Bittersweet

by Jacquie Underdown

Her gaze lingered on his long full lips bordered by thick stubble. She remembered their kiss, the hard give of his body as it pushed against hers, a contrast to the warm soft press of his lips. He would be easy to kiss again. So easy, she could lean over now and brush her lips against his.

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘How about I make our dinner again, seeing as you made dessert?’ Tom asked, a cheeky glint in his eyes.

  Had he heard how hard her heart was beating, how loud her thoughts were?

  Amy’s body warmed as though her heart decided now was the time to pump blood, paying extra attention to places long since used. ‘We made dessert.’

  ‘I measured. Not sure I’d call that baking.’

  She giggled.

  He arched a brow. ‘So that’s a ‘yes please, Tom, make me delicious pasta for dinner, so we don’t have to cook and eat alone when there is the perfect opportunity for company?’’

  Amy laughed. ‘You read my mind.’

  Chapter 5

  Tom was relieved Amy had accepted his dinner invitation—so much more pleasant cooking for two.

  ‘The kitchen’s the place to be,’ Amy said as she sat on a stool at the long timber bench across from him.

  ‘Working out that way, isn’t it? Must be that phobia of kitchens you’ve developed. I’ve heard you attract what you fear.’ And I might try and develop a fear of sexy blondes called Amy because I quite like what I’m attracting into this kitchen at the moment.

  Amy smiled and clicked her fingers. ‘That’s got to be the reason.’

  Tom laughed at her sarcasm.

  ‘What are you cooking?’ she asked, leaning her elbows on the bench and clasping her hands in front of her. Body language that said she wasn’t helping for quids.

  ‘Fettuccine carbonara.’

  Amy narrowed her eyes. ‘Last night you were trying to get me drunk. And tonight you’re trying to make me fat.’

  He grinned. ‘Not drunk, remember? Distracted and cheerful. I thought we clarified that.’

  Amy laughed. ‘Right, sorry, I forgot, because I was too drunk to remember that conversation.’

  ‘Too distracted,’ he reminded. ‘And tonight, think of it as not a meal intended to make you fat, but, perhaps, a subconscious effort to maintain those sexy curves—’

  Her eyes widened.

  Did I just say that out loud?

  Amy lowered her gaze to her hands. A blush crept up her neck and over her cheeks.

  ‘It was meant as a compliment in every which way,’ he qualified. ‘I love curves. Love them. They drive me wild …’

  Her eyes widened. And, again, the blush flourished on her cheeks.

  Oh shit! Too much?

  Tom gestured to her with his hand. ‘Particularly your body … is perfect …’ He turned away and drew a deep breath. Just shut up already, Tom. Everything coming out of your mouth is making it fifty times worse. She’ll think you’re a pervert. Or worse.

  ‘Thank you,’ came her soft voice.

  He spun to face her, a relieved smile spreading across his lips.

  Tom had been attracted to women before. He was always attracted to at least someone at every moment of every day, but never had a woman made him flustered.

  Amy was making him feel like he was sixteen again and trying to ask the prettiest girl to the formal.

  He cleared his throat. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said, then looked around him, dragging fingers through his hair. ‘What was I doing again?’

  ‘Carbonara,’ she said with a giggle.

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain. What would I do without my kitchen commander?’

  A warm glow lit Amy’s face as she laughed, and he was mesmerised by the beauty that accompanied the sweet melody.

  ‘Probably stand around talking about curves all night,’ she said.

  Now he was the one whose face was warming and no doubt turning red. Way to go, Casanova. But he managed a grin because she had a point. ‘Now, sugar, what do I need to make this pasta?’

  A cheeky smile. ‘You won’t be needing sugar.’

  ‘See, I knew there was a reason I invited you for dinner,’ he said.

  He gathered bacon, eggs, cream, onion, and garlic from the fridge, then stopped by the cupboard for olive oil and dried fettuccine. He dropped all the ingredients onto the bench.

  ‘Quite a handful,’ she said.

  He winked. ‘Not the first time I’ve heard that.’

  She lowered her gaze as she shook her head, but a grin teased her mouth. ‘Filthy mind.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ His brows arched high as he gasped. ‘I was talking about something else entirely.’

  Head tilted to the side, her grin exuded doubt. ‘Sure you were.’

  ‘I was going to say, you should see me with grocery bags. Why make two trips when you can do it in one, right? Sure, I almost amputate my own fingers, but boy do I feel a sense of accomplishment when I make it into the house in one trip. And the grace when I’m shutting the boot.’

  Amy laughed and laughed. He joined in, shoulders shaking, because to make her happy filled him with pleasure. But also because she was so damn sexy, his mouth had usurped control over his distracted mind, which, judging by the tightening at the apex of his jeans, had located to a new home.

  ‘Wine?’ he asked.

  ‘Um, I shouldn’t. Best to have a clear head for my new job tomorrow. Not to mention the early start again.’

  ‘What time you going in?’

  She ran her finger along the edge of the bench. ‘Rachel said I should be fine if I get there by eight. That will give me two and a half hours prep time. I’m going to have to get used to the new working hours. It’s been a decade since I held a nine-to-five job. I’m looking forward to being normal again.’ Even he noticed the absolute lack of conviction in that statement.

  He found a cutting board and a sharp knife to distract himself from asking her what happened to make the restaurant fail. He wasn’t sure she’d cope with telling him. Not so soon. That was fine. He could be patient.

  A message vibrated on his phone. He rolled his eyes and groaned, knowing who it would be. Sure enough, the message was from Mitch.

  MITCH: Make sure you give me a call when you’re ready. Got things to run through with you.

  He punched back a message.

  TOM: I said I would. In the middle of cooking dinner. I’ll give you a call in a couple of hours.

  MITCH: Company?

  He had nothing to keep secret. No big deal that Amy was here for dinner … again.

  TOM: Yep. Everything okay there?

  MITCH: All good.

  TOM: Good to hear. Talk soon.

  He set his phone down and sought Amy’s eyes. ‘That was Mitch checking up on me.’

  A quick nod. ‘How are they?’

  ‘Good.’

  He rewashed his hands and was peeling an onion when Amy’s phone sang with a message.

  As she read the screen, she giggled. ‘Rachel wants to know if it’s me you’re having dinner with.’

  Tom laughed.

  Amy typed back a message, saying out loud, ‘yes,’ as she did. He chopped the onion, then the bacon while she passed messages back and forth for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Stickybeaks. The pair of them,’ Amy said with a coy grin as she rested her phone beside her on the bench.

  ‘I know. I bet that’s the only reason Mitch texted in the first place. To see if we were together.’

  ‘And you know Rachel would have put him up to it,’ Amy said.

  He chuckled. ‘And Mitch would have refused, but then she would have convinced him somehow, and he’d have done it to make her happy. But deep down he’d be curious too.’

  A brightness shone in her eyes as she laughed. ‘You know them well.’

  He laughed with her. ‘I do.’ He washed the bacon and onion residue from his hands under the tap. ‘You know, the moment I met Rachel, I knew Mitch wouldn’t let her get away. Uncanny that two people cou
ld be made for each other like those two.’

  Amy cocked her head to the side, her features soft. ‘That’s a gorgeous observation.’

  He shrugged and dried his hands on a tea towel. He found a big pot, filled it with water, then set it on the stove top. With a quick twist of a knob and a spark, a flame was lit to heat the underside.

  ‘How hungry are you?’ he asked, returning to the bench, hands on hips.

  ‘Because you’re cooking—I’m very hungry.’

  He smiled, sure now he wouldn’t look like quite so much of a pig as he scoffed a giant plateful. He was starving—his stomach rumbled to drive the point home. ‘Good. That’s the answer I was hoping for.’

  Tearing a few cloves of garlic from the bulb, he smashed them on the chopping board with the back of his knife.

  ‘Just a hint, for future dates with women, let them know this cooking skill right from the get-go. They’ll go weak over it.’

  He arched a brow as he scraped the crushed garlic with the tip of his knife from the board. ‘Does it make you weak, Amy?’ It was out of his mouth before he had a chance to give it a thought.

  He expected her to look away or blush, but she held his eyes for a moment or two longer than usual and whispered, ‘A little.’

  To hear the rasp in her words, his heart sped. Thick sexual tension tightened his body in places, flooded other regions with blood and heat. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Good to know,’ he said. ‘Lots of garlic, or average?’

  ‘Lots. You know that’s my favourite smell?’

  ‘Garlic?’

  She nodded. ‘Thirty seconds after it hits a pan of hot virgin olive oil.’

  Why does everything she say have to sound so sexy? ‘I thought being a pastry chef that you would have said honey or vanilla or something like that.’

  She shrugged. ‘I like those too. Just not quite so much. I don’t sniff the air and salivate, not like I do with garlic.’

  He arched a brow, wanting very much to see that—it was erotic just thinking about it. He turned away from her and squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment. Get a grip, Tom.

  Checking the pot of water, he noted it was boiling, so he busted the packet of pasta open and poured the fettuccine shards into the bubbling water. He set a pan onto heat and went back to the bench to wait for it to reach temperature.

  ‘How big is this property?’ Amy asked.

  ‘Around six thousand acres.’

  She shook her head and whistled softly. ‘That’s unbelievable.’

  ‘It didn’t start that size when Dad first bought land here. Over the years, as his business grew, he snapped up the surrounding lands until we have what we have now.’

  ‘Your father is an inspiration.’

  Tom smiled, but that unceasing sadness he had buried deep down burned his chest like it always did when he spoke about Dad. ‘To me, he is. Honest, loving, and hardworking, right up till the end.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to remember, not at a time like that, but I came to your dad’s funeral. Rachel and Mitch had only been dating for a couple of months, and she needed my support.’

  He didn’t remember. The full twelve months after his father died had gone by in a blur—faces, dates, events, all meshing into one. He managed a grin; he could do that now.

  ‘That was the first time Mitch introduced Rachel to the family. God knows what she thought of all us sad sacks,’ he said.

  The smile Amy presented was soft and sympathetic. ‘She thought you were all a wonderful, loving family. Obviously.’

  ‘She saw us all at our most broken; there was one way up from there.’

  ‘I still find it amazing that Rachel and Mitch made that brand new relationship work during such an ordeal,’ she said.

  He leaned his hip against the bench, folded his arms across his chest. ‘Maybe that’s why it did. Everything else was easy in comparison.’

  Amy shrugged. ‘Yeah. Perhaps.’

  ‘You were saying last night that both your parents are alive?’

  She nodded, but her mouth drew into a tight line. She looked away.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

  Amy turned back to him. ‘Yep. Fine. Um … It must be difficult losing a parent. I can’t even imagine.’

  He didn’t miss the quick change in conversation, but he would humour her nonetheless. ‘It’s a pain that never goes away. You learn to live with it as time goes on.’ But what a sombre conversation this had turned into.

  Pushing away from the bench, he pressed his hands together and asked, ‘How about I get this garlic frying?’

  She grinned wide and nodded, but there was tension around her eyes. What had he said about her parents that made her so distracted?

  He added a slug of oil to the pan, slid the onion and bacon in after, followed by the garlic, then stirred the pieces with a wooden spoon, waiting the designated thirty seconds before turning to face Amy. He didn’t know what he had expected, but she wasn’t even looking in his direction; her attention was on some object in the other room, not on the delicious aroma permeating the air.

  He narrowed his eyes as he watched her, wondering what it was she was not telling him. Whatever was bothering her ran deeper than just the restaurant closing, but what?

  Chapter 6

  Amy was buckling under the weight of fear as she pushed through the back door of Sugar Cakes. But, she was here. And that said something.

  Her mobile rang as she put away her bag in the back room. Rachel.

  For now, she ignored the call. At least until she had prepared herself to don her happy mask. As it stood, she wouldn’t be able to hide her nerves from her best friend.

  Amy had always been the stoic professional—filled with endless confidence and determination. She couldn’t bear to admit that she possessed neither of those qualities anymore. She was a big fraud, scared out her brains.

  After a deep inhalation, she found a clean apron and tied it around her waist. This work day would be easier to endure if she didn’t think and just did. Amy found the recipe book and randomly picked out a dozen recipes, marking each with torn up pieces of paper.

  Rachel had said that each day she baked a spread of twelve types of cakes, alternating week to week, or day to day, depending on what proved popular and what ingredients she had in store.

  Amy ran a quick check of the store cupboard—plenty of sugar, flour, almond meal, cocoa powder, vanilla essence, blocks of milk, white and dark chocolate, bags of shredded coconut, and various tree nuts.

  There were stocks of butter in the fridge and a few bottles of cream and milk. A fresh supply was to be delivered any minute along with sour cream and creamed cheese, direct from a local dairy farm.

  The freezer was well-stocked with frozen berries and fruits.

  After scrolling through each of the recipes, at a glance, she had everything she would need on hand to make a start.

  The delivery truck arrived as the first batch of cupcakes were baking, and Amy had measured out her dry ingredients to make her second. The sugary aromas and heat from the ovens lessened the lingering knot in her stomach.

  She packed away the delivery and stared at her phone. No more hesitating. Rachel would be just as anxious to hear how she was going, and Amy didn’t need to add to Rachel’s stress levels at the moment.

  ‘Amy. How is it all going?’ Rachel asked with high-pitched enthusiasm.

  Amy smiled—strained, but it was there—hoping that would translate into her voice. ‘I’m well. I’m at the shop. I’ve got my first batch baking. Mixing my second. The deliveries arrived.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Rachel’s airy voice didn’t mask her relief. ‘So glad to hear it. I was worried when you didn’t answer earlier … I—’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. You must’ve rang while I was talking to the delivery man. Only now noticed the missed call.’

  ‘That’s okay. I just wanted to catch up and see that everything was under control.’

  A
my spun and leaned her backside against the edge of the bench. ‘So far. All is going great. I’ve got yummy recipes to work off here.’

  ‘They’re all no-fail recipes.’

  ‘I can tell. Easy to follow. Tom helped me bake a test batch yesterday. Really delicious.’

  There was silence for a fraction of a moment. Amy rolled her eyes, knowing what was coming.

  ‘Really? Tom helped you bake?’ Definitely a grin in Rachel’s questions.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s lovely of him.’ Rachel lowered her voice, made it sound sex-line husky. ‘Did you let him lick the batter?’

  Amy smiled, cleared her throat. Was she still blushing over that moment? ‘I gave him the spoon to, um, lick, sure. But we both behaved.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I wouldn’t expect anything else. Except for at Christmas when his mouth accidentally got stuck to yours—’

  ‘Anyway, Cupid, I mean, Rachel, I’m glad we’ve touched base. If I run into trouble, I’ll give you another call.’

  Rachel laughed. ‘Have fun! And, when you see Tom next, tell him I said hi. Talk soon.’ The call ended with Rachel’s muffled giggles.

  Despite her best friend’s constant taunts, a lightness had worked through Amy’s body, her mind was much more at ease. Funny, Rachel always had that ability to make her feel better without trying.

  For the next couple of hours, Amy baked. Soon the scent of caramelised sugar, vanilla and chocolate wafted through the store. Images and hints of new recipes filled her mind, buzzed in her veins, but she zapped the thoughts as soon as they arrived.

  Her own creativity had no place here, and she was not opening herself up for scrutiny. Look where it had got her in the past. No, she would stick to the recipes as best she could.

  Amy made rich, gooey ganache, buttercreams, caramel drizzle and frostings, and decorated the cooled cupcakes before lining them up in the clear windowed casements out the front of the shop. The boxed batches she’d prepared earlier had already been picked up and were en route to surrounding towns’ cafes and eateries.

  Amy sighed as she stood with hands her on her hips in front of the big shelves lined with a rainbow coloured assortment of whips, whorls, circles, and piped flowers atop pretty little cakes.