A Sweet Possibility (Archer Cove Series Book 2) (3 page)

The man she'd pointed to had a small silver mustache and was dressed for the golf course in khaki pants and a red-collared shirt. Not that Nate was one to judge, since he was dressed for sitting around on the couch. And Jessie may have been cake-splattered, but she still managed to look presentable. She always looked cute.

She knocked on the glass door and waited, bobbing nervously as the man approached and cracked the door.

"Yes, can I help you?" He was carrying a clipboard and everything.

"We were wondering if we could see the space? Are you the listing agent?"

"Yes, I just finished showing the place. I'm Dean."

"Jessie." They shook hands. "And this is Nate. My...driver."

He shot her a look as he shook hands with Dean. "You're the listing agent?"

"I am, and I have to warn you, I've had a lot of interest in this space."

Of course he had
,
Nate thought drily. No one ever sold anything by telling a potential buyer that no one else wanted it. But Jessie wrung her hands nervously as Dean opened the door.

Funny how old, familiar spaces look different when they're empty. He must've been to Dinardo's several hundred times, but with the space cleared out like this, he saw it anew. It was a corner space with large windows on two walls. There was a wall and a swinging door behind the counter that led to the kitchen, but all of that could easily be removed to create an open plan. The gray tile was tired-looking, chipped in the corners or cracked. He'd never noticed before, when there was inventory and furniture to distract from flaws.

Jessie must have had a similar thought because she said, "I could clear out the counters and displays, right?"

"You'll have a lot of flexibility with the interior," Dean said. "These fixtures are going to be removed before a tenant takes the space."

Jessie craned her neck as she walked around, studying the gray tiles and running her fingertips along the drywall. "It needs some work," Nate said. "More than fresh paint."

"The tenant is responsible for the interior," Dean replied.

"The ceiling needs to be patched and repainted," he said. "That water spot doesn't look good. It may need a new roof."

Jessie stopped in place to stare at the brownish spot on the ceiling. "The landlord will pay for that, right?"

"That may be old," Dean said. "But yes, exterior maintenance is the landlord's responsibility. That will be in the lease."

They walked through the kitchen. White tile, pretty good condition, except Dinardo's had tiled around their now-missing appliances, leaving square holes on the floor. "You'd have to retile," Nate said, though he didn't really have to.

Jessie groaned softly. "I have to retile this whole space? How much will that cost?"

"Depends who you talk to and what kind of tile you choose. I know a few people who could price out the job for you."

He was trying to be helpful — wasn't that why she'd brought him here? Her brow furrowed, and her lips did that little pouting thing they did when she was thinking about something. Adorable. "You could get a small business loan," he offered. "That could help you get established."

"Maybe." He could practically see her crunching the numbers right there. "Dean, what's the rent?"

He consulted his clipboard. Apparently it wasn't simply for show. "They're asking thirty dollars a square foot. That's annual. Plus utilities. And if property taxes increase, the tenant is responsible to pay the difference." He slipped the clipboard under his arm.

Was that what commercial properties in Archer Cove were going for these days? Nate glanced at Jessie. The blood had drained from her face. He cleared his throat. "Thirty dollars a square foot? You'll never rent this space for that much."

It was obvious that all the scoffing in the world wasn't going to move Dean, who shrugged and said, "It's not negotiable, I'm afraid."

Jessie looked up at Nate, her blue eyes enormous. And devastated. It hit him square in the gut. "Let's think about it, okay, Jess? I don't like those spots on the ceiling or that kitchen. That other place we looked at was much more reasonable."

He wrapped an arm lightly around her shoulders and attempted to lead her out the door. She shuffled along reluctantly. "What other space?" she said.

"You know, that other space," Nate said as he squeezed her upper arm, hoping she'd play along. He was trying to make himself useful here, damn it.

"Oh, right. That space." Jessie nodded. "That was great. Much less expensive, too," she added loudly.

Dean shrugged. "It sounds like you have your heart set on the other location." He shut the door behind them and locked it. "You'll keep me posted if you change your mind."

Nate managed to get Jessie across the road and out of earshot before she shrieked, "Thirty dollars a square foot? Is that even legal to charge that much?"

"Hey. Don't get discouraged. Some other space will open up. You just have to keep looking until it does. This is just the first try."

She nodded silently, and they walked to the car without talking. There was no need. He'd seen the look on her face, and he was racking his brain, trying to figure out how to make it better. If he could somehow fix this for her, then maybe she'd be happier. If he could ask around in Great Barrington, maybe one of his clients —

"It would've been so perfect." She swiped her fingers across her cheeks as they reached the car. "The kitchen was exactly right. But I guess it's just not meant to be."

They climbed into the blue Civic and continued down the road to Jessie's place in silence. When he pulled the car in front of her cottage, Jessie hesitated before exiting the car. "I shouldn't have made you drive me to look at a storefront. I'm not even ready to open my own place. Blame it on the mimosas."

"Those must have been some mimosas."

"I can't believe I just looked at a space like this. Look at me!" She covered her face with her hands. "My God. Does my breath smell like alcohol?"

She leaned across the console, her lips parted, her breath tickling his cheek. Nate swallowed and turned away. "It doesn't," he said.

It was the truth. She smelled like flowers, not booze.

"Thank goodness." She grabbed her bag and opened the door. "Thanks for the ride. Oh! Is that the dress?" She reached into the backseat and found a white zippered garment bag. "My maid of honor dress, for Wren's wedding. She must've put it in here after the shower. Anyway, I feel like I should give you a ride home. I mean, in a few hours."

"It's only a short walk." He handed her the keys. "Promise me you're staying here for a while."

"Promise."

Her smile stirred something inside of him. A warmth followed by a singe of frustration, because sometimes he wondered why he wasted his time thinking about the girl who was dating his best friend. He should reevaluate his life, too. Maybe move on from Jessie Mallory, once and for all.

Yeah, fat chance.

But on the walk home, wandering beside the pastel-colored picket fences, he thought about the run-down Dinardo space, and how if he could just knock down some of those walls, he'd be able to fit plenty of athletic equipment, and how the windows on the sides could be opened for ventilation. Yes, the space could be perfect for a gym. Not at that price, but prices could be negotiated. Even when someone said they couldn't.

The more he thought about it, the more his resolve strengthened. It was time for him to make some changes in his life, too. Time to do something to give him a chance to succeed, to show that he wasn't just some rudderless guy enjoying an extended adolescence. Jessie responded to success — look at how much she adored Quinn.

His pace quickened. Maybe he was a has-been in some ways. A former track star, a failed professional runner. But that didn't mean he couldn't really make something of himself. He needed some focus, that was all.

Jessie could be that focus. It was time for him to show her who he was. He opened up his cell phone and dialed the number for George Dinardo. When the call went to voicemail, he took a deep breath. "Mr. Dinardo? This is Nate Lancaster. I want to talk with you about that space you have for rent."

T
he cottage was
small but cheerful, with three large windows that faced the ocean and wispy white curtains that billowed gently against any breeze that passed through. The furnishings were simple: her sitting area consisted of a sofa, an easy chair, and a small oval coffee table — none of which matched, giving the home a cozy, unpretentious feel. When she had someone over, Jessie pulled out the small table and chair set that were normally pushed against the wall. Otherwise, Jessie ate her meals while standing at the kitchen counter or reading on the couch. She didn't see the need to set a table for one. Most of the walls were painted beige, which really bummed her out because...beige. Who wanted to stare at beige walls? She'd asked Nate if she could paint them a tasteful shade of purple, and he'd nearly choked at the suggestion. If he saw a few samples, he might come around. In the meantime, she hoped he wouldn't go into the bathroom, which she'd painted a lovely periwinkle a few weeks ago on her day off. She had eight hundred square feet of living space. She might as well have a little color.

She took a nap on the sofa and felt much better after that. Then she spent the afternoon tidying up. The weeks got so busy, and the cottage didn't have room enough to forgive clutter. She'd just finished when she glanced at the clock. Time to get ready.

Archer Cove was a little haven in Connecticut, nestled in close proximity to New York but feeling worlds away. In short, it was not the place in which one expected to find a high-powered law firm, but Emerson & Parker came pretty darn close to just that. With large offices in Boston, New York, and Washington, DC, Emerson & Parker was developing a strong regional presence, and rumor had it that the partnership had national ambitions. All of which only served to make Jessie's palms clammy as she thought about rubbing elbows with Quinn's colleagues and bosses that evening.

At least Jessie's cocktail dress still fit, even if it was a little more snug around the waist than she'd like. Her mother's voice rang in her ears: Thank heavens for small mercies. Her mother was always thanking heaven for something or other, which was weird since she'd always been a little vague about her actual religious beliefs.

The fabric of the dress was chartreuse and slightly elastic. She pulled at it and hoped the fibers would relax just a little to give her some breathing room. After a minute or so of progressively violent tugging, Jessie conceded defeat. Also, this shade of green had looked nicer on the mannequin. Hopefully it was the lighting.

"What do you think, Travis?" she said, glancing over her shoulder. "I'm taking risks with my wardrobe, and color is in this spring."

Now she was talking to herself again. That seemed to be the natural progression of things: live alone, toil in solitude, and end up talking to yourself a lot. "I get out sometimes, Travis. I just saw Nate. Quinn's friend. You know, the runner? I swear I'm not saying that to make you feel bad, poor thing. I know your feet are glued in place."

She pressed her lips together and decided that maybe it was time to get a cat, or at least a potted fern. Something alive.

Aside from the dress — which was really only ugly under this lighting, she concluded — Jessie decided she looked great. Her skin was glowing, and her blonde hair was...well, as compliant as it could ever be. She'd curled it and hairsprayed it, and it was stiff but still curly. Saint Mary on a pogo stick! Thank heavens!

Jessie rubbed her temples. This was what she got from even small doses of her parents, and she'd be hearing her mom's voice for days.

She noticed Quinn's car pull up in front right before he lightly tapped his horn. Man, did that ice her cupcakes when he did that. But she pulled on a smile as she locked the door behind her and ambled down the front walkway, teetering slightly in her heels.

Quinn rolled down the passenger-side window of his BMW. "You're going to be cold in that. The cocktail party's outside."

She glanced down at her cap sleeves. "I'll be fine," she said, but wasn't convinced when a breeze brushed past her bare legs. "Okay, hold on and I'll grab a shawl."

A few minutes later, Jessie re-emerged from her cottage wrapped in a white silk shawl that wasn't going to offer much in the way of protection from the evening chill. But it was something. She climbed into the passenger seat and brushed her lips against Quinn's cheek. "You look nice," she said.

"You too. New dress?"

"Uh huh. Do you like it?"

"Yes. I do like it. It's very nice."

Jessie bit her lip. Quinn was lying. She could tell by the way he'd flatly repeated her question and then added an extra, insincere compliment for emphasis. Her dress was hideous: confirmed. "You know, it is cooler than I thought," she said. "Maybe I should change —"

"You'll be fine. Come on. We're going to be late." He shifted the car into gear and sped away from the curb, knocking Jessie back into her seat.

"Hey." She snapped her seatbelt in place and managed to right herself before he swerved around the corner. "I was ready on time."

Quinn glanced over, looking mildly apologetic. "It's my fault, hon. I was working on that new file Walter gave me." He reached up to scratch at his freshly-shaven cheek. "I haven't been taking a lunch in weeks. You don't even know, Jess."

Her spine stiffened. She thought she did know, considering she hadn't seen him or spent any significant amount of time with him for, oh, three weeks now. She laced her fingers with his. "You've been working so hard. I miss you."

Quinn glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "I'm trying to set up my future here. I know you understand." He pulled his hand away from hers to shift gears again.

They were going to the Marina in Spencer. Wills Parker owned a massive yacht and was entitled to equally massive tax benefits if he used it for business entertainment purposes for a certain number of days out of the year. This explained his annual client cruise to Bermuda, for instance. And his partnership cruise through the British Virgin Islands. In addition, he routinely invited the Archer Cove office of Emerson & Parker to yacht parties during the warmer months. Sunday night events were atypical, but Mrs. Parker had celebrated her birthday the night before. Oddly enough, she hadn’t wanted to share the spotlight with her husband’s employees.

This particular event was intended to celebrate the end of another successful tax season. From what Jessie could gather from hearing Quinn's tales, it was all just an excuse to run an obscene tab of seafood and booze. Associates ended up jumping off the dock by the end of the night or making babies in bathrooms, that kind of thing. It was not her scene or Quinn's, but it was darn important for her to make a good impression if she was going to one day be an Emerson & Parker wife.

Oh, to be an Emerson & Parker wife. This was no small thing. Emerson & Parker wives were graceful and stylish. They maintained a neat home and held dinner parties — Quinn and Jessie had been to a few. They had manicures and — Jessie imagined — creatively landscaped bikini regions. They lunched with each other and usually had help with the children, because they were more than stay-at-home-mothers and wives. They were instrumental in assisting their husbands to rise at the firm.

Partner, Quinn had once explained, was only the first step. There were levels of partners, and perception was everything. If Walter Emerson's wife didn't like another partner's wife, then that partner wasn't going to advance. Everyone knew that. From what Jessie could gather, there was also an unwritten handbook on the qualities that made an Emerson & Parker wife successful. So far, she'd noted that their hair was long and never gray — unless they were over sixty. Their perfume was designer. At least, they smelled expensive. Jessie's underarms grew damp just thinking about seeing them that night, and then they grew damper still as she worried about how all of this anxiety might make her stink. Her performance at the baby shower that morning had been unbecoming, and would not have earned her an invitation to lunch at the country club with the other E&P wives.

She thought back to her mother's hopeful inquiry that morning, when she'd asked about Quinn. How to explain that Quinn was a boyfriend-in-the-works and — Jessie believed — a little afraid of commitment? Jessie had to convince him that she was special, and being on her best behavior at that party would go far. If she could be sweet, and charming, and gracious — maybe then he'd understand how perfect they could be together.

She cleared her throat and folded her hands tightly on her lap as they pulled into the Marina. Parking was valet, no surprise there. A man in a dark suit opened her door and offered his arm. "Good evening, miss."

"Hello. Uh, good evening." She stepped out of the car and then wrapped her shawl tightly around her shoulders. Quinn was right, it was chilly.

"Thank you," he said to the valet, and handed him a few bills with the key. Then he wrapped his arm around Jessie's waist and pulled her close to his side. "You ready?"

No, she was not, but since it wasn't the time to have that debate, she put on a brave smile and said, "Ready."

Jessie was mostly unfamiliar with the trappings of wealth. Despite living for so long in a seaside town, she rarely set foot on boats. To her, this was just a yacht. A big, big yacht. As they walked up a ramp and stepped onto the deck, a gloved waiter approached and offered them flutes of champagne from a silver tray. "Madame?"

"Oh." Jessie reached for a glass, then reconsidered. Champagne had gotten her into some trouble that morning, hadn't it? "None for me, thanks."

"I'll take one." Quinn reached over to lift a flute from the tray. "Come on. There are some people I want you to meet."

Her stomach knotted. Hopefully these "people" she was meeting weren't going to want to talk about, say, laws, wealth management, or any other topics she knew exactly nothing about. Hopefully Quinn had warned them that she was just a local girl who worked at the local bakery. Maybe they'd want to talk chocolate.

On the upside, Quinn smelled nice, and his arm felt warm around her shoulders. She pulled tightly against his side and felt lucky to be with him. This could all be better than fine. This could be a lovely night.

"Hello, Quinn."

The voice was female, the tone sexy. Jessie craned her neck behind them, and her heart stopped. There stood a woman in a tight red dress. Her figure was trim and strong. Her jet-black hair was perfectly coiffed. Her face was...gah. Stunning. And the way she was looking at Quinn made Jessie want to sharpen her fingernails, had she not bitten them all to nothing.

"Hey, Caryn," Quinn said with a smile. He dropped his arm from Jessie's shoulders to turn to face her. "You look beautiful."

Caryn lifted her chin and made no effort to hide the once-over she was giving him. "You too." A quick glance at Jessie. "And is this your date?"

She swallowed a knot in her throat. Had Quinn never mentioned her name at work, or was Caryn being deliberately forgetful? Nevertheless, she held out a hand and said, "I'm Jessie."

"Hello." Her handshake was slightly limp, and the twist of her mouth suggested that Jessie was being gauche by touching her. "Quinn and I work very closely together." Emphasis on "very."

Caryn and Quinn locked eyes and seemed to share some private, unspoken joke. Either the boat was rocking, or something else was making Jessie sick to her stomach. She should've grabbed the champagne when she'd had the chance.

Still, she lifted her chin and beamed at Caryn. "Your dress is just fantastic. Red suits you."

Caryn smiled tightly and brought her flute closer to her chest. "Thanks."

"I like the beadwork." She reached out to touch, but Caryn pulled back before she made contact. "Now tell me, which store did you find this at? Because I'll have to go there next time I need something fancy to wear." She tugged at the skirt of her own dress. "I found mine on clearance."

Quinn wrapped his arm around Jessie's shoulders and pulled her back. "That's okay, Jess," he said, laughing uneasily. "No one needs to know that."

"I found this at Belle Tique," Caryn replied. "I don't believe they have a clearance rack, though."

Belle Tique was a high-end boutique clothing store in Spencer. Jessie, afraid she reeked of middle class, had never actually dared to set foot in there. "Belle Tique is a nice shop," she murmured. "I walk past sometimes and think that." Her cheeks burned.

She must have sounded pathetic, because Caryn's head tilted sympathetically at the confession. "What do you do, Jessie?"

"I work at Hedda's Bakery." Beside her, Quinn sucked in his breath, and his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

"You work at a bakery?" Caryn looked from her to Quinn and back to her again. "How cute. What do you do there?"

"Oh, everything, really. It's a family business, so we all chip in. I bake, wait tables, make coffee. I also have a line of chocolates that I've been developing for a while now."

Caryn and Quinn exchanged a glance and then stared at their shoes. Jessie looked down at their shoes, too. Caryn's were strappy red heels, pretty but totally impractical for that deck surface. Quinn's — well, they were just black shoes. She didn't get it.

"Anyway," she continued, "I've thought about setting off on my own and opening a chocolate shop. A chocolate boutique," she added.

At this, Caryn's eyes lit with interest. "How quaint. I once read a book like that. I've always thought that would be fun."

"I've encouraged Jessie to do that," Quinn said. "She needs to challenge herself more."

"But I like working with my family," Jessie said. "Plus, it's hard to find the right space. But I have it all planned out. I want a pink and white polka-dotted awning, and my shop would be called 'Chocolate Crush.'" She flared her fingers.

"Mmm. Sounds a little violent." Caryn took a sip of her champagne. "But what do I know? I'm just a lawyer."

She issued a genial laugh that had obviously been rehearsed, tossing her dark hair back slightly in the breeze. Jessie pressed her lips together and imagined herself spontaneously combusting.