by Lydia Reeves
“Look, I have to go,” I said, edging away. “I’m late for work.”
His only farewell was a tight nod before he turned and headed down the hallway, and I breathed a sigh of relief. As far as encounters with my father went, I’d call that one a success. He hadn’t insulted my chosen profession; he hadn’t belittled my work at the bookstore; he hadn’t told me what a disappointment I was. Of course, he hadn’t needed to. It was all there in the set of his jaw and anyway, I’d heard it all a million times before.
Back outside in the cold, I called a cab to take me back to the kitchen, and on the way I tried to block out the judgmental look on my father’s face by remembering the nurse instead.
Bria.
She was both gorgeous and intriguing. When she’d come in with my discharge papers I’d noticed another line of ink running beneath the neckline of her shirt and across her shoulder. Fascinating. I wondered where those patterns went. Was all of her skin covered like that?
By the time I made it back to the kitchen and found my phone, which I’d inadvertently left behind in the rush, I had three missed calls and a handful of texts from my boss, Sam. I called him immediately, and he answered on the second ring.
“Hey, man, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I cut my arm open in the kitchen, and I had to go to the hospital, but I forgot my phone so I couldn’t tell you I was going to be late.”
“Whoa, what? Slow down. The hospital? Are you okay?” His voice was concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a handful of stitches. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know earlier. I can be there in twenty minutes, but I won’t have anything for the cafe today.”
There was a pause, and then an incredulous laugh. “Dude, that’s the least of my worries. You don’t have to come in. Marian is covering the cafe. Just take the day off. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. I don’t need to take the day off. I’ll be there soon.” I ended the call.
I knew Sam had a point. He probably didn’t need me today, and it would likely be smart to go home and rest. But what the hell would I do there? Work was what I did. I baked all morning, and then I spent the rest of my time at the bookstore. Technically my shift ended at one in the afternoon, but more days than not I hung around, often ’til close.
I tried to imagine it, having a day off, as I drove across town to Sam’s store. If I was stuck in my house all day, honestly, I would just end up baking. I had a new shortbread recipe I wanted to try anyway. But then I wouldn’t be able to serve them in the store, because they weren’t made in a certified kitchen, and I wouldn’t be able to eat them all myself, so they would just go stale and end up in the trash. No, better I should just go to work. Much less wasteful that way.
When I got there, Marian was behind the counter at the cafe and she tried to insist she had it all under control.
“Geoff, you just came from the hospital. Look at your arm! You don’t need to be here.” I tried to glare, but she just laughed. My look must have turned pleading though, because finally she rolled her eyes and took pity on me, sliding out from behind the counter and throwing her dish rag over her shoulder at me as she left.
The display was looking sad with only a smattering of Danishes and the leftover cheesecake from the day before. I made a mental note to make things I could freeze in case this ever happened again, and then I got to work, cleaning out the coffeemaker and wiping down the counters.
It wasn’t long at all before Sam came over. He just looked at my arm and sighed. He wouldn’t try to send me home. He’d made an effort on the phone, and he knew I would just ignore him if he tried again, but the look on his face made it clear he thought I was an idiot. He was probably right.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yep, just had to get a few stitches.” No need to mention the passing out. I pulled the blender away from the wall to wipe behind it. I was a little anal about cleanliness in the cafe. In the kitchen, too.
“Hey, stop cleaning. Marian’s already been through all that. Come sit down for a minute. As long as you’re here, I wanted to talk to you about something.”
That sounded ominous. Reluctantly, I put down my dishrag and poured two mugs of coffee before joining Sam at one of the little wrought iron tables. My leg bounced under the table with the effort of holding still.
Sam eyed me. “Was your dad at the hospital?”
“Yeah,” I said shortly. I didn’t need to elaborate. Sam got it—I wasn’t the only one who had trouble living up to parental expectations.
He winced. “Sorry. Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I’m planning a kind of open house…party…event type thing. To celebrate our first year in business.”
I’d been with him since two weeks after he opened. I counted mentally. “You’ve been open for sixteen months.”
He shrugged. “Okay, a year-ish. Anyway, I wanted to do an open house. A big holiday sale, show off the mural, maybe have a raffle, prizes, promote my brother’s book. You know.”
He shrugged again, and I eyed him. “That sounds…fancy.” Sam was a hard worker, there was no doubt about that, but he was also as laid back as they came. Elaborate parties didn’t really seem like his style.
“It was Ellen’s idea. She’s handling the details.”
Ahh, that made much more sense. Ellen was Sam’s new girlfriend. She’d swept into town only months before, putting her stamp on the bookstore in the form of an enormous floor-to-ceiling mural, before Sam convinced her to stay and put down some roots. Already, it was like she’d been here for years. I liked her immensely. I especially liked what she did for Sam. She was vivacious and outgoing, everything he was not, but they balanced each other perfectly, softening his hard edges and calming her scattered flightiness. She really must be having an effect on him if he was considering an event to promote his brother’s book. Sam and his brother didn’t have the easiest of relationships. I could sympathize. Though at least they could stand to be in the same room as each other, which was more than I could say for me and my father.
“Okay,” I said. “When is this open house?”
“Next weekend, I was thinking. That’ll give us enough time to throw up some fliers and put the event online, but not enough time that Ellen can get too carried away.”
I laughed and drained my mug of coffee. “Good plan.”
“I was thinking Saturday evening. Pretty laid-back, you can dress up if you want, maybe some food, possibly a cash bar. I was hoping you could help out.”
I nodded. “Okay, well you know I’m in. I can serve if you need, and run the register if we’ll be selling.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Man, I’m not asking you to run the register.”
I furrowed my brow. “Um, okay?”
He rolled his eyes and I shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of where this was going. “I want you to bake. I want you to cater it.”
I was already shaking my head. “Hell, no. We’ve talked about this. I’m fine making small things for the cafe, but this is big. How many people are we even talking about here?”
Sam shrugged. “A few hundred, probably. Over the course of the evening. Maybe more if we’re promoting my brother.”
“A few hundred?”
His brow creased. “I’d pay you for the extra time, of course. I thought you told me once it wasn’t hard to scale up.”
“It’s not that.” I shook my head again. “I can make more food easily. It’s that…it’s…” I had no idea how to explain.
Sam narrowed his eyes at me and leaned forward across the table. “You’re good enough, you know. Everyone freaking loves your food.”
I looked down at my empty mug on the tabletop. Sam was a great boss, and a great friend, but I hated how easily he could see through me.
“You know we make more from cafe sales than we ever do from books,” he went on. “I keep telling you, you could open your own place easily. I don’t even know why you work here.”
Just the thought of havi
ng my own place made my throat feel tight. Here, baking was just a hobby. Just something I could do to help Sam out, so he didn’t have to buy pastries from somewhere else. But my real job was running the cafe. There was no pressure there. Just an easy job I could enjoy while I figured out what I really wanted to do.
Sam was watching me, his eyes intent, and for a second I had the uncomfortable feeling he could read my thoughts.
“Why? Why don’t you want to do it?”
“What, open my own bakery?” I asked incredulously.
“No,” he said impatiently. “Cater the open house.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. Because he was right. I did want to. But the idea was terrifying.
“Right.” He sounded satisfied. “Look, just think about it. I’ll pay you whatever you need.” He eyed me. “I don’t even have to tell anyone it’s you, if you don’t want. Your food is amazing, and it’d be a shame, but you can remain anonymous if you want.”
I hesitated. It was tempting. Anonymity was appealing, but it was still only half the battle. Selling a handful of Danishes throughout the day to people buying books was one thing. Catering a party of hundreds was something else entirely. If I failed, I would still know who was to blame.
Sam waited me out, quiet and patient, until I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Okay. I’ll do it.” My voice sounded a little hoarse to my ears. I knew this wasn’t nearly as big a deal as I was making it out to be, but at the same time it felt huge. This opportunity would force me to admit to myself how much baking meant to me, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that.
Especially not today, after the look of scorn on my dad’s face as I explained I’d cut my arm. I hadn’t said it, but he knew it had happened while baking pastries for Sam’s cafe. Possibly the least manly of all possible activities, in his opinion. And that was just my most recent failing in a lifetime of not being the tough, manly son he’d always wanted.
But then I remembered the nurse from the ER. I remembered the way she’d stiffened when I’d called attention to her hair and her tattoos, as if she was used to people’s poor reactions.
Abruptly, I was embarrassed. Here was someone who knew what made her happy, and wore it on her skin for all to see, even though she clearly got ridiculed for it. And here I was, afraid to be ridiculed for my passions to the point of not even trying, even with a promise of anonymity. Maybe my dad was right; I was weak and pathetic. Just not in the way he thought.
I squared my shoulders and met Sam’s eye. “I’ll do it,” I repeated, my voice clear and firm this time.
An approving smile spread across his face and he leaned across the table to clap me on the back. “Awesome. Make some of those little tiramisu square-thingies, yeah? They’re Ellen’s favorite.”
Chapter 3
BRIA
“Remind me again why I let you talk me into this?”
I was at Claire’s house, watching as she leaned close to the mirror and applied a layer of pale pink lipstick to her pouting mouth.
“Two reasons,” she informed me, blotting her lips on a tissue. She met my eyes in the mirror and held up a finger. “First, because you never go anywhere, and you desperately need to get out. What were you going to do tonight, eat Chinese takeout and watch TV?”
“No,” I responded archly. I’d been planning to eat Thai takeout and watch a movie. Not that I had any intention of admitting that.
“Second,” she said, holding up another finger and giving me a look as if she knew I was full of it, “Jeremy Whitaker is going to be there, and I can’t meet him alone.”
“Who?” I asked blankly.
“Seriously? Jeremy Whitaker. Everyone here knows who he is.”
“I’m not from here,” I reminded her.
She rolled her eyes. “I don’t care how long you’ve been in Chicago, you grew up what—an hour away? It’s no excuse.”
“So, who is he?”
She went back to examining her makeup, touching up her eyeliner with a practiced hand. “He’s an internationally famous artist. He’s well known for painting amazing portraits of women.” She slid a look my way. “Usually ones he’s sleeping with. Anyway, he just put out a book, and his brother owns the bookstore, so he’ll be there doing a signing tonight.”
I nodded in amusement. “So, you’re going to get your portrait painted and be famous, huh?”
She shrugged and winked at me. “Who knows what might happen?”
I smothered a laugh. She might be right. With her dark blond hair caught up in a twist and her elegant floor-length pale green dress, she looked like a supermodel. If Claire had her sights set on him, the poor artist wouldn’t know what hit him.
I met the eyes of my own reflection in the mirror and had to suppress a smile. I couldn’t look more different from Claire if I tried. Maybe I hadn’t wanted to come tonight, but at least it gave me an excuse to get out of my scrubs and get dressed up, and I had to admit I looked good.
My dress was a gorgeous calf-length swing dress with a subtle black-on-black plaid pattern and a thin belt. Beneath it, just visible below the hem, I was wearing a violently red crinoline that made the dress swish out around me in voluminous folds as I walked, and emphasized my waist. The crinoline matched the bright crimson stain of my lipstick, and my blue hair fell past my chin in a carefully crafted mess of waves. The dress was sleeveless as well, and though I had a black shrug thrown over top to ward off the chill, the tattoos on my chest as well as the ones on my legs were plainly visible.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone there tonight, too,” she suggested, watching me size myself up in the mirror.
I turned from my reflection. “At a bookstore?”
She shrugged. “Hey, it’s a small town. This is a big event for us. I expect half the population will be there.”
My heartbeat ratcheted up at the thought. I liked socializing, and I liked meeting new people, but only in small doses. I was an introvert at heart, and was much better with a small group of friends than a big crowd. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been living in Fairfield long enough to find a real group of friends, so currently Claire was what I had to work with. I liked her quite a bit, but honestly, we were really only friends by virtue of working together. And so, if she wanted to go to a big party, to a big party we went.
“Ready to go?” she asked. I nodded and we both donned our coats and grabbed our purses. I waited by the door while she locked up. It was freezing cold outside, but thankfully dry, so I didn’t have to worry about slipping on ice in my heels and ending up spending the night in my own ER.
I left my car in the lot at Claire’s apartment and joined her in her green SUV, where she set the heater to blasting and we made the short drive downtown to the bookstore.
She hadn’t been kidding. The store was packed. Either this Jeremy guy really was famous, or Claire had been right and there was nothing else to do in a town this size on a Saturday night. Possibly both.
I followed close on Claire’s heels as she slipped through the crowd milling outside and into the store. I’d never been to Sam’s Books before. I knew of it, one of the old brick storefronts on Fairfield’s cute tree-lined Main Street, but my job kept me busy and I hadn’t had much time for exploring.
Inside, the store was warm and festive, decorated for the upcoming holidays with garland and sprigs of pine draped around the displays of books and across the fronts of the registers. I took my coat off, folding it over my arm as I scanned the store. Tables lined the periphery, one set up with what appeared to be a cash bar, another piled high with amazing looking desserts of every variety. Across the back of the store, a two-story brick wall had been painted with an enormous mural, stretching all the way to the ceiling, with bright splashes of paint depicting more literary scenes and characters than I could count. I gaped, and Claire laughed.
“I forgot to tell you about that. They were just finishing it up when I was in here last, a couple of months ago. Pretty cool, huh?”
That was an understatement. “Did the artist guy do it? Jeremy?”
Claire shook her head. “No, it was a woman. I can’t remember her name, but I think she’s dating the owner.”
Man, everyone really did know everything about everybody in a town like this.
There was a cluster of people milling about over in one corner surrounding a display of books I couldn’t see, and Claire tilted her head toward the group. “I think he’s over there. Come on, let’s go look.” Not waiting for an answer, she turned and started making her way across the room. I tried to follow, but seconds later she had disappeared, her blond head swallowed by the crowd.
The press of bodies made me feel slightly lightheaded, as if there wasn’t quite enough air in the store for all of us, and for a second, I wondered why I had come. I didn’t know anyone here except Claire, though I did recognize a couple of patients. The old woman near the dessert table who’d had kidney stones. The young man at the bar with asthma.
“Bria?”
The voice was warm and deep like melted chocolate, and I turned in surprise, only to come face to face with another patient, none other than Geoff Ashvale, son of the infamous Dr. Asshole, who totally hadn’t crossed my mind at all in the time since he’d left the hospital. Certainly not every time I had a run-in with his dad, causing me to wonder at the differences between them. Granted, I’d only spent about fifteen minutes in Geoff’s company, but he certainly hadn’t seemed anything like his father.
Tonight though, my eyes widened at the sight of him. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit over a black shirt. The suit fit him flawlessly, fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and draping over his lean, muscular physique. My eyes followed the shape of him, from his clean-shaven jaw all the way down to his shiny black shoes. It was a big change from the somewhat scruffy man I remembered from the ER, and I felt my insides clench.
Then he cleared his throat and my eyes flew back up to his face. Busted. I could feel the flush burning on my cheeks, but his cheeks were red too, so I smirked and decided to own it.