If You Love Me

by Ciara Knight

  Stella nodded. “I know it’s the worst month of the year for you. Not only because of the business.” She opened the door, leaving her words hanging in the air like a noose around failed relationships. “Just remember, you’re perfect.”

  The door shut before Carissa could protest. Perfection was one thing she’d never be in her life. This cupcake had to be what they were looking for, though. It was all the rage, right? Then why did she feel empty inside each time she looked at it?

  Carissa set out her special china serving dishes and plated the cupcake with a confection flower she’d made this morning. The yellow added color to the plate so it didn’t look so…boring.

  She didn’t want to admit it to herself, but that wasn’t a treat she’d choose. The appearance didn’t draw her to want to try it. But this wasn’t about her, it was about the town. That Drew Lancaster had gotten into her head with all the appearance mumbo jumbo he was spouting.

  The front doorbell chimed, announcing a visitor. “Good morning.” A bright and cheerful Drew entered. He looked different, dressed in casual yet perfectly pressed pants. “It smells delicious in here. Is that almonds?”

  “You smell that?” Her interest piqued. The man knew the aroma of something beyond expensive perfume and fine Italian leather.

  “Yes, of course. Almonds always get my attention. Here.” He kicked the door shut behind him with a loud thud and held out a coffee from Mary-Beth’s shop, Maple Grounds. “She said this is your favorite.”

  Carissa stood there, trying to reconcile the man in front of her with the one she’d met the other day. Sure, he was dressed more casually, and his hair wasn’t gelled back like a 1950s greaser, but it was still perfect. “Who are you, and what did you do with the party planner? Sorry, executive producer person.”

  He laughed, but it sounded forced, like someone was controlling him.

  “Wait, I watched a movie like this once. The outsider went mad when trapped in a hotel…” She tossed the rag behind the register.

  “That was The Shining, and we’re not in the northwest. I think you’re safe.” He set the cup down on the table in front of her when she didn’t immediately take it and dropped his bag in the chair. “It looks like you’ve been working hard.”

  He pointed to her shirt. Great. Somehow the flour had managed to slip past her apron barrier. She brushed it off and realized her hands were shaking, so she grabbed the cup and took a long sip from it before she answered. “Yes, well, I think you’ll like the appearance of what I made. Here, sit down.” She remembered he didn’t eat sugar, but she placed a fork down next to his plate anyway and stood over him, waiting for his response.

  Except for the ticking clock on the wall and the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the room was silent. “So, um…what is this?”

  Carissa swallowed, trying to come up with fancy jargon that made her sound like a professional pastry chef. “It’s a buttery, moist vanilla cake covered in a whipped buttercream frosting with a touch of almond.” Did she say butter twice?

  “Ah, that’s where the almond is coming from.” He glanced up at her with an apprehensive look. “Why don’t you sit down, and we’ll talk about this one.”

  She saw it, the way his jaw twitched. This wasn’t good news. “What don’t you like? It’s what’s on all the New York bakery websites and magazine advertisements. I did a market study last night to figure out what you were looking for.” She collapsed into the chair at his side and held tight to Mary-Beth’s homemade hot chocolate with maple syrup and pumpkin spice.

  “You know about market research?”

  She shrugged. “Just because I didn’t go to college doesn’t mean I haven’t learned anything. I’ve been studying over the years on how to run a bakery, both in marketing and in baking. Unfortunately, in a small town, marketing is a little different.”

  “I see.” He turned the plate, analyzing all the way around as if to find the best angle for filming. “Well, it’s perfect for a wedding shoot, or a New York bakery advertisement.”

  A hint of hope gave her the feeling of a sugar rush after a morning tasting session in the kitchen.

  “That being said, it isn’t perfect for what we’re looking for specifically for this campaign.”

  She let out a long breath. “I guess Stella was right. She seems to know what you want, so maybe you should be working with her.”

  “Thank goodness that wasn’t Lori’s pick,” he mumbled.

  “What?”

  He shifted in his chair. “Nothing. I’m just saying you’re the right person for the job. We just need to work to figure this out.”

  “I’m confused. I thought this is what you wanted. Something that looked neat and pretty.”

  “Yes, I can see that you did your homework.” He lifted his fork and slid it into the top of the frosting.

  “I thought you didn’t eat sugar,” she said in a self-saboteur way.

  “I don’t. I tend to control what I put in my body to stay healthy.”

  Davey would’ve loved that opening for a good joke.

  “But I ran an extra couple of miles this morning.”

  “Of course you did.” Carissa rolled her eyes.

  A beep sounded in the back, reminding her of the scones for the bingo session today. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” She raced to the kitchen, grabbed the oven mitt, and set the scones out on a cooling rack before returning to the front.

  Drew sat hunched over the plate, devouring the cupcake like a two-year-old. It was the best compliment he could’ve given her. A warmth spread in her chest while she watched him enjoy her food.

  It had been a long time since she had anyone around to savor her baking. Sure, Davey and the ladies at the home loved them, but they were on special diets and only enjoyed treats when she brought them to their events. But the last time she’d seen anyone enjoy something she made the way Drew was now was when her grandfather was alive. God rest his soul.

  Drew’s gaze darted to her. He tossed his fork down and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin. “You know, this isn’t just a New York bakery cupcake or even a wedding treat. It’s unique. And that almond. It isn’t just an almond extract.”

  “It is. It’s just that I make it myself.” Carissa sat and enjoyed a few sips of hot chocolate as he studied his hands and fingers before placing the napkin on the table.

  “It’s unique but feels like home. I haven’t tasted anything like that since my Aunt Sally passed away. She had a family recipe that was brought over here from Germany, and every holiday she’d make it. There was a spice and an almond flavor to it that I’ve never tasted since. This has that almost roasted almond flavor.”

  He lit up talking about his family and the food they once shared. It turned out Drew Lancaster was a real human.

  “That’s what I try to do with my baking, bring family memories back into focus, make people feel loved.”

  Drew leaned back in the small chair. His large frame made the room feel cozy. “I never thought of food that way. Especially not desserts. Maybe a turkey or something that everyone has at the holidays, but not a dessert.”

  “I’m not talking about normal stuff. It’s the kind of food that reminds us of our childhoods, full of hugs and safety and unconditional love.”

  He leaned toward Carissa. “There is something different about you. I can’t figure it out, though.” A laugh escaped his lips, filling the room with happiness.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I just thought maybe if I could bake like this, I could actually get Davey and the rest of the geriatric gang to speak with me about this project. If not, according to your mayor, I won’t have a show to produce.”

  Carissa didn’t know what Ms. Horton was up to with all that. Sure, the elders had a say, but they weren’t the final vote.

  He leaned closer as if to whisper a secret, but instead he pressed his finger to a crumb and lifted it to his lips. His closeness made her unable to think. How long had
it been since she’d been this close to a man besides Davey? She couldn’t sit still; her nerves were kicking into high gear. Baking…she needed to bake. “Come. I can show you what I meant and help you with Davey.”

  She snagged her apron and headed for the kitchen. Before she began, she washed her hands, tied her apron neatly around her waist, and pulled her hair back into a low bun.

  Drew stood there watching her with mouth ajar. His gaze was intense and searching, as if trying to reconcile something.

  “What?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  She gave him the yeah-right look.

  His gaze broke away and scanned the cookie jar that Ms. Horton had given her for her nineteenth birthday, the fish bowl Stella won for her at the county fair that was now filled with dried flowers from Mary-Beth, next to it the stuffed animal Jacqueline made for her when she had her tonsils out in second grade. “It’s just that you look so put together right now. Your hair. You should wear it like that more often. It allows your pretty face to be seen.”

  A flush rushed up her neck and to her cheeks. Oven… She needed to turn back on the oven. “There’s another apron on the hook right there.”

  “I think it’s best you do this part on your own. You bake, I take the pictures.” He retrieved his bag and produced a camera.

  Carissa’s internal heater stoked to five hundred degrees. Now wasn’t the time to shove a lens in her face. “You don’t have anything to take a picture of right now, so you can help.” Carissa took out two baking sheets and a large mixing bowl. This had to work. No need to let the guy know she wasn’t photogenic. Not since she won the department store magazine cover in third grade. The one that put a rift between Jackie and her for four months. A lifetime to be in friendship jail when a kid is nine years old.

  She forced a calming breath and reminded herself that he only wanted pictures of food, not her. “You’re about to experience what I mean.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You, my friend, are about to win over the toughest critic in town.” She shoved a wooden spoon at him. “I’ll put the ingredients in there, and you can mix. When we’re done, you can go with me to give these to Davey.”

  “You mean go back to that crazy group of geriatric patients?” He put the spoon in the bowl and stepped back as if it had turned into an angry blow torch. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. I need a plan of action before I enter that minefield.

  “What’s wrong? They aren’t perfect enough for you?” Carissa knew it was time this guy understood what this town was all about. Only then would she know for sure he wasn’t going to put these people through an obstacle course, only to end the race before they could reach the finish line.

  “No, I mean…they’re fine. It’s just that…” Drew didn’t stand in his perfect stance. Instead, he fidgeted with the camera.

  “What?” Carissa tapped her foot. No one messed with the elders of their town.

  Drew ran an uncharacteristic hand through his hair, causing it to separate before it popped back into place. “They scare me.”

  Carissa laughed, a real laugh she felt deep down to her toes. It relaxed her, and for the moment Drew didn’t seem so corporate and serious. “You do realize that Davey is a quarter of your size and about three times your age.”

  “Maybe, but he’s…well, southern.” He winked.

  A wink that shot a heat wave through her. She shifted between her feet. “Then you better get started, because in the south, we use food to connect with people. You never attend a wake without food, or a party, or a Christening, or a church picnic without food. It’s the law of the south. And Drew Lancaster, you need to lose some corporate attitude and learn some southern hospitality if you’re going to make this work. In other words, be less…you.”

  Chapter Seven

  When Carissa finally stopped laughing, she tied a plain white apron around his waist and shoved the mixing bowl and spoon into his chest. “They say it’s best to face your fears, so let’s get started. It’s time that you take an offering to the elders.”

  She was not going to take no for an answer, and he promised Lori he’d be accepting of others. Drew rolled his sleeves up to three-quarters, below his elbows but high enough not to smudge them. “Why do I have an image of me strapped to a stake over a pile of wood?”

  “They wouldn’t do that.” She half shrugged. “But I can’t guarantee they won’t pull another trick on you.”

  He placed his camera in the bag, realizing there really wasn’t anything to photograph at the moment. Nothing even for test shots. Except for the beautiful woman in the apron, but something told him she wouldn’t be comfortable with him taking photographs of her. “You do know that we’re supposed to be working. I have a call this afternoon with Knox Brevard, and I need to tell him where we’re at on this project.” The heaviness of his words caused a tightness in the muscles in the back of his neck.

  “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m just the baker.” Carissa danced around the kitchen like a nutcracker fairy at the ballet. This was her element, her happy place. If only he could find his happy place. He’d been unsettled for most of his life. Ever since returning from Iraq, he worked and had a nice apartment but never felt at home. He hadn’t been home since he lived in California with his aunt the summer before he left to join the Corp.

  A yellow-hued light above flooded over Carissa like a spotlight. He couldn’t help himself, so he retrieved his camera and snapped a shot of her.

  She froze, as if her world had been shattered by the clicking of his camera.

  “Put that away, or I’ll toss it in the oven. Got me?” She didn’t back down, which he could respect. Not that he wouldn’t try again later, but for now, he returned the camera to the bag and set it in the corner. He’d underestimated Carissa. She was a handful and a half, as his aunt Sally used to say. Focus. That’s what he needed to do. “As nice as that sounds, we need to make this project work.”

  “You say that as if you need it to work as much as we do.” Carissa raised her brows at him.

  He set the bowl down and lifted the spoon out of the way. “Perhaps we can whip this up quick and then I can take you to lunch to discuss some ideas and review some images I pulled together for you.” One social situation would show Lori he was on board and perhaps get her thinking about calling her father. It would get him back to California. Maybe he’d try to buy his aunt’s old place and fix it up.

  “Whip up quick?” She put a hand on her hip and gave him a one-two air slap with her eggbeater. “First of all, I never throw things together and rush them out the door. Secondly, I think best when I’m baking. And third, what is this obsession you have with taking me on a date?”

  His throat gripped his words tight, but he forced them free. “Not a date. A working lunch.”

  She shot him a sideways glance. “Sure, working lunch.”

  This wasn’t as easy as he’d thought it would be. Since when did a girl not want to eat lunch with him? “Fine. We’ll bake… What are we baking?”

  “Southern Man Bars.” There it was again, that grin that told him there was more to this than she was sharing. But he wasn’t getting anywhere forcing her to work, so maybe he needed to follow Lori’s advice and try to make friends instead of treating them like clients. He had a few hours, and he’d had tighter deadlines in the past.

  “And what are those?”

  “You’ll see.” She dumped some chocolate chips and graham crackers into the bowl without even measuring them.

  “I guess you memorized the recipe.” He wanted to count the number of dark morsels, but the graham crackers covered them.

  She grabbed some nuts and some milk or cream from a carafe and some bottle that looked like vanilla extract. The woman was a tornado in the kitchen, something you couldn’t help but look at, no matter how much chaos it caused in its path. “Nope, they are never exactly the same.” With a hand to her chin, she looked around, and then she clapped her hands to
gether once. “Ah, perfect.” She snagged a container with what looked like a bunch of spices.

  “What is that?”

  She tossed things in like a witch brewing a potion in a horror film. Nothing organized, nothing measured, only a dash of ground eye of newt and a sprinkle of wool of bat.

  “My top-secret fall spice collection.”

  “What’s in it?” He attempted to gain some sort of measure on this project.

  She dumped some into the bowl and then closed it. “That would be the secret part.”

  The light overhead flickered and sputtered. “If you have a ladder, I can fix that for you.”

  “Come on, start mixing.” She smacked his hand with the eggbeater.

  The bulb strobed but then settled into a bright light again. “Seriously, I don’t mind. Doesn’t that bother you?” He pointed at the fixture.

  She followed his gaze to the ceiling, as if seeing the issue for the first time. “No, why would it? It’s not out yet. Now stop avoiding your job. Mix already.”

  He stuck the spoon in and watched the junkyard of ingredients roll over each other. “Can’t we just toss this into an electric mixer?”

  She gasped as if a rat ran across the kitchen.

  “What?”

  “How dare you.” She held her hand to her chest. “Nothing in this kitchen is made with less than my best effort. Each taste is only as good as the love I pour into it.” Carissa disappeared for a moment into the closet, and he smashed and mushed all the ingredients together. The inefficient process of hand mixing caused bits of graham cracker to flick out of the bowl and smear down his front. He stopped and grabbed a dish towel and smudged it across the white apron.

  “What happened?” She set two containers on the counter.

  He continued to battle the spot, but it didn’t fade at all. “There‘s some gunk on me.”

  She grabbed her dish towel and flicked him in the arm with it. “Seriously? Gunk?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Get over yourself and get back to mixing. It’s not like you have flour all over your shirt or face. You wear an apron for a reason. You’re not baking if the front of you isn’t stained with something.”