Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance) (20 page)

“
Yes, sir.” Jonathan set the glass on the edge of the desk.

“
I’d rather there not be any bumps in this road, Jonathan. Todd seems open to the idea of exploring what he’s feeling for her, which is where we want him headed. But Jolie’s so used to things not working out for her that she needs to feel worthy of his love. We need this to go smoothly for them. They’ve been hurt enough.”

“
Yes, sir.” Jonathan nodded solemnly.

Raphael tapped the file. “I think you might want to appear among them, Jonathan, in a manner where you can affect events as they happen. Your merchant character nudged them onto this journey, but I’m thinking something more drastic. Something on a more daily basis. Without them knowing, of course.”

“
Um… okay. I’ll think of something, sir.”

Raphael held out his hand. “I’m sure you will, Jonathan.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened and he clutched the felt hat so tightly his knuckles turned white as he considered Raphael’s outstretched hand. Gulping, he slid to stand before the chair and placed the hat on the cushion.

Raising his eyes—the twitch now completely gone—Jonathan took Raphael’s hand. “I won’t let you down.”

“
Of course you won’t, Jonathan. That’s why you were chosen to help Todd and Jolie. I have every faith in you.”

Chapter Sixteen

Jolie drove the chugging Melanie into Todd’s driveway the next afternoon. Todd hadn’t been kidding yesterday when he’d said the picnic was next week. It was now Sunday, i.e. “next week,” the picnic was in three days, and Arena’s was officially out of baking supplies. Poor Signore Arena, she’d thought he was going to have apoplexy when she asked him for the last batch of the butter, but he’d calmed down when she’d told him it was for the foundation.

Jolie pulled into the garage, hoping Todd was around. For no reason other than to help her unload the groceries, so Naughty Girl could stick
that
in her innuendos. Chances were, though, that he was in the west wing, as she’d taken to calling the garage attic where he’d holed himself up in last night after dinner and all this morning. Just as well. With Heart still not firmly under control of Brain, she could end up doing the libido tango again if he was around.

Once she’d gotten the necessary ingredients into the kitchen, she set all the measuring cups, bowls, and baking sheets she’d need, thanking God, the builder, and the decorator that Todd had a dining room table big enough for the cookies to cool on. She’d bought enough plastic storage bags to make a landfill shriek, and a whole lot of chickens were probably walking around in pain, but it was all about the kids, so she’d set her tree-hugger-ness aside and focus on that.

Since chocolate chip cookies baked better if the dough spent the night in the fridge, the day’s agenda consisted of making enough dough for twenty-four hundred cookies. Thankfully, there was an industrial-sized mixer that some previous chef must have finagled, so she might make it through this with her mixing arm intact, which was always a plus.

She turned on the Bose stereo and be-bopped along to old Madonna. Not her all-time favorite, but old Madonna was better than new Madonna. Yeah, it was bubble-gum music, but good to be-bop to. Then came Shania and she was dancing some more. It was all good.

She was into some heavy-duty belting out of “That Don’t Impress Me Much,” when she heard, “Hey, Shania!”

She spun, spatula/microphone in hand, and plunked down her foot to stop the twirl. The image in the doorway, now
that
impressed her much.

“
Uh, hey?” she said oh-so-eloquently into the spatula.

“
I was coming in to help.” Todd surveyed the room, whistling. “Wow. I didn’t realize this much went into making cookies.”

She nodded and put the spatula down. “These are easy to bake. It just takes organization.”

“
Don’t tell me, let me guess.” He cocked that expressive eyebrow of his again. “Organizational Jolie?”

Now that was funny. And they laughed, a shared moment sort of thing.

“
That’d be me. So, you really want to help?”

“
Point me to an apron.”

“
Wow. You get points just for saying that.”

“
Yeah, wouldn’t want to ruin these.” He flourished his hand over his dusty old shorts, Bermuda-long and faded army green, a rip here, a tear there. Comfy shorts… that just so happened to hug his hips at just the right spot to cause her salivary glands to rev into action. The mustard yellow t-shirt clinging to some flexing pecs as he tied the apron behind him didn’t hurt either.

She better make sure to keep the drool out of the cookie dough.

He washed his hands, drying them on that inch-thick cotton, loin-cloth-wannabe towel, and saluted her. “Ready for orders, ma’am.”

He was cute like that and she couldn’t help chuckling, all the while shoving Naughty Girl out of the picture who was squealing as she went,
Give him some orders already
!

“
Okay.” Jolie turned off lusting mode and went into baking mode. “I’m making a quadruple batch at a time. You can go ahead of me and measure out the ingredients. I’ll sift the dry ones together then add the rest in the mixer. Once we’ve got everything done, we’ll move it to a bowl and stick it in the fridge. Then on to the next batch. Sound good to you?”

He nodded. “Anything to do with chocolate chips sounds good to me.”

Was that like whipped cream?

Not going there.

The radio station segued to some really bad stuff from the eighties, so “Hungry Like the Wolf” was grating across her nerves (though she could relate) as she and Todd stepped around each other. For such a big kitchen, it’d gotten extremely small. She was by his shoulder when he reached for the box of brown sugar and she got a whiff of fresh paint and sweat—not normally scents to get her hormones up and dancing, but on him, they worked.

Which she,
again
, shouldn’t be noticing.

“
So, how’re the walls coming?” Jolie picked up the closest thing, which turned out to be a sifter. She started to—what else?—sift while Todd moved on to the liquid ingredients. The guy could crack a mean egg.

“
Decent. I almost have the first coat of paint finished. I’ll get to the second tomorrow and let it dry until after the picnic.”

“
So.” Did she dare broach the subject? “Have you decided if you’re going to paint again?”

He kept his eyes on the measuring cup while answering. He was either a very conscientious cook or didn’t want to have the discussion. She’d bet the latter, but she was going to continue as if it were the former. That no-quitting thing of hers and all.

“
You don’t
decide
to paint, Jolie. It just happens. You
have
to. I’ll see. I’ve got a few ideas in mind.” He glanced over and smiled. “Who knows if they’ll pan out?”

“
And if they do?”

He shrugged. “We’ll see. I’m not planning anything further than just trying out a few things.”

“
Okay. I guess that’s good. Kind of trying to let your muse do its own thing.”

“
My muse. Yeah.” His voice drifted away.

Okay, kick her for being an idiot, but that was about to change. Right now. “So, how many people do you think will come to the picnic?”

He mustered a smile and it was bigger than she’d hoped for. “I don’t know. There’s usually a good turnout. With all this you’re making, people should have at least a couple of cookies.”

“
Good. Because I want the kids to be able to take as many as they want. Cookies are such a nice treat.”

“
And these kids need them.”

“
Don’t I know it.” Oh, crud. Had she said that out loud?

“
That’s right. I keep forgetting you
do
know. I have to say, Jolie, I’m having trouble seeing you that way. You haven’t let life get you down.”

Yeah, well, he hadn’t seen her at her first foster home, curled into a ball on that lumpy old mattress. “The best way I’ve found to deal with my past is to put it away. It’s over, I’m here and let’s move on. Who was it that said ‘the best revenge is living well’? That’s my outlook.”

“
That takes a lot of inner strength.”

Ha. She could tell him it was more self-preservation and abject terror of being sucked back into that swirling morass of self-pity and loathing, but why go there? “Do or die, I always say. Now, you can start on the next batch while I mix this one up.”

He nodded and she turned on the mixer. Something to break up their conversation—and regain her composure.

Not to mention, aside from the occasional stir to get the batter off the side of the bowl, there wasn’t too much to do while the mixer did its thing. So she had the chance to watch him.

There was just something about a man in an apron in the kitchen. Especially if the man was
only
in an apron in the kitchen, which, okay, he wasn’t, but she had seen him in only the kitchen and nothing else and, boy, was that a sight to remember. So she tripped down sensory lane while he reached and stretched and bent as he measured out the ingredients. Who’d have thought baking was so much exercise?

“
You know,” he said when the mixer went silent, “the last time I did this was with my mom. I was twelve, I think.” His eyes twinkled. “It’s fun.”

He had no idea.

“
Let’s see if you’re still saying that three hours from now.” Jolie maneuvered the mixing bowl to the table and scooped batch number one into another bowl, ready to start again. The mouthwatering aroma of brown sugar and vanilla surrounded her and she couldn’t resist a dip into the dough with a spoon.

“
I saw that.” Todd’s mock self-righteousness was hysterical.

“
Want some?” She grabbed another spoon and another spoonful, and offered it to him.

With him holding a measuring cup in one hand and a five pound bag of sugar in the other, she had no other option when he said, “Sure,” than to hold the spoon to his mouth.

Really. No other option.

His lips closed around the spoon, just a hint of his tongue before it closed, and she could almost feel the heat travel up the stainless steel into her fingers.

There was a little tug as he sucked the dough off and she felt a little tug of her own. Right in her nether regions.

She slid the spoon out and he licked his upper lip. “You’re good,” he said and there went her mind right to a bed with a roaring fire at the foot of it, a bottle of champagne, maybe some rose petals, and, of course, whipped cream.

“
I am?” She pulled her gaze from his mouth, now drawn to his eyes. Warm and intense—just like her.

“
Yes.”

He put the flour and measuring cup down in one fluid motion and took a step toward her, his gaze holding hers. Her heart started hammering as he reached out, and she stifled a moan as she waited for his embrace.

She closed her eyes as he neared. There was just too much rioting through her body as his chest brushed her arm. She waited for the feel of his lips on hers, completely willing to overlook what surely was complete insanity since they worked—and lived—together, yet it was his hair she felt brushing her shoulder.

Not exactly the image she had going.

She opened her eyes—

And wanted to die.

He had his finger in the batter bowl behind her, scooping out the remains of batch number one.

Thank God no one else was around to witness her humiliation. What was she thinking? As if someone like him would be interested in kissing someone like her; someone without a real name or family to call her own. Just because she came with no baggage whatsoever—no relatives, no nasty in-laws, no history, just her—didn’t mean his “you’re good” had anything to do with something other than cookies.

“
Want some?” said Cookie Monster, now back in her line of sight and holding out a finger full of cookie dough.

She did want some. She really, really did. And she wanted it right off that finger he was waving in her face. Wanted it so badly she had to say no because if she gave in to the impulse of licking his finger, she’d rip apart at the seams.

“
Ah, come on. It’s good.” Wag, wag went the tempting digit.

She was amazed at her inner strength, as he’d called it. Truly.

She shook her head again and stepped back. “If we do this for every batch we are going to be some sick puppies.” She prayed the bravado hid the quaking of her knees. He didn’t need to know his chef was reading all sorts of innuendos into his words.

Cookie dough. Imagine that.

***

An hour and a half later, they were only halfway done. But Jolie? She was done. Over-cooked, over-heated, and way over-aroused. Todd was not only hot on the outside, he was completely sexy on the inside. Their little baking party had brought out all his childhood memories and he’d wanted to share.

Normally, she’d love to hear those things. Birthday parties, camping trips, whatever. But seeing as how her nerves were still rattled by the near-miss of a kiss, not to mention the mortification of said near-miss, she tuned out the narrative and tuned in to him. Todd Best, the man.