by Ellie Hall
An Unlikely Love Story
Ellie Hall
Copyright © 2021 by Ellie Hall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Contents
1. Bake Baby Bake
2. Galentine’s Day
3. Chocolate Chip Super Hero
4. Flirting with Danger
5. The Weather Outside is Frightful
6. Hazelnut
7. Breaking the Rules
8. Dream Catching
9. Two Truths and One Lie
10. Cabin Fever
11. Seconds Please
12. The Bake is On
13. Pooty Pootwell
14. Flexibility
15. Thwarted
16. Behind the Wheel
17. Crossroads
18. Meow
19. Blondie
20. Mushy Marshmallow
21. One Step at a Time
22. Promises Promises
23. Victoria Sponge Cake
24. The Date of a Lifetime
Bonus Recipe
More Reading
Note to Readers
Also by Ellie Hall
About the Author
Let’s Connect
P.S.
Christmas is Coming!
Acknowledgements
Bake Baby Bake
Maxwell
I scrape the last bits from the edge of the bowl. I lick the spoon. I glimpse a warped reflection of myself in the stainless steel refrigerator door and stop short.
I’ve licked clean the bowl of cookie dough. Who am I?
What happened to Maxwell, who dated a new girl every weekend? The BMW. The trips. The freedom. The guy who could go wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted... Well, I can still do all the above but not without thinking about her.
I was insatiable. I always wanted more. Now I just want her.
Nights in.
Nights out.
Days and days, a lifetime with Hazel.
The timer beeps. This time I catch my reflection in the double oven doors. My muddled thoughts do not erase the fact that I’m wearing a red apron that says Kiss the Cook. (Underneath, I have a fitted white T-shirt with a buttery smear on the sleeve. Let’s just say I’m not the most careful baker.) My muscles still pop under the bronzed evidence of my trip to St. Tropez last month, but I have a coordinating red oven mitt on my hand to check on the sheet of chocolate chip cookies in the oven.
Are you confused? Yeah, me too.
Last Saturday night I was at Javier’s. It’s a private lounge with leather and dark wood. Captains of industry and cards. Moody lighting and guys like me—Ivy League grads who aren’t total jerks. Well, some of us are, but we look good doing it. It’s where we go instead of sweaty clubs with gold-diggers. It’s elite and so is the rest of the clientele, men and women alike. The latter are educated, take care of themselves because they can afford to, and share the understanding that work and whatever other hang-ups we have about relationships mean we’re there for a no-strings kind of arrangement and nothing more.
I met a gal who has her MFA and was in the Top 30 Under 30 this year. She crushes lesser men—and women—under her stilettos. She can talk her way through an executive meeting and leave the room thunderstruck. After our dinner date, she didn’t call or text the next day or the day after that or at all this week.
That’s how I liked it. An evening at Javier’s, conversation over a good meal, and then do it all over again the next weekend. It was a neat and tidy arrangement.
I check my phone. No new messages. Until recently, I didn’t worry about wants and needs, relationships, and trips to home goods stores like Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
Now, here I am beyond. Just absolutely beyond.
Call me a jerk for going to Javier’s last weekend. Yes, I like Hazel. Maybe more than like, but I’m not sure I’m ready to go there—to become someone else... Who? Who would I be if we started dating? If we became a couple? If we...fell in love?
Whoa, there buddy.
I’m not superstitious, but maybe Hazel Loves bewitched me that first time we met. She and her roommate Catherine had just moved in down the hall. Hazel came parading out of their apartment—hot as a summer day, even though it’s winter, and as sweet as can be—and introduced herself. Hazel talked about her wedding...
Blam! I pictured her in a white gown. It was fitted and silky—a thin layer caressing her curves. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders and she smiled at me—a strange and lovely and bewitching smile. Then I saw myself at the other end of the aisle in a tux. Halloween costumes? It was January. No such luck.
Guys, I visualized us getting married. Do you know what that means? The beginning of the end.
The image stayed with me all morning, through a meeting with corporate—I had to get notes from Conrad because I didn’t absorb a blasted thing from the presentation. Then at lunch, I ordered a chicken salad and I swear I was considering catering options, appetizers, cakes—three course meal or buffet style?
What does this mean?
The brief conversation with Hazel about weddings trailed me for the rest of the week and even during the weird yoga-date as part of a dare with her roommate. But it wasn’t really a date because Hazel was there too. Catherine had her eye on the burly, military guy she was talking to when I met them at the studio. All I could think about during the sweat session was Hazel on the yoga mat by my side.
Have I ever been self-conscious a day in my life? No. Call me blessed. Whatever. But that day? The teacher wanted me to put my knee where? Extend my arm along my side-what? It was all I could do not to fall on my backside.
Before, during, and afterward, it was Hazel, Hazel, Hazel. All I can do to stop myself from knocking on her apartment door down the hall is...yup, you got it. Baking. Why?
Was my mother a proficient baker? Nope.
Did I excel in home economics? No chance.
Do I have a sweet tooth? Not really.
I’d gathered that Hazel likes baked goods, well, when Catherine bakes and so...yeah. You get it. But I don’t. That’s a problem. This has never happened to me before. I just have to make sure I don’t make a complete fool of myself. When have I ever cared about that? Never because it’s never been an issue. Who am I?
The worst of it though is that every time I see another woman, I see Hazel’s face. I long for her hands in mine, strolling through the park, ducking into a cozy coffee shop, watching a movie with our feet touching.
Really, Maxwell?
I toss the spoon in the sink with a clang. I picture spooning Hazel in my arms. I’ve never spooned a woman. Well, once. One woman. Never again. I learned my lesson.
I dream about meals together. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Trips to exotic locales, holidays, birthdays... I see her in my future and it’s all I want.
After cleaning up, I try to distract myself with earnings reports and fiduciary lending. I can’t concentrate. Is this what
happens when you fall?
So, what have I done when day after day I can’t get her out of my mind? I make cookies...with her in mind. But it hasn’t stopped there. I’ve made brownies, breads, cakes...then moved on to pastries, torts, and tarts.
I have become Betty Crocker, only my name is Maxwell Davis and I’m a multi-millionaire. Come to think of it, Betty probably was too when all was said and done.
Don’t you dare tell a soul.
The cookies are Hazel’s roommate’s recipe. Or her grandmother’s. I forget. Secret ingredient? Cream cheese. Before that, did I have any idea how to combine sugar and butter to make something edible? Not even a clue.
But now I know the timing and temperature required to achieve the perfect bake.
How did I acquire that recipe? Catherine was out of sugar. Needed to borrow some. I had a few packets for when guests came for coffee, a rarity. We started chatting, and she explained she was making the cookies because of the coming storm. Sounds cozy, right?
Then she off-handedly mentioned they’re Hazel’s favorite.
Have you ever had that moment when everything around you goes quiet and you zone in on something? I imagine it’s what happens to a dog when it catches a scent.
Am I a dog? Probably.
But Catherine’s comment lit something in me, and I’ve been baking ever since. I probably shouldn’t admit all of this. But it’s too late. I’ve been bringing all my baked items into the office. My assistant, colleagues, and clients are starting to give me strange looks.
Before this, I’d never baked a cookie in my life—well, once, but it was a disaster and my sister says it doesn’t count. Until recently, I never even turned on the oven in my kitchen since moving in over a year ago. The real estate agent told me it was a Viking, had all the bells and whistles, blah, blah, blah. It didn’t matter because I had no plans on using it. It was new and stainless steel and that was good enough for me.
Now the buttery, sweet scent of chocolate wafts out and if I had Hazel in here with me, I’d be in heaven.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Here’s what happened: I saw Hazel that first day and it was instant chemistry, like when baking powder and water combine, releasing carbon dioxide into a batter. It’s an acid-base reaction, prompting bubbles to form, expand, and leaven the mixture.
Have I been leavened? Yeah. I think I’m in leaven. I mean...never mind.
Hazel didn’t have a ring on her finger when she was talking about her wedding plans, so I thought maybe she was theorizing and the fiancé was hypothetical.
Wishful thinking on my part?
I was in luck. The good news: she wasn’t engaged. The bad news: she’s hardly home.
Likely, she has a boyfriend or suitors at least.
When I step foot into the hall, I sometimes catch a hit of Hazel’s vanilla, citrus scent. But rarely do I see her. I can’t forget about her voice—she has a lovely British accent that’s both soothing and confident. It’s the kind of voice you’d want by your bedside if you were diagnosed with a disease or a broken limb. The kind of voice that would assure you everything would be okay.
The sensory experience of Hazel makes the world go fuzzy, and I become a blithering schoolboy with his first crush and not a stud. Yeah, I’ve been called that on multiple occasions. Does that make me sound like an arrogant jerk?
I’m working on it because what it turns out I want most in my life isn’t for jerks—or the faint of heart.
Back to the recipe. The first batch was a burned disaster.
On the second try, I forgot the salt—believe it or not, it enhances the flavor of the chocolate—I only know that because I read it in a magazine during a flight...and then again during hours of internet research to try to understand baking chemistry.
Refrain from the eye roll, please.
The third time was a success and I’ve been testing batches for consistency and to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.
Those cookies and that woman changed me.
Did she ruin me? Maybe, but I can’t say I’m sorry.
She planted a seed. Something new grows within.
And now I bake cookies like it’s my hobby.
My heart stutters at the thought of her in my arms. My lips on hers. The vision of her walking down the aisle toward me.
Let me paint a picture: she’s graceful—goes on for miles and miles. Those legs. There should be a speed limit or some kind of traffic law. Sound the sirens, slow me down. But I can’t, I won’t.
She’s tall, but a few inches shorter than me. Her hair is the mane of a lioness. Her eyes spark with light and intelligence. And that’s the thing. I want to hear her talk. Before you judge me, I’m not a jerk who thinks women are all looks and no substance. Nothing of the sort.
Remember Javier’s? I forget exactly, but I think you have to take an IQ test to get through the doors. Hazel would pass with flying colors. Aside from her having her Ph.D. and speaking intelligently on all manner of topics, I want to hear her talk about herself, her life, her goals and hopes and dreams. There’s so much to her it’s distracting, making me forget things like my dry cleaning. I was picturing her coming up over the hill during a round of golf during a quick business trip to Florida. I missed a swing I’ve never missed before.
At inopportune and completely random moments, I find myself contemplating Hazel with absolute wonder.
If you know me, which you’re only just getting to, that’s unusual, to say the least. No, not unusual, ten kinds of crazy. This is why I’m worried I’ve gone mad or she’s used some kind of witchery on me. I’m the guy who doesn’t plan to settle down. Who likes the freedom of my jet-setting life.
Have I ever considered getting a dog or a cat? Probably not.
Kids? Nope. A dad who’s always away on business probably isn’t a good thing.
A partner to make decisions with about the future and table arrangements? Not until Hazel.
I scrub my oven-mitted hand down my face. I hardly know myself anymore. However, I do know that I feel something for this woman that I never expected. Not in a million years. I went from a guy who could have any woman I wanted to only desiring one. I’ll do anything to convince her I’m worthy.
But I’m going to spend the next fifteen minutes talking myself out of going next door with my latest batch of fresh from the oven cookies.
Watch me fail...fall. Well, whatever. Probably both.
Galentine’s Day
Hazel
I eat when I’m happy. I eat when I’m in good company. I eat when I’m in…love? Nope. Never. Not this girl. Not in love. Not ever.
I eat when I think about Maxwell. No. No. No. Why is the guy in 7G taking up so much real estate in my mind? That’s rent free, prime property, people! And yet he’s moved in, unpacked, and settled down.
Oh, dear.
I help myself to a handful of popcorn confetti-ed with those chalky but irresistible Conversation Hearts that come out every year around Valentine’s Day. I read one before I pop it into my mouth. The faint print says Call me.
Call who? Maxwell? No. I don’t call guys unless I need something painted, fixed, hung, or replaced, and that’s rare. I’m a do-it-yourself kind of gal. Give me a hammer, wrench, and a how-to video. Then consider the job done.
I only call a guy to go on a date if I’m certain he understands my particular situation. As in, I don’t want one. Not a short term, long term, or any kind of commitment. No strings. No attachments. Nothing that later requires tissues, a tub of ice cream, and a Netflix binge.
I don’t get my heart broken because I don’t get involved for longer than a date. On the other hand, I’ve broken a few hearts and I’m not proud. It’s easier to keep emotions out of the deal from the beginning.
No, I won’t call Maxwell. I won’t press the button beneath his photo on my phone. I won’t.
Before you get carried away thinking I’m contradicting myself, just know that he put the photo and his number there. I glance at the imag
e now: tousled dark hair and refined yet ruggedly handsome features, a thin shadow of scruff along his jawline, leading to a tease of tanned skin from his V-neck shirt.
We’re neighbors and early one morning, as the sun came up, gilding the city silver and sparkly, we were leaving the building at the same time. I was heading out to an early morning yoga class, and he was leaving for work. He snagged my phone, snapped a photo, and entered his number. No comment. That was it.
No lame pick up line. No awkward conversation. Straight and to the point.
No strings. No attachments. Just how I like it.
Only, it’s like a string leads me to him, wraps around him, attaches my every thought to him.
I refuse to think about him except that I am. I’m constantly thinking about his full head of hair, the scratch of stubble along his jaw, and those eyes.
A little whimper escapes.
“Hazel, are you okay?” Colette asks, pulling me from my punch-drunk stupor.
I down the rest of my pink lemonade. “I’m just fine, dandy, exemplary, peachy—” I put my hand over my face. What am I saying? Who talks like that? Someone who’s losing her mind, that’s who.
Colette gives me a long side-eye. “Who’s that?” Her finger aims for the image on my phone before it fades to a blank screen.
“No one.”
“No One. Is that his full name? Well, he’s hot,” Lottie says, popping between our shoulders.
“You didn’t see him,” I reply.
“Didn’t have to. Every guy you’ve ever dated is, how shall I put it? Very kind on the eyes.”