Chapter 2
“Thanks, Cassi, I really appreciate your looking them over.” Caleb pressed the phone between his ear and shoulder so he could shuffle the papers back into the folder he’d been compiling on top of George’s cluttered desk. Housekeeping was definitely not his uncle’s strong suit. And apparently neither is bookkeeping. “I’m sure I’m just missing something.” Caleb wasn’t sure of any such thing, but there was no point in going there until his sister looked things over. Aside from cooking, bookkeeping actually was a strong suit of his. Math and numbers came easily to him. Cassi was even better at it than he was.
“Doesn’t he have someone who does his books? An accountant or something?” Cassi asked, and Caleb smiled as he could hear the rhythmic sounds of a knife repeatedly connecting with a cutting board coming through the phone while she spoke. There was also a clatter of background noise that could only mean she was in a kitchen somewhere. The Dimitrious were never far from food.
“He may for taxes and whatnot, but for the day-to-day running of the restaurant, it looks like he handles all of that on his own.” Caleb flipped open the notebook and shook his head as he looked at the heavily inked columns. “It’s all in George’s handwriting. Well, it’s the same as all the notes and things he’s got here, so I assume it’s his handwriting. He doesn’t have a secretary, or office help—I know that much.”
“Handwriting? Like, he’s still writing all this stuff down? In what, like a ledger?”
“Worse,” Caleb said, his smile spreading to a grin as he flipped the book closed and looked at the cover. “You know those black and white composition books we used in school?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Cassi said with a laugh. “You’re on your own.”
“Would it help to persuade you if I tell you I discovered the most amazing bakeshop here? They make an Italian iced cookie that, honestly, I don’t know what she put in it, but it was out of this world.” He was actually underselling the cookie, but the vision that popped into his head as he spoke wasn’t the delicately shaped and decorated pastry. It was the woman who’d crafted it.
In fact, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his thoughts since they’d met. However, he wasn’t here to meet someone, and he had no interest in starting up something short term. He might not be looking, per se, but if and when someone came into his life who completely turned his head around, it had to at least be someone who’d fit into the life he’d built back in Philly.
Abriana Bellaluna O’Neill had definitely turned his head. They had a lot in common, and not just the surface things. He’d seen that look of utter understanding in her eyes when they’d been talking about family and the bonds that tie people together. The kind of understanding he hadn’t come across before. In fact, his family and his close ties to them, to the businesses they ran together, were largely the reason he was single. Unless you came from that world, it was hard to understand. And the women he’d met thus far definitely didn’t understand.
Abriana—Bree, as she’d told him before he’d taken his leave of the shop yesterday—totally understood. Unfortunately, the reason why she understood was also yet another reason he had no business thinking about her nonstop, much less coming up with and discarding numerous reasons to drop by Bellaluna’s again—both of which he’d been guilty of doing. It had only been the issues he’d uncovered here at the restaurant that had saved him from doing something he’d regret.
Now if he could just stop thinking about her. About the cupid’s bow shape of her mouth, the lively way her lips curved and dipped as she smiled and laughed, which she did often. He’d felt a pull toward her he couldn’t even describe, much less explain, and at the center of that pull was that mouth. And his seeming inability to stop thinking about what it would be like to feel that plump softness pressed against his own lips.
He was typically a low-key kind of guy, preferring to be in the background cooking, while one of his older brothers ran the front of house, seating their customers and handling all things social. And yet the moment he’d entered Bree’s kitchen, he couldn’t stop talking.
He was never like that. Not with people he didn’t know, at any rate. But he couldn’t seem to shut up. Every time Bree’s eyebrows rose or furrowed, or the corner of her mouth curved either in smile or frown, then split wide in a grin . . . he kept talking, wanting more. Her laugh was as delicious as that sweet treat he’d experienced. Which was how he thought of food. Something to be experienced, with all the senses. Being around Bree felt exactly the same. Sight, scent, sound, touch, and taste. He’d wanted to satisfy his sensory needs so badly it was like a physical hunger, like he hadn’t eaten in days.
The moment he’d left her kitchen, he’d started convincing himself that he was just tired from all the prep he’d gone through to leave Dimi’s for six weeks, or distracted by the unknown that he was about to face in George’s kitchen. That had to be it, because surely he was making more of his meeting with her and her grandmother than could possibly be true. Or real. That wasn’t like him, either.
“Hello? Caleb? Have I lost connection?”
He snapped back to the conversation and the situation at hand. “No, no, I’m here. Sorry, juggling too many things, a lot to figure out.” And a lot you need to forget. Namely any further distractions with a certain bakery chef. “Castellanos is a completely different setup from ours. Or from any of the family restaurants I’ve visited. He’s not just old-school; he’s prehistoric school.”
Cassi laughed at that. “Well, given we can rarely get you out of our kitchen, you also don’t have that much to go on,” she teased. “I’m still surprised George asked for you. I thought you’d send Matteo up. You’ve never wanted to run a place. How many times has Matty bragged to Lander, when he’s bitching and moaning about things, that he could run Dimi’s with one arm tied behind his back?”
“Be thankful you were away at the time of deliberations,” Caleb said dryly. “Matty was all about ignoring what George wanted and putting you here, thinking it might ground you a bit.”
He’d expected her to laugh or toss out some pushback at their older brother. Instead, she paused, then said, “Yeah, well . . . about that.”
Surprised, Caleb said, “About what? You okay? Did something happen to you when you were in Botswana?”
“I was in Swaziland, but no, don’t worry. Nothing happened. Not over there, anyway. You don’t need to scan and send me any of George’s book records. I, uh . . .” She trailed off, then laughed and simply said, “I’ll look at them when I get there. Which will be in about two hours.”
If it was possible to grin and frown at the same time, Caleb did. He adored his baby sister and always missed her terribly when she was gone, which was far too often these days. But he admired her for boldly going where she wanted to go, staking out her own path in the world and going after it. He just wished their older brothers were as supportive. “So, I’m guessing Lan or Matt got a hold of you anyway?”
“Unfortunately, cell phones work, even in remote southern Africa,” she said dryly. “Apparently, I need to go much farther off the grid to gain my full independence from the Dimitriou tribe, but at this point, I’m not sure where that would be, exactly. Mars, maybe? And don’t be mad, it’s not that Lander doesn’t think you can manage. It’s—”
“Oh, I’m not mad at all,” Caleb said on a laugh. “I’m also not too proud to admit I could use all the help I can get.” He looked through the open door of George’s office to the empty kitchen beyond. He knew the front of the restaurant was equally devoid of any people, staff or otherwise. He didn’t need Cassi to help him run the place. But he’d take her very capable assistance in figuring out why George hadn’t told anyone that his restaurant, as far as Caleb could tell, had one foot in the grave and the other one tottering close behind. He didn’t mention that to Cassi. There would be plenty of time for talk when she got there.
Just as he hadn’t said a word yet to his brothers. They were good, decent men, both of them, and
Caleb admired and respected them every bit as much as he loved them, which was deeply. However, though Lander was only fifteen months older than Matteo, Matty was six years older than Caleb, and seven years older than Cassi. That didn’t sound like a huge gap now that they were all adults, but his brothers had had the benefit and the challenge of having their very traditional father around for all of their formative years, and thus had a very different mind-set about how things should be done.
On top of that, the Dimitriou and Castellanos families were very close, and his brothers would think they were doing the right thing in rallying the troops to come and rescue one of their own. Caleb might eventually do that very thing. That’s what his big, unwieldly, loving family did for each other, and they were wonderful at it.
However, since George hadn’t already called for help, and in fact hidden pretty much all of his problems from everyone, Caleb wasn’t going to be the one to out his uncle until he understood fully what was going on. George was a proud man, as were most of the men in Caleb’s family and not a few of the women besides.
Plus, there was the whole thing about George giving Aunt Alethea her much-deserved honeymoon. Caleb wasn’t certain how George was financing that mission, either. The one person Caleb could trust to handle this exactly as he would was his sister. “I’m glad you’re coming,” he told her.
She must have heard a thread of his concern, because her tone changed, too. “Something else going on?”
“We’ll talk when you get here,” he said. “And where are you, by the way? I could have sworn I heard you dicing and chopping when you first answered my call.”
“Oh, right. I was. I stopped for lunch at this amazing little deli I read about, or heard about, or . . . I don’t remember where, but it was right on the way, kind of, so I decided to drop in. I got to talking to the owner about this new herb combination I learned while I was in Botswana and thought it would be amazing in the gourd soup. So, he invited me back, and I showed him.” He could hear the triumphant sound in her voice when she added, “I was right. So now the Great Baboo Deli & Tea House has a new soup—or an improved soup—on the menu. The Cassandra Callabaloo. Ha!”
“Deli and Tea House? That serves gourd soup? And I thought you said you were in Swaziland?”
“I was,” she said. “After Botswana. And about Baboo’s, I know, right? It’s an amazing setup. But you’re not distracting me, you know.”
“We’ll have plenty of time when you get here,” he told her, not remotely surprised to hear his sister had found a way to have an adventure merely while driving from Pennsylvania to Maine.
“Good,” she said easily, trusting him, as she always did. “So, in the meantime, tell me about the baker.”
Caleb blinked. “What?”
“You were waxing rhapsodic about a cookie. I usually have to beg you to add something new to the dessert menu. Since when did you get a sweet tooth?”
“Since I bit into that cookie,” Caleb replied. “And a traditional Greek dessert menu doesn’t tend to run very deep.”
“No, but that doesn’t mean it has to be antiquated.” She didn’t let him reply. Their opposing thoughts on adding menu entries was a long-standing debate. “So, I ask again, who’s the baker?”
She asked it in that way only younger sisters can, all suggestive and filled with innuendo. If she were standing in front of him, he was certain she’d be fluttering her lashes at him as she asked. She was probably doing it anyway, and that made him smile.
“It’s not about the baker,” he told her. “It’s about the cookie.”
Cassi’s laugh was delighted bordering on gleeful. “Ah, so then it’s totally about the baker.”
“When you try that cookie, you’ll understand.” That much was true. Cassi would go ape over the flavor profile, then immediately try to figure out what Bree had put into it. Caleb was more than a little curious himself. Not that they’d ever lift a recipe—that simply wasn’t done. But learning new combinations of ingredients was always a catalyst for inspiration.
“Mmm-hmm,” Cassi said knowingly. “I’ll be right there.”
“Cassi,” Caleb said, a warning note in his voice. One he knew she would utterly ignore. Maybe having her there wasn’t such a great idea after all. Caleb couldn’t even get his own thoughts and reactions sorted where one Abriana Bellaluna O’Neill was concerned. He loved his baby sister to death, but he needed her perky, little nose ferreting out the problem with George’s books. He did not need it poking into his personal life. Like their brothers, he and Cassi were also just fifteen months apart and from the moment she could look him in the eye, she’d always been able to read him like a book.
Cassi didn’t just see too much where he was concerned, she saw everything. He’d relied on that more times than he cared to admit, especially when it came to gaining insight into the thought processes of the opposite sex. This time, though, sharing any part of it felt too . . . intimate. Private. Which was ridiculous, given the sum total of his interaction with Bree to date had been spilling his family’s life story inside the first five minutes of saying hello, and biting into the most delectable combination of flour, sugar, and butter known to man. Or woman.
And wondering, imagining, pondering, daydreaming, and night sweating to the point of distraction over what it would be like to taste the delectable baker as well.
“Well, well, well,” Cassi said into the expanding silence. “Could it be true that my slave-to-the-kitchen, nose-to-the-cutting-board brother has finally had his head turned by something other than perfecting his dolmades and keftedes? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
“Cassi—” he started again.
“You’re protesting too much,” she told him, a wry note added to the unmitigated glee now. “Besides, you had me at Italian bakeshop.”
A knock at the back door gave Caleb the out he needed to end the call. “I’ve got deliveries,” he said, hoped. He’d placed four orders the night before from George’s usual vendors and none of them had shown up this morning. He should have already been to the fish market and the grocers, but he’d been stuck waiting because the sous chef hadn’t shown, either.
He’d tried to tamp down a feeling of dread. Surely George wouldn’t have gone flying off to Greece and not bothered to mention that his business had fallen into such dire straits. “And thanks,” he said. “For coming.”
Her delight dimmed slightly. “Cay, what’s really going on? Is it that bad?”
“Don’t drive like a maniac. Enjoy the coastal view. I’ll have your favorites for dinner when you get here,” he told her. “Love you.” Then he hung up. They really were far too good at reading each other.
He squeezed out from behind the small, wooden desk George had wedged into the office, along with overflowing bookshelves, ancient, beat-up metal file cabinets, and stacks upon stacks of everything that had accumulated since they’d filled up, too. Which, from the looks of it, had been sometime in the past decade. “Or more,” he muttered. He knew he was here to oversee, keep the doors open, maybe cook a little, and nothing more, but one look at George’s office had made Caleb’s bookkeeper’s brain hurt. He’d thought he’d do his uncle a favor and help organize the chaos. Now he was just hoping there was a reason to bother.
He skirted the stacks of notebooks, newspapers, and the third stuffed in-box, which was actually an old vegetable crate pulling double duty, and made it to the rear door just as he saw the shadow beyond the window blinds turning to leave.
He might have yanked the door open in his haste to not lose the one delivery it looked like he might get for the day, only to discover it wasn’t a delivery at all. Or not the one he was expecting, anyway. It was the baker.
“Hi,” Bree said, a bright smile on her pretty face. “Do you have a minute?” She lifted a square pink box tied with white string. “I brought breakfast treats.” Her lips lifted at the corners and that perfectly bowed lower lip pursed, her tone dry when she continued. “Okay, so they’re
really just treats. But if you eat them before nine a.m. and there’s coffee involved, then that constitutes a breakfast, right?”
He looked past her, at the empty rear lot tucked behind the restaurant, partly to check for a delivery truck. Mostly to stop looking at that perfectly bowed bottom lip. She looked over her shoulder, too, then back at him, confused.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was expecting a delivery. Please, yes, come in.”
“If now isn’t a good time—”
He gave her a welcoming smile. “If what’s inside that box is anything like the cookie I had yesterday, there will never be a bad time.” Stop flirting. You’re not getting involved, remember? Your plate is overflowing. And now your sister’s coming. Don’t add anything more.
Bree stepped inside and the scents of cinnamon, vanilla, and butter entered with her. He tried not to audibly inhale as he motioned for her to go on into the kitchen ahead of him, causing her to pass within inches of his already alert and exceedingly enthusiastic body. He turned his back to close the door, taking one last look at the lot behind the restaurant, mostly to buy him an extra moment to quell his physical reaction. What are you, fourteen? Actually, he’d had more game back then compared to this. When he turned back, Bree was glancing around the kitchen, no discernable expression on her face, but he suspected he knew what she was thinking.
“We don’t open until dinner on Mondays,” he said, by way of explaining the utter lack of activity in what should have been a bustling kitchen enterprise. In fact, they were the only two in the whole place at the moment. It wasn’t just the sous chef who hadn’t shown up today. “I’d invite you into George’s office, but I can barely squeeze in there myself. Why don’t we go out front.” He started toward the swinging door at the far end of the kitchen, and the switches that would turn on the lights in the restaurant proper, but she stopped him.
“No, that’s okay,” she said. “Please don’t go to the trouble. I only stopped by to check in and see if George, or you, had made any plans regarding the Halloween parade?”
The Bakeshop at Pumpkin and Spice Page 3