Delightful: Big Sky Pie #3 (10 page)

“I’d have better luck arranging an interview with the man in the moon.” The news that Ice was the son of such famous people zinged through her brain like a shorted wire. “Knowing Ice, you just had your few minutes.”

The glasses got another shove as the brunette’s eyebrows bumped. “I’m not that easily dissuaded. What do you know about him?”

Too much and too little, Andrea realized. And yet, on some level, she felt as if she’d always known him. But she didn’t. Not really. That scary feeling filled her stomach. She’d been duped, sucked in by her own shortcomings, her fatal flaw laughing its ass off at her gullibility. Ice came from Hollywood royalty. Her subconscious needed to get over him. He was a trust-fund baby; she was a blue-collar nobody. Opposite ends of the social spectrum. He’d grown up privileged beyond anything she could even imagine. The reporter was still waiting for a response, but Andrea wasn’t about to say anything to upset Ice more.

He already thought his partner had betrayed him. Maybe he even suspected Bobby of inviting this reporter here. He’d seemed hurt, yet so angry that it was as if he was embracing his rage to avoid some secret pain. It made Andrea all the more curious about his childhood. What had happened to him as a kid? She decided she’d like Ice to tell her that—if he would—rather than hear it from Rita Grace.

When she realized Ice wasn’t going to show his face in the café again, Rita left with a promise to return. Then Andrea went in search of Ice. She found him in the kitchen, seated at the work counter holding a meeting with Jane, BiBi, Molly, Callee, and Quint. Bobby and Flynn were noticeably absent. Ice told the staff what he’d told her. “Cat’s out of the bag. Someone posted on the Internet that I’m filming a reality show at Big Sky Pie.”

“Oh, no.” Jane’s hand went to her mouth, and her cheeks grew pink. “Why would someone do that to you?”

Good question, Andrea thought. Did that Celebrity Entertainment News site pay for stories like that? Or was someone trying to harm Ice Berg Productions? Or Ice?

His forehead furrowed, and his shoulders seemed to carry a heavy burden. “I’m sorry to say that there are more people in my business who’d rather stab you in the back than shake your hand, Jane.”

“It’s true. That’s how my dad lost his TV show,” BiBi said, apparently forgetting her father’s role in the downfall of his own career.

Andrea and Molly exchanged a glance. BiBi’s father, Chopper Henderson, was a renowned chef with a line of cookbooks, his own cookware, and a show on the Food Network. He was the Howard Stern of the cooking industry, his blunt opinions winning him many critics and millions of fans, until he made gay slurs about one of his fellow FN coworkers. And his fans became instant haters. The scandal hit every media outlet in the world, and within days, he’d lost his show and his sponsors, but not his big ego or bulging coffers. He’d retreated to his massive, secluded log home on nearby Flat Head Lake to lick his wounds and set impossible standards for the daughter who worshiped at his feet.

“Exactly what does this mean for all of us?” Callee asked, her chestnut curls bobbing as she spoke.

“Yeah,” Quint said, concern etching his handsome features as he reached for his mother’s hand. “Mama’s got enough to deal with just running this shop. She doesn’t need any added stress.”

“Quint darling, don’t you fret about me.” Molly cast an adoring glance at her son. “My cardiologist assures me that my heart and I are both strong as horses. Besides, I figured this would happen at some point. We can’t hide everything we’re doing for the pilot from our customers. Sooner or later, someone was bound to get curious about that Ice Berg Productions van always parked outside or about Flynn and his camera. Well, it’s happened sooner is all. That’s the way the crust flakes sometimes.”

Andrea saw Ice watching the interaction between mother and son with conflicting emotions flitting through his eyes: a trace of wonderment, a touch of envy, and a ton of sorrow.
Weren’t he and his mother close?

He cleared his throat. “Here’s what you should be on guard about. You’re probably going to be bombarded with questions from curious family, neighbors, friends, even strangers. It’s up to you to be evasive. Don’t engage in a conversation with them about the pilot. Tell them that you’ve signed a confidentiality agreement and can’t speak to them about it. Period.”

“Not even to my husband?” Jane asked, guilt written on her face.

“As our marketing director, your husband already knows about it, Jane,” Quint reminded her.

She blushed. “Yeah, well, I don’t tell him everything.”

Everyone chuckled.

Ice said, “But he understands the process. He might be able to give you some tips on how to handle people, if you feel you need them. But remember, the rest of you still cannot discuss the reality show with anyone except each other.”

“Why not?” BiBi asked. “My dad—”

 “No. Not your dad. If any of the things we have already filmed leak or competitors got wind of it, they could beat us to the market, and you can kiss this show good-bye. Is that what you want?”

Everyone shook their heads. Andrea found that even she didn’t want the production to shut down, and the realization gave her a rush, like acting on something she knew was wrong, but doing it anyway. But she feared her wanting the show to continue had more to do with not wanting Ice to leave.

“You didn’t have any of us sign a confidentiality agreement,” BiBi pointed out, looking as though she thought Ice was an idiot.

He looked as though he felt the same. “I let that slide, but I shouldn’t have. My attorneys are all over my, er, me about getting it done immediately.”

“Closing the barn door after the cows have escaped,” Molly muttered.

“Yep.” Ice nodded sheepishly, then implored of each of them, “I’d like to take everyone’s word that you won’t leak anything in future, but I need to get that in writing. I’m not saying any of you leaked this. I’m sure that came from my end. Nor does this mean that I don’t trust any of you. But I need this or I’ll have to walk away. I can’t risk losing everything I intend to invest in this project if everyone isn’t on board. And it needs to be settled. Right now. That’s why I asked Quint and Callee to be here.”

“I’m willing to sign it,” Quint said. He shoved his hand through his blue-black hair, glancing at the staff. “If any of you, however, has a problem with it, it’s okay. We just need to know.”

“I’ll sign it, too,” Jane said.

“Yes, me too,” Andrea said.

With everyone agreeing, Ice passed out the documents and pens. “Ms. McCoy, I apologize again for this fiasco.”

“If life was a well-oiled machine, Ice, it would be too dull to endure.” Molly signed her paper. “A good dustup once in a while adds some spice.”

Ice smiled. He gathered the papers, thanking them all. As the meeting broke up, he came directly to Andrea, catching her elbow, moving her to a corner near the back door, and speaking so that only she could hear. “Is
she
still in the café?”

“Rita? No. That doesn’t mean she isn’t lurking somewhere outside.”

He nodded, his face growing thoughtful, his mind probably calculating how to avoid the persistent reporter.

Aware of everyone else in the kitchen, she kept her voice low. “Is Ilse Craig really your mother?”

His head snapped back as if she’d slapped him, and his lip curled in disgust. “She gave birth to me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

For half a second, he reminded her of Lucas, vulnerable, his emotions laid raw, a wound in his eyes too deep to reach. Her heart hurt for him. She wanted to pull him to her as she would her son and reassure him that all would be well. But Ice wasn’t a little boy. He was pure, grown-up male, every dangerous, sexy inch of him. He shook himself like a big dog shaking off rain, seemed to recover control of his emotions and tuck them back into the box from which he’d allowed them to momentarily escape. He was, she realized, a proud man, a private man, and even though he would deny it, a man with demons.

As curious as she was about those demons, she knew he wouldn’t open up. Not to her. He held his secrets close. Maybe awful secrets. She didn’t need to befriend someone who could bring elements into her sons’ lives that were not good for them. Whatever his deal was, it wasn’t her problem.

She needed to remember that and not feel sorry for him like she’d done with Donnie.

Andrea went back into the café, delighted to see that more customers had come in. At this point, she didn’t care why they were showing up to buy pies; she was just glad they were. She had to refill the display case three times in the next two hours. The surplus of pies was dwindling, and that was a good thing.

Molly went home exhausted, but smiling.

Suzilynn arrived and took over at the café counter, giving Andrea a chance to sit down for a cup of coffee and some girl chat with Callee, who’d returned with the placards for the diner.

“They look great,” Andrea told her. “You’ve really found your niche.”

“And I thought I wanted to be a chef, when all the while my passion lay in creative design. I really am enjoying myself as never before.” Callee glowed, her happiness a tangible thing. It hadn’t always been that way, and Andrea was glad for her. But she also seemed to have something on her mind. Was she worried about the Internet thing? Or something else?

Andrea sipped her coffee as Callee leaned across the table. “So, that director is hot. Did you notice the way he looks at you? Like he’d like to eat you for dessert.”

Andrea’s face flared with heat. She couldn’t admit to Callee that he already had and that she kept longing for a repeat.

“So are you going to let him?”

 Coffee spurted from Andrea’s mouth. Callee reared back, laughing, and rescued the placards. “Don’t try to tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Andrea winced, suspecting she probably looked as guilty as if she’d just robbed the pie shop. “He is way out of my league. Did you know he’s Ilse Craig’s son?”

Callee gasped. “The movie star?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well, talk about hidden depths.”

“And not exactly the kind of guy looking for a single mom with two little boys.” Or any other kind of permanent relationship.

“Hah, he’d be lucky to put his Dan Posts under your bed for life.”

“You mean his surf board.” They laughed and drank more coffee.

“Then how about we find you someone who would love a sexy, blond single mom?” Callee said, pulling her phone from her purse and glancing absently at the screen as though expecting to see a text or e-mail. “There are a lot of great-looking guys in this town. Lovely, lonely men.”

“Funny you should say that.” Andrea tucked her hair behind her ear and told her about Dave the Realtor asking her out to coffee, and that she was also toying with the idea of getting to know Wade Reynolds better.

“Good. Do it.”

“Which one?”

“Both, of course. Don’t limit your options until you find out if either is worth pursing past a drink or two.” Callee glanced at her phone again.

“Is something wrong? You seem…distracted.”

Callee sighed and shoved the phone to the side. “I’m sorry. It’s not me. It’s my best friend, Roxy.”

“The one who married the Seattle Seahawk?”

“The one who’s divorcing the Seattle Seahawk.”

“The one who owns the waterfront bistro on Puget Sound?”

“Yes. But things are not great in paradise. Washington is a fifty-fifty state. That means when you divorce, you split everything down the middle. She and Ty agreed that he would take a larger share of the sale of their house and then release his interest in the bistro. Turns out, though, that his new fiancée wants to be a restaurant owner and doesn’t see why they can’t retain joint ownership of the bistro. Roxy would rather slice and dice the sweet thing and serve her for an entrée. She’s miserable. I’m going to Seattle for a few days to help her figure things out.”

Andrea smiled. “Roxy is lucky to have such a great friend.”

“She’d do the same for me. Did do the same, actually.” Callee smiled. “Quint isn’t too happy to have me gone, even though I won’t be away for more than a week. But it is the first time we’ll have been apart since we called off the divorce.”

“Tell him to use that time to go fishing with his buddies.”

They burst into laughter again. Fishing had almost caused Callee’s and Quint’s divorce, but in the end, Callee had discovered fishing was something she and her husband enjoyed doing together.

“Give Roxy my best wishes. Divorce sucks.” Especially if you’d married a cheater.

Callee touched her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Love is not for weaklings, but if you find the right guy, it’s worth giving your whole heart to him. I found that out the hard way. I hope you’ll have what Quint and I have one day, Andrea. You and those darling sons of yours deserve it.”

Andrea realized she would love to have what Callee had, but she didn’t think it was written in the stars for her. Not unless she could break her habit of falling for bad boys. Starting with Ice Erikksen.

I
ce crossed the lobby of the hotel on his way to the parking lot, his focus on the front door, his mind on Andrea and all the things he wanted to do to her. With her.
Meet me in the parking
lot
, her text had read. Maybe he could drag her back to his room. A smile played along the edges of his mouth, anticipation speeding up his steps.

“Ice.” A woman’s voice stopped him in his tracks. He spun, expecting to find Andrea. Instead, it was Rita Grace.
Shit.
He scowled and turned back toward the lobby exit, kicking up his step another notch.

“Ice, how do you feel about your mother filing for divorce from her latest husband?”

She hurled the question like a stone. It was meant to shock him into giving a reaction. A sound bite. Something she could record and blast over the Internet. Her mistake. His mother had been divorced too many times for the end of her latest marriage to bother him. He didn’t even miss a step. There had only been one of his mother’s divorces that hurt him. The first one. And that one was his fault.

Buried memories bobbed to the surface like coffins in a flooded cemetery, and a haunting guilt washed over him. He lifted his chin, squared his shoulders, and kept moving, convinced that nothing bad could catch up with him as long as he didn’t stop. The reporter’s heels clicked on the tile floor behind him. He began to whistle, drowning out the sound.

The automatic door whooshed open. He strode into the cool morning air, welcoming the crisp feel on his hot face, the fresh, fresh air into his lungs. Nothing smelled as good as Montana on an autumn morning. No smog or pollution. Just pure oxygen that even the stench of an aggressive paparazzo couldn’t foul.

“Ian, what do you think of the rumors that your mother is sleeping with her newest director?” the reporter shouted as she hurried after him, using his given name to personalize her attack, a weapon to hook his attention and cut him deeper.

His frantic gaze swept the parking lot. Where the hell was Andrea? And then he spotted an older SUV with the passenger door wide open, a sexy blonde behind the wheel. He ran for it, jumped in, slammed his door, and snapped the seat belt. “Go. Now. That reporter is after me.”

Andrea did as asked, pulling out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires and merging recklessly into traffic with a blast of horns and near collisions. The reporter skidded to a halt, looking frustrated, but staring at her phone.
Fuck.
She’d probably taken photos of him running away and driving off in this SUV. It would probably be up on the Internet within minutes.

But he was too keyed up to consider possible consequences. He held on for dear life as Andrea wove in and out of lanes and suddenly cut into the drive-through at Starbucks and hit the brakes. He jerked toward the windshield, then flopped back against the seat. “Where the hell did you learn to drive? Nascar?”

“The farm.” She didn’t expand.

He slanted toward her. “Is that some place Montana teenagers go to learn to drive?”

The warmth of her musical laugh made him smile. “It’s where I grew up. A ten-acre farm on the outskirts of town. Dad had a couple of cows, a couple horses, chickens, you know. Old MacDonald. I was driving the tractor when I was eleven.”

“I hope none of the animals were harmed.”

“Nothing but a few rows of corn.” She inched the car forward, grinning.

God, she had a beautiful profile with a perfect straight nose and pouty lips. His libido jumped, and he wondered if he could coax her to exit this drive-through and find somewhere to park. He wanted her in his arms, but then he inhaled. Chanel. The scent reeled his mind to the past, to the worst moments of his life, moments mirrored in this recent news about his mother, yet another private family event he’d learned from the goddamned media. His gaze went to the side mirror. Were they being followed?

As though reading his mind, Andrea asked, “What did Rita Grace want this time?”

He rubbed his jaw. “To tell me that Ilse Craig is divorcing her latest husband.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Her voice was full of commiseration.

He shrugged, but didn’t look at her. “It comes with the territory.”

“I meant about your mother’s divorce.”

“So did I.” He pulled sunglasses from his jacket and put them on, as much to thwart the glare of the sun as to hide his eyes. “Marriage is a joke. It’s impossible to be faithful.”

“Maybe in Hollywood…”

He stared at her profile again and found his breath catching. “Don’t tell me you believe in commitment and loving one man ’til death do you part?”

Andrea pushed her hair behind one ear, revealing a gold hoop, a soft, kissable lobe, and a sweet expanse of creamy neck. God, how he wanted to take her to bed again.

She sighed loudly. “I’ve seen that kind of love.”

A cynical laugh spilled from him. “Yeah, in the movies or in books, but not in real life.”

She flinched. Had he struck a nerve? She hadn’t said she’d “had” that kind of love, or even that she’d “known” that kind of love, only that she’d “seen” it. That was the kind of statement someone made when love had disappointed them, when hope of finding the “real” thing still thrived. But none of that told him what he really wanted to know. Who was Lucas? Why did she keep skirting that question? Obviously he was someone special.

Andrea inched the SUV ahead to the speaker, placed her order, then reeled off his favorite, surprising him. She’d remembered what he’d asked her for the first day they met. He added, “Make it a venti.”

“Did I forget that? Sorry. Make them both venti,” she said into the speaker.

Ice gave her the cash to pay for their drinks, their hands bumping, awkward, exciting. The disturbed shift of her lovely brown eyes told him she’d felt it, too. She might swear that she would never make love with him again, but he could tell she wanted to. As much as he did.

She pulled up to the window, conversing with the barista while they waited for their drinks. He couldn’t shut off his mind. If Lucas was her lover, boyfriend, or husband, then why had she fallen into
his
bed with such abandon? Especially since she believed in long-term commitments. She was a puzzle that he ached to solve.

She wore no adornments, no rings or bracelets or watch. He frowned. Now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall seeing her wear any kind of jewelry, except for earrings. Maybe she had a metal allergy. Maybe that was why she didn’t wear a ring? Hell, he was sick of wondering and speculating. “Are
you
in a committed relationship?”

She glanced sharply at him—the only visible sign that he’d surprised her, but turned her gaze away, staring at the car in front of them. She said, “Would it bother you if I were?”

What kind of question was that? Images of their hot afternoon romp slammed into his mind. Of course it would bother him—if he were the guy she was supposed to be committed to. “Nope. None of my business.”

“Then why’d you ask?”

The better question was: Why did he care, if she didn’t? He swallowed hard. Damn it, why? Why did just looking at her have his pulse revving, his blood thundering through his veins? She dressed more modestly than women he was used to, just a peek of leg showing from between the hem of her navy blue skirt and the top of those sexy, calf-high boots. And yet it was somehow more alluring than if she’d been wearing do-me pumps and a miniskirt.

He shook his head at the absurdity of it. He lived in Malibu. Any day of the week, a steady stream of females wearing bikinis—which left little to the imagination—roamed the beach in front of his house. But Andrea in work clothes had him hotter than a California wildfire and in a perpetual state of lust.

He squirmed in his seat, his jeans suddenly tight in all the wrong places.

She paid for their drinks, then handed him one, their hands grazing again and his heart skipping.
Look away, think of something else. Like football. Or surfing.
But as she edged out onto the road, his gaze wandered over her curve-hugging blouse, to her skirt, and lower, settling on the boots. This wasn’t the pair she’d worn the day they’d made love. Those had been tan with blue inserts. He smiled. He had the bruises to remember those boots by. These were white with tiny beige hearts. “You like boots, huh?”

She smirked. “I do. But I only buy them on sale.”

She said that as if she needed to justify spending money on something she really wanted. The women he knew spoiled themselves at every whim. He’d bet Andrea’s budget didn’t include a “whim” column.
What would she do with an unlimited credit line—like mine?
Recalling her shabby apartment building, he knew what he’d do. Find a better place to live.

That was something he’d like to do as well. Although his Malibu home was in a gated community with a guarantee of privacy, he always felt more like he was being caged in than the press being locked out. What he wouldn’t give to live somewhere like…like this town, where friendly folks were the norm, and paparazzi were rare.

The thought surprised him. He’d never even considered living in another state. Or in a small town. But this place was growing on him. Maybe it was the friendly, unpretentious residents. Maybe it was the changing seasons. Maybe it was the beautiful blonde beside him. Or maybe she just had him so mixed up he didn’t know what he wanted.

He only knew what he didn’t want: to be hounded by the press wherever he went. His gaze slid to the side view mirror, but what was he looking for? He didn’t even
know
what vehicle Rita Grace was driving, or if he could spot a car that might be following them.

Still, he turned to look out the rear window of the SUV, and that’s when he saw it. A shiny red object on the backseat right behind Andrea. He reached for it. A little boy’s toy car. A shock slammed through him. A child? The one thing that hadn’t occurred to him about Andrea was that she might be a mother.
Lucas?

Before he could ask, Andrea said, “Is that reporter following us?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I hope not. It’s bad enough that she showed up at the pie shop again this morning asking what time we’d be expecting you.”

A pain started in his chest like the reporter’s nasty little claws digging into his flesh, filling him with dread. “Well, now that she knows where my hotel is, I doubt she’ll bother with the pie shop.”

“I hope you’re right. But what if she won’t go away? She might leak stuff to her Internet news outlet and ruin any chance the pilot has of selling.”

“Exactly.” He’d been worrying about that since yesterday, but was hoping not to have to deal with it just yet.

“Isn’t there some way to make her go away. Legally, I mean?”

If only.
“Freedom of speech and all that. She’s not breaking any laws, just doing her job. So pretty much our hands are tied.”

“But she could ruin everything for all of us.”

“Reporters like her are a particular brand of ruthless. Efforts to make them go away only increase their determination to find out anything they can that is none of their business. The best thing is not to engage with her at all.”

“Well, Molly won’t let me evict her from the premises as long as she keeps buying pie and coffee. Molly is afraid she might write something negative about Big Sky Pie. And Rita is the reason we’re going to meet with the Gardeners at their shop and not ours.”

“I might have to sic Bobby on her.”

“Didn’t you think Bobby was the reason Rita came to Kalispell?”

“I could’ve been wrong about that.”

“But what if you weren’t? Aren’t you afraid what else he might tell her?”

Yeah. Hell. I don’t know.
“I don’t want to talk about her.” He tugged on his seat belt, which felt like it was strangling him. “Tell me about this couple we’re going to see. Why is everyone in the pie shop intent on making their reception perfect?”

“I’d rather they tell you themselves, since we’re here.” She pulled off the road and into the parking area of a strip mall, then drove to a space in front of The Flower Garden. “It’s a true story of enduring love and overcoming amazingly difficult obstacles to end up together.”

“Sounds like the kind of sentimental”—the look she gave him stopped him cold—“er,
hook
that has viewer appeal.” Even though he’d tempered his words, he heard the disdain in his voice and reminded himself not to show that when he met the Gardeners.

His gaze scanned the florist’s front windows, catching on the orange and black theme, interspersed with greenery and twinkle lights. “They should have named it The Pumpkin Patch.”

“Huh?”

He pointed to the display window. She smiled and shook her head. “’Tis the season.”

“Yeah, well, it’s too cutesy for my taste.” Ice undid his seat belt.

Andrea cut the engine and faced him. “I’m sure you’re used to more sophisticated florist shops, but in this part of the country, we’re pretty homespun.”

She had a point. The shop where he had a standing account in Beverly Hills was three times this size with every exotic flower imaginable. “I was expecting something larger.”

“Bigger doesn’t always mean better.”

“Well, yeah, but variety—”

“Isn’t everything. If they don’t have it in stock, they can order it.”

“But what if I wanted to walk in and buy you, say, some yellow orchids?”
Like your hair.

“Not a fan of orchids or roses or exotic flowers. I’d rather have a bouquet of spider mums.”

He couldn’t believe it. What woman didn’t love orchids or roses? This woman apparently. That off-kilter sensation swept over him again, letting him know everything he knew about women might not apply in dealing with this one.

Andrea switched the subject as handily as she released her seat belt. “A tidbit you might enjoy is that Betty and Dean fell in love as teenagers. Her maiden name was Flowers. The shop’s name is a takeoff of both their last names, a nod to their long-lasting love. I think it’s sweet.”

Ice had a different take on it. “What it is, is smart branding. No mistake about what they’re selling.”

Andrea popped the tailgate lock from a button on the dashboard. “I brought pie samples. They’re in the back.” As she reached for the door handle, her phone rang. She looked at the screen. “Molly.”