesn't your arm..." her voice trailed off.
Zach looked down at his arm and shrugged.
"If I tried to play in a band, or go on a tour, it would be extremely painful." He glanced at the piano thoughtfully. "But I can still play at home, and I can play enough to compose." His voice grew soft. "The arm wasn't the problem."
"Oh, was that your song?" she asked, as politely as she could manage.
He nodded. "Did you like it?"
He sounded bashful, like a little boy showing off a school project. Patricia steeled herself.
"It's lovely," she lied. The song was haunting and heartbreaking and insanely catchy, but no one would ever call it lovely.
Zach laughed. A lot. His laughter was contagious and she giggled involuntarily. He looked so funny, practically doubled over in laughter, that she couldn't help joining in even though she didn't know what was so funny.
Zach's merriment finally subsided, and he closed his notebook, still smiling.
"You're such a bad liar."
"I'm not," she exclaimed, then caught herself. "I'm not lying, I mean."
"First you steal my shorts," he accused, pointing at the offending garment. "Then you take my coffee, and now you insult my music." He made a tsk-tsking sound. "You used to be such a good girl, Ms. O'Dare. You must have run afoul of some very bad influences."
"I did not take your coffee. You have a whole thermos of coffee right there."
She pointed to the cheap plastic container, a silent witness to the fact that Zach had also fallen prey to that sleazy promo guy who visited them last summer. At least it was better than her "Virginia's Only Haunted Bakery Will Set Your Pants On Fire" gear.
Zach kicked the thermos under the canvas tarp, hiding the evidence.
"But I did steal your shorts," she admitted, embarrassed. "I'll wash them at home and bring them back."
Zach grinned wickedly. "Keep them. They look good on you."
He swept an admiring glance over her legs and she felt herself blush. The heat in his eyes reminded her of everything they'd done last night.
And everything that she'd hoped they'd do this morning.
"You're right about the coffee," he confessed. "And you're right about the music. It's not lovely." He put the notebook under the piano bench. "It's a disaster."
His tone was clinical and detached, as if he were discussing a particularly potent strain of yeast or a marinara sauce recipe. It alarmed her and she opened her mouth, ready to contradict him.
"Don't even try," he warned, gesturing her into silence. "You don't know anything about music. Your favorite artists are Taylor Swift and Barry Manilow."
Was he kidding? Here she was, trying to make him feel better, and what was his response? He got snotty about her favorite singers. "They are great songwriters. 'Mandy' is a classic."
He smiled. "And my song is no 'Mandy,' at least not yet." He got up and closed the piano lid with a smooth, practiced motion. "But it will be, eventually."
"Oh." She didn't know what to say. He sounded firm and confident, which was odd considering that, as far as she knew, he hadn't played in years. Maybe songwriting was different than performing.
She wouldn't know. Zach was right, she knew nothing about music, except that Taylor Swift was a genius, of course.
And that Zach should keep trying.
"You can play," she said, trying to be supportive. "I'd love to listen."
But Zach had already walked up to her. He took her half-empty coffee cup and set it down on a table.
"Oh, I'm going to play, all right." He leaned close, raising his hand to brush her hair from her forehead. "Just not on the piano."
She was suddenly painfully aware that her hair was tangled and wild and she was dressed only in a silly PRoVE t-shirt and stolen -- correction, borrowed --boxer shorts.
Not exactly sex goddess material.
Zach didn't seem to care. He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and trailed his fingers down her neck, making her shiver. Her senses sharpened and she was suddenly aware of his warm breath on her flesh, the scratchy fabric of the t-shirt against her breasts.
And the fact that she was wearing Zach's shorts. She was wearing guy shorts, for Pete's sake. Somehow, the underwear-borrowing part of the morning seemed even more intimate than the sex. She'd never borrowed clothes before. Trevor's immaculate closet full of five-figure clothes did not encourage borrowing.
Not to mention the calculation behind the criminal act. Zach's laundry basket also contained a stack of clean sweatpants. The pants were too big for her, but they were serviceable, and they were a lot warmer than the boxer shorts.
But she hadn't worn the sweatpants.
She'd worn the flimsy boxer shorts instead, the correct choice as it turned out. She'd wanted Zach to take the shorts off.
But he was taking his sweet time about it. His fingers traced her jawline tenderly and he stared at her, as if trying to solve a complicated puzzle.
"You're...unexpected," he whispered, frowning.
That made her laugh.
"That's silly," she replied. "I'm not into surprises. I'm the steadiest person in this crazy town."
Zach embraced her, his hand trailing down her back, onto her waist and under the t-shirt. A slow, wicked heat stole over her, and she leaned into him, craving his touch.
"Not anymore," he muttered, his hand caressing her back.
She leaned up to kiss him. He was so tall she had to stand on her tiptoes. Funny how she'd never noticed Zach's height. He tasted like coffee and sin and she wanted to enjoy every single second
For as long as she could.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
"YOU JUST sent them complimentary Prosecco mimosas and icebox tiramisú?" Sarah asked, brows raised in disbelief. "Who are you and what have you done with my employer?"
"It's called building community relationships," Zach replied, focusing on the pile of receipts on his desk.
They were in the pizzeria's attic going through their expenses and scanning paper receipts into the computer. The afternoon sun peeked through the room's tiny window and a stained glass floor lamp with a few missing colored glass pieces provided additional illumination. Zach sat behind the well-worn wooden desk, and Sarah sat on an old armchair with a faded flower pattern. She wore a vintage Hammer Horror t-shirt that clashed with the old-fashioned upholstery.
Zach debated whether to scold her for not wearing one of the restaurants "Rules to Survive a Horror Movie" shirts, but decided against it. Hammer Films was, he admitted grudgingly, a reasonable substitute.
The strategy was vintage Sarah. Minimum effort yields maximum irritation.
"For a six person brunch?" his restaurant manager snorted in derision. "You are feeling mighty generous today. Is there something I should know?"
"No." His voice was firm. His good mood had nothing to do with the business and everything to do with Patricia, but he wasn't going to discuss his love life with Sarah. That would be asking for trouble. "I'm just helping our customers enjoy a beautiful Sunday morning."
"There's three feet of snow outside and more slush coming tonight. Our customers aren't celebrating. They're drowning their sorrows." Sarah frowned at an item on his desk. "What's with the pink scarf, anyway? Are you going metrosexual on us?"
Zach looked at the silky piece of cloth, which Patricia had left at his place after a somewhat hectic departure, and a picture arose in his mind. It was night and he was in the barn with the town baker, sheltered from the coming storm. She was wearing the pink scarf and nothing else
.
That scarf was now his favorite piece of clothing in the entire world.
Sarah looked suspicious. "What's with the goofy smile? Is it related to your new spendthrift ways? Are you going to bounce my paycheck?"
Zach tallied the numbers on his computer tablet. "Not this week."
Sarah rolled her eyes. "Well, that's a relief. Not that I have any confidence in that hellish accounting software we have now. The numbers will probably be completely different tomorrow morning."
She glared at Zach's tablet, which made him smile. Sarah's hostility had staying power. It was rather impressive.
"Are we done now?" she asked, glancing at her own tablet which was beeping softly. "They need me downstairs. Someone seems to be making trouble."
Zach nodded, and Sarah took her stuff and left, a small smile on her face as if she were looking forward to the confrontation.
Which she likely was. She'd have the difficult customer eating out of her hand in no time at all. This is why Zach kept her on payroll. In spite of all her quirks, Sarah was a treasure. Thanks to her, he could focus on the business side, and not worry about running the floor.
And that was, he had to admit, strange. He'd spent most of his youth studiously avoiding the pizzeria business. His shirking usually failed and he ended up helping his siblings washing dishes or delivering pizza, but he still tried. His focus was music, not pizza.
And definitely not pizza sauce receipts.
He threw the papers in the shredder and placed the portable scanner in a drawer. Anyway, his bookkeeping skills had nothing to do with growing up in the pizzeria. He'd honed those skills during his music years.
Nothing required better bookkeeping than running an indie band. Nothing.
And the pizzeria had its advantages. For example, it didn't require an emergency bail money fund. The restaurateur gig was a lot more peaceful.
He glanced at the pink cloth on his desk. Yes, the food business definitely had its benefits.
He should call Patricia and tell her that he had her scarf. Better yet, he should drop by the bakery and deliver it in person. Sunday was Neapolitan Sundae Donut day at the bakery. The vanilla-strawberry-chocolate mix wasn't his favorite, but that didn't matter. What mattered was seeing the baker again.
And maybe convincing her to stay over tonight.
He got up, put on his jacket and grabbed the scarf. He almost bumped into John, his head waiter, as he headed down the stairs.
"Hey, boss," John said. "You'd better come down. A guy in front is giving Sarah trouble."
He sighed. Okay, maybe not so peaceful.
A customer Sarah couldn't handle? That was a first. Curious, he followed John down the steps. The stairs led to the kitchen area, which was empty as the staff, including John, crowded in the hallway, looking into the main dining room.
"My money's on Sarah," Diego, the cook, whispered.
John snorted. "Your money's always on Sarah."
"I like to bet on winners," Diego countered.
Zach tried not to laugh.
"Guys," he said, putting on his sternest voice. "Selling pizza is not a spectator sport." The staff dispersed, looking sheepish.
"We'll settle the bets after work," Diego hissed to his colleagues. "Prepare to be fleeced."
Zach let that pass and walked toward the dining room. He saw Sarah, looking uncharacteristically cowed, and a tall, dark-haired man in an expensive suit.
Gabe? Had his brother given up on the nasty e-mails and passive-aggressive packages and decided to press his case in person? If so, tough luck, a face-to-face meeting wouldn't make any difference. Zach refused to be intimidated.
Sarah, however, disagreed. She couldn't conceal her relief when she saw her boss walking across the dining room. How bizarre. Sarah was a force of nature, nothing fazed her.
Except another force of nature.
He was close enough to recognize the visitor now. This wasn't his brother. This was Gabe's business partner, Salvador Acosta.
His fists clenched. What the hell was Salvador doing in Banshee Creek?
Gabe's business partner was a born jetsetter. He came from a wealthy Brazilian family and was born with the proverbial silver feiojoda spoon in his mouth. Whereas Gabe was a numbers guy, obsessed with profit and loss statements and investment returns, Salvador was the social butterfly, collecting investors and charming business associates.
Or not charming them, as seemed to be the case right now.
"There he is," Sarah squeaked, pointing at Zach. "I guess you don't need me now."
She scurried off, a fake smile plastered on her face.
"Good luck," she hissed, as she passed Zach on her way to the kitchen. "You're going to need it."
She beat a hasty retreat, leaving Zach alone with their visitor.
"Good to see you again, Zach," Salvador said, a hint of his native Portuguese in his voice. "That's an interesting staffing choice you have there."
Zach's jaw clenched. Sarah was his interesting staffing choice. Nobody messed with her except him.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "And why are you harassing my staff?"
"Harassing?" Salvador asked, arching a brow. "I just wanted to see you, and maybe teach the bartender how to make a proper drink."
He frowned at a tall glass on the counter. It was a sample of the pizzeria's Bloody Caipirinha, the clear liquid marred by a splash of pomegranate extract that mimicked blood.
Salvador looked like he wanted to wrinkle his nose in disgust but was too polite to do so.
"It's not supposed to have syrup in it," he said, disdainfully. "The point of the caipirinha is the sharpness of the cachaça liquor."
"The syrup is the main selling point," Zach replied, his voice testy. "And it's one of our most popular drinks. Did my brother send you to criticize my menu choices, Salvador?"
Salvador regarded the drink with clear skepticism. "Really?"
Zach just stared.
"Fine," Salvador conceded. "This is why I'm not on the creative side. And, no, your brother did not send me. I'm the one who does the investor relations. Our clients sent me. Or, rather, the people who own that," he pointed to the Tippi Hedren mural on the wall, "sent me."
Zach glanced at the wall. The birds on the mural stared back ominously.
This, he knew, was not going to end well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"YOU GOT lucky last night."
Laurie was standing by the door, pointing an accusing finger straight at...her? Patricia set down her washcloth and frowned.
"What?"
"You know what I'm talking about." Laurie's eyes narrowed, like a hawk sighting its prey. "You usually get here by noon, but today you were late. I had to crash at Elizabeth's office, and their coffee is disgusting. No wonder the real estate office doesn't have any customers. It's not the haunted houses. It's the crappy coffee." She took her Banshee Creek Bakery thermos out of her bag and slammed it on the counter. "Hit me. I'm desperate."
"I was looking after my dad," Patricia said, taking the thermos and turning toward the espresso machine.
The excuse wasn't made up. She'd rushed out of Zach's barn and dropped by her father's house for a quick morning checkup. It was their Sunday routine and it would arouse suspicions if she skipped it.
She'd wanted to skip it though. Straight from her lover's bed, er, sofa, and on to her dad's house? Not cool.
But if she didn't show up, her dad would start asking questions that she didn't want to answer. It was bad enough that she couldn't stop smiling or staring dreamily into space. There might even be some soulful sighing involved.
All of it, she was aware, very suspicious behavior.
Luckily, her father wasn't feeling curious. Apparently there was some kind of scandal in the chess world that required his complete attention. Still, he'd insisted on making her scrambled eggs on buttered toast, her favorite breakfast. Patricia finally left him when Mr. Franco arrived in an agitated mood, holding a Sunda
y New York Times and complaining about the absence of the chess section. Patricia fought to hide her giggles. That was the scandal? A missing newspaper column?
Scrambled eggs and chess gossip. As far as her dad was concerned, that was the perfect Sunday morning.
"You weren't looking after your dad last night," Laurie said firmly, accepting her now-full thermos. "Caine's guys saw your van in Zach's driveway. They said that it was there all night."
"So what?" She bristled at her friend's accusatory tone. "What were they doing in Zach's neighborhood last night, anyway?"
Laurie blew on her coffee. "Looking for undead ungulates, of course."
Patricia stared at her friend in confusion. Undead what?
"The deer?" Laurie explained, after taking a sip of coffee. "You know, the fanged ones that they're documenting."
Oh rats. She'd forgotten about Caine and his vampire deer hunting. Oh, well, at least she had her ironclad alibi. "Zach borrowed the van yesterday. He brought it in this morning."
Her comment resulted in a grimace of disbelief.
"Am I supposed to believe that?" Laurie exclaimed. "You said you wouldn't let him borrow the van again after he used it to transport those stinky cheese wontons. The van smelled like gorgonzola for days."
"He had it professionally cleaned. And the wontons were delicious. I wonder why he stopped serving them."
Laurie ignored Patricia's efforts to change the subject.
"Spill it, O'Dare. I know you did not expose your beloved van to gorgonzola contamination. What happened last night?"
She ignored the question and bent to rearrange her donut display. Her Neapolitan Sundae Donuts had strawberry, vanilla and chocolate frosting stripes and the colors weren't lined up correctly.
"Oh, stop it with your compulsive straightening," Laurie complained. "No one cares whether the baked goods look good. We only care about how they taste."
Patricia took out a donut with a particularly fat chocolate stripe and rearranged the display. There, that looked better. She should take a picture and post it on Instagram.
"Oh, for the love of mercy," Laurie exclaimed. "Give me the offending donut."