Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel)

by Nina Lane

  “I’ll call Roger and get you an ETA.” Kate strode to the door. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes. Get me a coffee.”

  “You don’t drink coffee, sir.”

  “I do now. Black. Not one of those fancy au laits or whatever. Nothing French.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kate pulled open the door and tossed him a glance over her shoulder. “By the way, I forgot to tell you your aunt is on her way up.”

  Luke ground his teeth together and shot Kate a glare that could have sliced metal.

  “You forgot, huh?” he snapped.

  Kate blinked, somehow managing to look innocent despite her severe, scraped-back hairstyle and crisp black suit. “It completely slipped my mind, Mr. Stone.”

  “See that things don’t slip your mind again,” he gritted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He could have sworn she muttered something under her breath as she stepped outside. He heard her talking to Julia, and before he could get to the door and lock it, his aunt entered his office.

  “I hear you’re terrorizing everyone from here to Timbuktu.” Julia tossed her handbag onto a chair. “And that your employees are working beyond overtime to get shit done for you.”

  “I pay them well to do their work,” Luke retorted. “What are you doing here?”

  “Someone has to tell you you’re being an asshole, and everyone else is too scared to confront you,” she replied bluntly. “Not to mention that I’ve gotten half a dozen calls about your association with the inventor of the Declair.”

  She took out her phone and scrolled through it before turning the screen toward him. Luke took the phone, his chest twisting as he stared at the photo of him and Polly sitting beside each other at the museum exhibition dinner. Although the photo was grainy and dark, his girl glowed with an iridescent, inner light.

  He handed the phone back to his aunt. “There’s no association. She’s gone.”

  Polly had been gone for exactly two weeks and three days. Wild Child was still selling plenty of Declairs to the customers lined up outside every morning, and they had launched online orders through their website. According to Julia, Clementine had delayed her move to help Hannah settle in, and Polly’s friends Mia, Tom, and Ramona were all now working at Wild Child. Everyone had rallied to help Polly fulfill her dream of going to Paris.

  Everyone except him.

  “She rented an apartment in the 6th arrondissement,” Julia remarked. “In a building that used to be an artist’s atelier. Her classes haven’t started yet, but she’s met her instructors and is enrolled in French lessons.”

  Luke glowered at his aunt. “How do you know all that?”

  “We’re texting. And she sent me an email last week.” Julia looked at her phone. “I told her to contact my friend Marie-Laure, who can introduce her to people her own age. Not that Polly will have trouble making friends.”

  And having fun. She was probably already having a blast. Hell, she’d probably forgotten about him already. When a young woman went off to live a dream in Paris, why would she give a second thought to the dickhead she left behind?

  Luke shrugged into his suit jacket. “I gotta go.”

  “Where are you going?” Julia asked.

  Anywhere that wasn’t here. Anywhere that he didn’t have to be reminded he would spend the rest of his life in the corporate offices of Sugar Rush.

  “Just out.” He grabbed his keys and went to the door.

  Kate was still at her desk, and she looked up at him. “Sir, Roger is on his way up with the budget report. Lucy is fetching your coffee right now.”

  “Forget the report and the coffee.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Go home, Kate. Tell everyone else to do the same.”

  Luke headed for the elevator. Outside, it was already getting dark, the faint scent of fall in the air. He got into his car, flexing his hands on the wheel. He couldn’t stand the thought of returning to his “space station” house, so he put the Porsche in gear and headed toward Rainsville. Twenty minutes later, he found himself pulling into the parking lot of the Troll’s House.

  He went inside, welcoming the loud music emanating from the jukebox, the after-work crowd of blue-collar men who didn’t care who he was or where he worked. He pulled off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and headed for the bar. His gaze narrowed on the stool where Polly had been sitting when he’d turned and seen her watching him. A college-aged kid was sitting there now, and the sight of him in her seat scraped Luke’s insides with irritation.

  He sat at another barstool and ordered a scotch. The burn of alcohol felt good going down. He reached into his breast pocket and took out Polly’s elephant charm, which he’d been carrying around with him since she left. He stared at the charm, all of her words filtering through his head.

  You’re a cardinal sign. Cardinal signs govern the seasons and have the power to change.

  There are too many mysteries in the world. Things you can’t explain by science or logic.

  Your heart line is deep and clear.

  I’ll save you.

  Tell me you believe in love.

  Promise?

  “You want another?” The bartender stopped in front of him.

  Luke dropped the charm back into his pocket and looked at his empty glass. “You got something called a birthday cake shot?”

  The bartender lifted his eyebrows. “Sure. You want one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is it your birthday?”

  “No.”

  The bartender shrugged and turned to concoct the shot. He then placed a shotglass frothy with whipped cream and lined with rainbow sprinkles in front of Luke.

  “Enjoy,” he said.

  Luke stared at the shot. He’d first touched Polly when he’d taken a pink sprinkle off her lip.

  “Man, that is the girliest looking drink I’ve ever seen.”

  Luke glanced up. Evan slid onto the stool at his right and his father got onto the stool at his left. Tension tightened Luke’s chest. He knew an ambush when he saw one.

  “What the hell is it?” Warren nodded at the drink.

  “Birthday cake shot.”

  Luke lifted the glass to his father in a salute and downed it in one gulp. The sugar rush burned his chest and hit his bloodstream like an explosion. He coughed.

  Evan grinned. “Guess you can’t handle the girly stuff, huh?”

  “The girly stuff is fucking with my head big time.” Luke thunked the glass back on the bar and pushed off the stool. “Come on.”

  They went over to a pool table. Luke racked the balls while Evan and Warren chose their cues. They started playing. For a few minutes, Luke was able to focus on the game, despite the sweet taste in his mouth and the undying thoughts of Polly. He lined up a shot, fired, and missed.

  “I got an email from Tyler suggesting we ask the board to address your recent plunge into a dictatorship,” his father said, as they waited for Evan to take a shot.

  Given the number of times he’d overridden his COO’s decisions in recent weeks, Luke wasn’t surprised. He was, however, surprised that he didn’t much care.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Son.”

  Luke’s heart sank. His father only called him son when things were getting serious.

  “Morale is down,” Warren continued. “After you called Tyler out at the board meeting, two VPs have told me this is exactly what happened after the paternity suit. People are even scared to approach you with ideas now. Unless you want another mutiny, you can’t keep doing this.”

  “Yeah.” Luke dragged a hand down his face, defeat suddenly spiraling through him. “I know.”

  “You need to take some time off,” Warren said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Go to France.” Evan straightened from a shot that pocketed the orange ball. “See Polly.”

  Luke shook his head. “She won’t want to see me.”

  “You sure?”

 
; “Even if she did, I can’t leave Sugar Rush.”

  “Actually, you can,” Evan said. “You just don’t want to.”

  “And it’s time that you did,” Warren added.

  “No.”

  Evan and Warren exchanged glances. Luke gestured to the bartender to bring them another round of drinks. He hated the fear simmering inside him, the sense that he had no idea what he would be or do without Sugar Rush. He’d spent his adult life working for the company. What else could he do?

  “Don’t push me out,” he warned his father and brother. “I saved the damned company, remember?”

  “Yeah, we remember,” Evan said. “God knows you remind us often enough.”

  Warren clapped a hand on Luke’s shoulder. “I’ll never be able to tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done. I know you wanted to fix things, and you have. Net sales are up, North American and international profits have increased, and we’re regaining our market position. You’ve worked damned hard to get those results. But it kills me to see you living your life for the company instead of . . . living your life.”

  Luke moved to line up a shot. “I’ll take a couple days off next week. Get my head back in the game.”

  Evan and Warren were silent.

  “What?” Luke snapped. “That’s what you want, right?”

  “You need to take a leave of absence, not a couple of days off,” Warren said. “You need to get away from Sugar Rush—and by get away, I mean no decisions, no meetings, no agenda. No discussions with anyone in the company about business. You need to let someone else step in as interim CEO.”

  “No.” Luke shot his father a glare. “You want to go to the board and force me out? Go ahead.”

  “I’m not going to the board,” Warren said. “I’m asking you to step down on your own. And don’t forget you have months of vacation time you still haven’t taken.”

  Luke tried to imagine it . . . and couldn’t. Even if he did go after Polly, there was a good chance she’d want nothing to do with him anymore. And then what? He’d come back and spend his days doing nothing?

  No, thanks.

  “I’m not leaving.” He leaned over to position a shot. “I have to handle the Alpine acquisition. Besides, who’d take over if I left?”

  “I would,” Evan said.

  Luke went still. Silence roared in his ears, drowning out the raucous noise of talking, laughter, and music.

  He straightened slowly. Evan stood on the other side of the table, his expression steady and certain.

  “You would,” Luke repeated.

  “I could,” Evan said, and a sudden note of urgency threaded his voice. “I’ve been wanting to do more at Sugar Rush for five years. This is my chance to prove it, not only to you but to the whole damned company.”

  “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

  “I’ve always had to prove something to everyone,” Evan retorted, his eyes flashing. “I’ve always had to work harder and be better just to get recognized for being competent. Is it any wonder I was flattered when Crown Foods contacted me about their COO position? For once, someone was looking at what I’d done, what I could do, instead of what I have.”

  Shame spread through Luke. He couldn’t look at his father, but he felt Warren’s alliance with Evan as if it were a physical bond between the two men.

  “Look, I get why you gave the Fair Trade Foundation to Sam, okay?” Evan continued. “I know you were worried about the traveling. Fine. But don’t you tell me I shouldn’t take on the stress of being CEO or that the job would be too much for me. Don’t tell me about the long hours or that I don’t have the experience to handle the Switzerland project and the Alpine acquisition. And don’t you fucking dare tell me I don’t love this company as much as you do just because I wasn’t the one who saved it.”

  Silence fell again, heavy and thick. Luke stared at the pattern of balls on the pool table as if it would somehow provide him with a response to that speech. He was starting to sense that his controlling nature had affected his relationships with his family more than he’d been willing to see or admit.

  “Give me a year,” Evan said. “Let me run the company and finish the Switzerland project. If at the end of twelve months, you come back and think I’ve made a mess of things, then I’ll leave. If not, you give me a position I want.”

  Luke lifted his head and looked at his father. Warren’s expression was inscrutable. Not for the first time, Luke wondered how different their lives would be if his mother were still alive.

  “What would I do?” His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears, and he had a flashback to when he’d been eight years old and anxious about his upcoming tryout for Little League pitcher.

  “If I don’t pitch, what would I do?” he’d asked his father.

  “Whatever position you get, you play the best game you can,” his father replied. “That’s all you can ever do.”

  Now a faint smile appeared on Warren’s face.

  “Son,” he said, “you should go get your girl.”

  POLLY STOOD ON THE PONT des Arts, the gray waters of the Seine flowing underneath her as she gazed at the curve of the Île de la Citè. The bell towers of Notre Dame sat against the cloudy sky like building blocks, the banks of the river lined with elegant stone quays and buildings that resonated with beauty and history.

  She crossed the bridge and passed one of the bouquinistes on the quay, his stall filled with old books, cards, and newspapers. She caught snippets of conversation in French and was pleased with herself every time she understood something. In the three weeks she’d been in Paris, she’d enrolled in intensive French lessons since some of the course instruction would be conducted in French.

  Every now and then, Polly still faltered at the thought. Classes started next week. Her fellow students would be from all over the world, and the instructors were known to be exacting and demanding. If she didn’t measure up, she could fail.

  Or not.

  A breeze ruffled through her hair. As she walked alongside the Seine, she wondered why she’d ever wanted to be a different version of herself. She’d always been brave, resourceful, scrappy. The only thing she had to find was the courage to realize that she didn’t have to deny her own dreams to follow ones that weren’t hers to begin with. To remember that she had dreams of her own.

  Polly spent most of her days learning French and exploring the city—watching tourists and Parisians, visiting museums, local markets, restaurants, and shops. She sent emails and photos to Mia, Clementine, and Hannah, all of whom updated her regularly with assurances that Wild Child was just fine, thank you, and even had a bit of international aplomb now that they were telling everyone that owner Polly Lockhart was off studying pastry-making in Paris.

  Polly stopped alongside the quay when her phone buzzed with a text. She tugged it out of her satchel.

  JULIA: If you fall in love with a Pierre or an Antoine, I will personally curse you.

  POLLY: Your very existence upon this earth is a curse.

  JULIA: True. But I mean it. No Frenchmen for you. At least, not until I’m over this breakup.

  POLLY: You aren’t supposed to like me, remember?

  JULIA: I was starting to soften toward you until you went off to live your life instead of thinking about how it affected me. You’re not wearing jeans, are you?

  POLLY: Uh, no. Of course not.

  JULIA: Hear that? That’s me grinding my teeth. And if you’re wearing tennis shoes, I am personally coming over there to shake some sense into you.

  POLLY: No tennis shoes. Promise.

  JULIA: Wear the blue crepe dress tonight.

  POLLY: I’m not going anywhere tonight.

  JULIA: Yes, you are.

  POLLY: Scorpios don’t have clairvoyant powers.

  JULIA: This one does.

  Polly shook her head with amusement, resisting the urge to ask about Luke. She’d said everything she needed to say to him, and she didn’t need Julia to te
ll her he was holed up in his office working 24/7. Polly promised Julia she would send her pictures of what she planned to wear to her first day of class, then she put her phone away and walked toward the left bank.

  Her studio apartment was located just off Montparnasse Boulevard in a rickety little building that had once been an artist’s workshop. She crossed the courtyard and stopped at the building’s entrance.

  A row of cellophane-wrapped hard candies were lined up on the steps, a glittering pathway leading to the front door.

  Polly’s heart gave a wild, crazy leap.

  She bent to pick up the candies one by one as she walked to the door. The trail continued up the wooden staircase to her apartment. She hurried up the stairs, her hand trembling as she unlocked the door and pushed it open.

  Oh.

  Sugar Rush lollipop trees filled the small room, drenching the air with the smell of chocolate and sweet fruit. Jars of Puffles, Sweeties, Jelly Rolls, Honeybee Toffee, and Cocoa Nibblers sat on the tables and chairs, and candy bars and boxes of chocolates lined the windowsill.

  Her pulse raced. She stood there, not daring to believe or hope that . . .

  “Hello, Peach.”

  The deep, resonant voice flooded Polly with warmth. She spun toward the kitchen, where Luke stood in the doorway, holding a large glass jar filled with pink, blue, green, orange, and red candies.

  Her breath stopped in her chest at the sight of him—tall and incredibly beautiful in dark trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his corded forearms. His thick hair was ruffled, his dark eyes intent and serious, and he was as warm and yummy-looking as chocolate mousse laced with rum and coffee.

  “What . . .” Polly swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

  “The concierge let me in after I explained that I wanted to bestow a grand romantic gesture on the love of my life.”

  The love of my life. A thousand sparks flew through her.

  “You mean m-me?” she stammered.

  Luke grinned, his eyes creasing at the corners.

  “The one and only,” he said as he approached her. “Polly Peach.”

  He extended the jar. Their fingertips brushed as she took it from him, the light touch causing a little zinging sensation. Polly lifted the lid of the jar and looked at the rainbow of rock candy inside. She took one out; it was shaped like a heart and multi-faceted, with each angle and surface capturing the light.