by Nora Roberts
“You look good in the morning,” he told her.
“Ah, coffee’s doing its work.” She glanced back with a smile as fresh and cheerful as a spring tulip. “I feel good in the morning, usually. Everything starts fresh in the morning.”
“Some things hold over. Is there any way you can cancel this job? Just stay here until the only egg we have to think about is scrambled?”
“I can’t. There’s not enough time to find a replacement, or to clear that with the clients. They’re counting on me. Besides,” she went on as she broke eggs into the bowl, “HAG can’t know where I’ll be.”
“You have a website.”
“That only lists when I’m booked, not where or any client information. She’d have no reason to look for me in Tudor City.”
“Maybe not, but it’s a good distance from here if anything happens.”
She added cheese to the eggs, a touch of salt, a bit of pepper. “You’re worried about looking out for me, but I have many skills for looking out for myself. You just haven’t had occasion to see them in action.” She poured the egg mix into the skillet, where she’d melted a pat of butter. “Want some toast with this? Got any bread?”
He got the bread, popped a couple slices in the toaster. He could work on her, and this part of the problem, later. “How much more time do you need with the werewolves?”
“If I can get this next scene drafted—where Kaylee finds Justin’s mauled body—I’d feel very accomplished. I’ve got it in my head, so another couple of hours should do it.”
“Then you’ll have a couple hours after that and between your next job to pose for me again. That’ll work.”
He finished his coffee, immediately made a second before getting out two plates.
“Try this,” she suggested. “Will that work for you, Lila?”
He snagged the toasted bread, dropped one on each plate. “Will that work for you, Lila?”
“I don’t see why not.” She divided up the eggs, skillet to plates, then handed him one. “Let’s see how the writing goes.”
“Fair enough.”
A few blocks away, Julie woke. She felt amazing, wonderfully loose, blissfully rested, and let out a long, contented sigh as she stretched her arms high. Her mood bumped down a notch when she saw Luke wasn’t beside her, but she shook that off.
He ran a bakery, she reminded herself. He’d told her he’d be up and gone before five A.M.
Gone were the days when she considered five A.M. a reasonable hour to fall into bed after a party, but she was a long way off from finding it a reasonable hour to get up and go.
She had to admire his work ethic, but a little lazy morning sex would’ve been so perfect. Especially followed up with breakfast where she could’ve shown off her own kitchen skills. Limited, yes, she thought, but she made killer French toast.
Catching herself dreaming of lazy mornings and long nights, she pulled herself up short. Those days were over, she reminded herself, just like all-night parties.
It had just been sex. Really great sex between two people with a history, but just sex.
No point in complicating it, she told herself as she climbed out of bed, found the robe where it had landed the night before—on top of her bedside lamp. They were both adults now, adults who could treat sex—whether a one-time thing or an affair—in a reasonable, responsible way.
She had no intention of thinking of it beyond just that.
Now, like a reasonable, responsible adult, she’d get her coffee, grab a bagel—or some yogurt because she hadn’t remembered to buy bagels—then get ready for work.
She strolled into the kitchen, humming, then stopped dead.
There on her counter, sitting on one of her pretty china cake plates, was a big golden muffin, glistening with sugar. One of her glass bowls sat upside down over it like a dome.
Slowly, carefully, she lifted the bowl. Leaned down, took a little sniff.
Blueberry. He’d found the blueberries she’d bought the other day and used them in the muffin. Though given its perfect proportions it seemed almost sacrilegious, she broke off part of the top, sampled it.
It tasted every bit as perfect as it looked.
He’d baked her a muffin. From scratch.
What did that mean?
Did a muffin mean thanks for the really good sex? Or did it mean relationship? Did it mean . . . ?
How the hell was she supposed to know what it meant? Nobody but her grandmother had ever baked her a muffin before. And he’d thrown her off with this before she’d even had a chance to clear her head with a cup of coffee.
She broke off another piece, ate it while she brooded over it.
In the basement below the bakery, Luke kneaded dough on the floured butcher-block worktable. He had a machine that efficiently cut this labor out of the process, but when he could, he preferred getting his hands in it.
It gave him time to think—or just not think at all, with the rhythm of his hands and arms, the texture of the dough. The first batches of the morning had already been mixed, finished their two risings, and were baking in the brick oven behind him.
Today he needed this second round of loaves for a specific customer request.
He and his main baker had done the muffins, rolls, Danishes, donuts and bagels for the early-morning crowd in the main ovens during that first rising—and started the cookies, pies, scones and cupcakes during the second.
Once he had this dough rising, he’d head up, pitch in.
He glanced at the clock set prominently on the stainless steel shelves against the far wall. Nearly eight now, so he imagined Julie was up.
He wondered if she’d found the muffin he’d left her. She’d always had a fondness for blueberries.
And dark chocolate. He’d have to make her something special there.
God, he’d missed her. So much more than he’d let himself admit all these years. He’d missed the look of her, the sound of her, the feel of her.
He’d sworn off redheads after Julie. Tall redheads with great bodies and bold blue eyes. For months, maybe years, after they’d split he’d ached for her at odd moments—when he saw something he knew would make her laugh, while he struggled through the hell of law school. Even the day he opened Baker’s Dozen he’d thought of her, wished he could show her he’d found his way, had made something of himself.
Every woman who’d passed through his life since Julie had done just that. Passed through. Distractions, diversions, all temporary no matter how much he’d wanted to make something solid and real. She’d always been there, in the back of his mind, in the center of his heart.
Now he just had to figure out how to reel her slowly back into his life, and keep her there.
“Nearly done here,” he called when he heard someone coming down the stairs. “Five minutes.”
“They said it was all right if I came down. Well, the girl with purple hair did,” Julie added when he looked up.
“Sure. Come on down.”
She lit him up, that flaming hair tamed back with silver combs, the amazing body poured into a dress the color of the blueberries he’d mixed in her muffin.
“I didn’t expect to see you, but welcome to my cave. I’m nearly finished with this. iPod’s on the shelf there, turn the music down.”
She did so, muting Springsteen, and remembering he’d always been high on the Boss. “I spend a lot of time down here, or in the main kitchen, in the back office. It must be why I never saw you come in. There’s cold drinks in the cooler,” he added, watching her while he kneaded the mass of dough. “Or I can get you a coffee from upstairs.”
“I’m fine. Thanks, I’m fine. I need to know what it means.”
“What? Like the meaning of life?” He shoved at the dough with the heels of his hands, gauged the texture. Just a couple more minutes. “I haven’t come to any firm conclusions on that.”
“The muffin, Luke.”
“The meaning of the muffin?” God, she smelled good, and he reali
zed the scent of her mixed with the yeasty smell of bread would fuse together in his head. “Its meaning, in fact entire purpose, is: Eat me. Did you?”
“I want to know why you baked me a muffin. It’s a simple question.”
“I’m a baker?”
“So you bake a muffin in the morning for every woman you sleep with.”
He knew that clipped tone—it came back to him with perfect pitch. Nerves and annoyance, he thought. Over a muffin? “Some prefer a Danish—and no, I don’t. But I didn’t see baking one for you as a questionable move. It was a muffin.”
She hitched her enormous work bag more securely on her shoulder. “We slept together.”
“We certainly did.” He continued to knead—kept his hands busy—but his pleasure in the work, in the morning, in her, caved in. “Is that the questionable move or is the muffin?”
“I think we need to be clear about all of it.”
“Proceed to be clear.”
“Don’t take a tone. We had a difficult day yesterday, and we have friends involved in something scary and confusing. We have a history, and we . . . we couldn’t sleep so we had sex. Good sex, as adults. Without any . . . complications. Then you baked me a muffin.”
“I can’t deny it. I baked the muffin.”
“I just want to be clear we both know what it was—last night. That it doesn’t need to be complicated, especially when, through Lila and Ash, we’re in a very complicated situation.”
“It’s all simple, just like it was, I thought, a simple muffin.”
“All right, then. Good. Thanks. I have to get to work.”
She hesitated a moment, as if waiting for him to say something more. Then she walked upstairs. She walked away, with him left in silence, just as she had over a decade before.
When Ash insisted on taking Lila to her next job, she didn’t argue. If seeing where she’d be, checking the security for himself, made him feel better, what was the harm?
“They’re repeaters,” she told him as the cab wound its way uptown. “I’ve worked for them twice, just not in this location because they only moved here a few months ago. And Earl Grey is a new addition, but he’s really sweet.”
“The new location might be better all around.”
“It’s a gorgeous space, wonderful views. A nice neighborhood to walk around in—with Earl Grey. And I got an e-mail from Macey this morning.”
“Macey?”
“Kilderbrand—last client. They’re very satisfied with my service—and she thinks Thomas misses me. As they’re planning a skiing trip out West next January, they’d like to book me now. So, despite everything that happened, score one for me.”
“But this is a shorter job.”
“A quick one for the Lowensteins—eight days altogether, to visit some friends and check on some property in Saint Bart’s.”
When the driver pulled over in front of the East Forty-first Street entrance of the massive neo-Gothic complex, Lila swiped her credit card.
“I’ll get it.”
She shook her head, keyed in her tip. “My job, my business expense. I may have a rich lover, but I’m just using him for sex.”
“He’s a lucky guy.”
“Oh,” she said as she pocketed the receipt and slid out, “he is. Hi, Dwayne.” She beamed at the doorman as he hustled over to the cab. “Lila Emerson. You may not remember, but—”
“I remember you, Ms. Emerson, from when you came to see the Lowensteins. I’ve got the keys for you. You’re right on time.”
“I try to be. Did the Lowensteins get off all right?”
“Saw them off myself not an hour ago. I’ll get that.” He hefted the second suitcase out of the cab’s trunk before Ash could. “Can I help you up with these?”
“No thanks, we’ve got it. This is my friend Ashton Archer. He’s going to help me settle in. Do you happen to know the last time they walked Earl Grey?”
“Mr. Lowenstein took EG out for a last round right before they left. He should be good awhile.”
“Excellent. What a gorgeous building. I’m going to love staying here.”
“You have any questions, where things are, need transportation, whatever, you just let me know.”
“Thanks.” She took the keys he handed her, and walked into the lobby and its cathedral light through the stained glass windows. “Tell me my job isn’t awesome,” she said to Ash as they took an elevator. “How else would I be able to spend a week in a penthouse apartment in Tudor City? Did you know they used to have a little golf course? And a tennis court. Famous people played tennis on it. I can’t remember who because I don’t really follow tennis.”
“My father thought about buying it—with partners—when Helmsley sold it.”
“Really? Wow.”
“I don’t remember the details, why or why not. Just vague talk.”
“My parents bought a little campground in Alaska. There was a lot of talk, and considerable nail biting. I love working in buildings like this, the old ones,” she said as they got off the elevator. “I’m fine with new ones, but buildings like this are something special.”
She keyed open the locks, opened the door. “As in.” She gave a sweep of her hand before turning to the alarm pad to key in the code.
The wall of floor-to-ceiling casement windows let New York in, with the glamour of the Chrysler Building front and center. Lofty ceilings, gleaming hardwood, the soft, rich glow of antiques served as the forefront for the spectacular view.
“Pretty great. I should’ve taken us to the second floor—it’s a triplex—but I thought you’d appreciate the wow factor of the main level.”
“It’s got it.”
“I need to check the kitchen. Earl Grey’s either in there or hiding up in the master bedroom.”
She walked through to a dining area with a long mahogany table, a little gas fireplace and a breakfront holding a clever mix of mismatched china. Into a kitchen that reflected the building’s character with its brick accent wall, dark, deeply carved walnut cabinets and lots of copper accents.
There, on the slate-colored floor, was a little white dog bed. In it was the smallest dog—Ash didn’t really consider it a dog—he’d ever seen.
White like the bed, it sported a traditional poodle cut, and in lieu of a collar, a miniature bow tie. Purple with white polka dots.
It trembled like a leaf in the wind.
“Hey, baby.” Lila kept her voice cheerful, but very quiet. “Remember me?” She opened the lid of a bright red canister on the counter and took out a dog biscuit no longer than his thumb.
“Want a cookie?”
She crouched down.
The trembling stopped. The tail—what there was of it—wagged. The dog that wasn’t a real dog hopped out of the tiny bed, rose on its hind feet and danced.
Ash grinned despite himself, and on a laugh, Lila offered the biscuit.
“You don’t have to worry about a thing with a vicious fake dog like that around,” Ash commented.
“I think the security system’s good enough for me, and for Earl Grey.” She scooped the dog up, nuzzled it. “Want to hold him?”
“I’ll pass. He actually weirds me out a little. I’m not sure a dog should fit in your shirt pocket.”
“He’s small, but he has a big brain.” She kissed the poodle on the nose, set him down. “Do you want a tour before I unpack?”
“I wouldn’t mind it.”
“Mostly so you can scope the place out, get the lay of the land in case you have to rush in and rescue me.”
“What do you care? We have to take your suitcases up anyway.”