Delightful: Big Sky Pie #3 (2 page)

She blinked, startled that he knew her name. Were those mirrored aviators hiding the eyes of a guy she actually knew? Not possible. She would remember someone this hot. Then she caught her reflection in the mirrored glasses, her teal sweater…her name tag. “Yes?”

“What is that delightful scent?”

“It’s the special of the month, caramel apple pie.” She pointed toward the chalkboard menu, debating whether or not to shake some of his cockiness by telling him what Molly thought men would do after eating one bite of this pie. She smiled to herself but, in the end, decided against it. He’d probably take off running, and they needed his business. “It tastes even better than it smells.”

“I’m sure it does.” He shared a crooked, sexy-as-hell grin. “But I meant your perfume.”

Andrea rolled her eyes. Seriously? Did this line actually work for him? Hell—considering the sex appeal radiating off him—probably any line worked. “How could you smell anything but the yummy aromas coming from our kitchen?”

“I have a very discerning nose.”

“I see.” More likely she’d dumped on too much fragrance that morning in her haste to get the boys to school.

“It’s Chanel, right?”

This brought her up short. Maybe he wasn’t a lowbrow Neanderthal after all. Most of the guys she dated couldn’t decipher cologne from air freshener. The scent she wore was an old one, the bottle given to her mother and regifted to Andrea. Andrea seldom spent money on herself and never for luxury items like expensive perfume. The boys’ needs came first. Always. “What are you? A perfume salesman?”

He chuckled and leaned back in the chair, looking her up and down. “No one’s ever called me that before.”

A slew of things he probably had been called popped to mind and made her smile. His corresponding grin said he’d like to eat her up, and her body responded with a “Hell, yes!” Rattled, she escaped to the coffee bar for his espresso.

Suzilynn pushed her glasses up her nose and whispered, “He’s hot…for an old guy.”

Hot and a half, Andrea thought, but acted as if she hadn’t really noticed his eye-candy delightfulness. “You think?”

“Yeah, I think. Who is he?”

A slick, smart-ass, Donnie Lovette clone.
She shrugged. “Dunno. Some Mirrored Aviators, just passing through.”

“Really?” Suzilynn’s eyebrows rose above the frame of her glasses. “Then how come he’s taking photos of the café and everything?”

Andrea glanced toward Harley Cowboy and received another heart jolt. “I didn’t see a camera.”

“He was using his phone and texting.” Suzilynn’s eyes rounded, a sure sign her imagination was about to run wild. “I bet he’s some spy, checking out the competition.”

“I doubt it.” She dismissed the teenager’s ridiculous suggestion and turned back to the espresso machine, reaching for his cup. But what if Suzilynn was on to something? Andrea shifted around quickly and caught him lowering his cell. A squiggle of unease wound through her. Could he be here scouting out this shop with plans to open something similar down the street in an attempt to run Molly out of business? On the surface, the idea seemed ludicrous, but given that receipts were dropping by the day, she couldn’t shake it off. They were barely covering expenses.

“I’ll find out.” Suzilynn started toward Mirrored Aviators.

“No.” Andrea caught her by the arm. “You can’t just ask him.”

“Why not?” The teenager gaped at her.

Andrea handed Suzilynn the espresso cup. “Take him this and get his pie order. And that’s all.”

Suzilynn was back a minute later. “He wants the special à la mode, but he wants you to deliver it.”

Of course he does.
She plated a slice of the caramel apple pie, heated it, then topped it with a scoop of cinnamon ice cream. The aroma snaked into her like erotic incense. Too bad its magical powers didn’t include making a man tell the truth. She carried the dessert to his table.

She meant to ask if he needed anything else, but heard herself saying, “I know what you’re doing.”

“You do?” He seemed amused by the statement. “What gave me away?”

She raked a smoldering gaze the length of him, hoping to make him squirm. Like he’d made her squirm. “The way you’re dressed, for one thing.”

He glanced at his attire, then at her. “I don’t get the connection.”

“Oh, you get it.”

“I do?”

The more amused he became, the more her anger spiked. “If you do anything to hurt Molly McCoy or this business, you’ll have me to answer to.”

He made a rumbling noise that sounded like suppressed laughter and that sparked hot shivers through her.

He said, “In that case, I won’t do that.”

“Make sure you don’t.”

He lifted his phone and snapped a photo of her. Andrea reared back, lost her balance, grabbed at air, and caught the tablecloth. As she pitched bottom-first to the floor, she watched the pie à la mode jump, then take flight, and drop into Mirrored Aviators’ lap, the dish landing at his boots with a clatter. He swore, leaped from his chair, and cried, “Cut! Did you get that, Berg?”

“Of course I did.” The redheaded dude slipped from the booth. “Wait ’til you see the footage. It’s amazing.”

Andrea, legs askew, skirt hiked up her thighs, realized she was giving these guys more than a little shot of her unmentionables. She scrambled to her feet, resisting the urge to rub her sore behind. “What the hell are you talking about?”

As Mirrored Aviators swiped at the front of his pants with a damp tea towel provided by Suzilynn, Berg pointed to the shelf beneath the chalk blackboard. Andrea’s eyes widened. A camera. And another beside the cash register. Why had Suzilynn allowed that? She spun toward her counter girl to ask, but the teenager was cleaning up the mess and Baby Face was helping. Flirty glances and giggles passed between them. It was all the answer Andrea needed. He’d diverted Suzilynn so “Berg” could position the cameras.

Andrea’s hands landed on her hips, murder filling her heart. She spun on Mirrored Aviators. “Who are you?”

He grinned and extended his card. “Ice Erikksen. My partner, Bobby Bergman. Ice Berg Productions. We’re in charge of making the pilot for the reality show. And thanks to you, Andrea, we just got a sweet opening sequence.”

I
ce Erikksen leaned over the iPad, reviewing the video taken yesterday in the pie shop. He stalled the clip on the sexy blonde with the hard-on-inducing curves and legs that could welcome a man to Heaven. His body responded accordingly. He enlarged the image, the close-up shot of her hot ass, and grinned. “This place has definite appeal, Berg.”

Bobby emerged from the bathroom wearing boxers and the pained expression of a man hung over. He glanced at the screen and sighed. “My wife would cut off my balls for the thoughts racing through your mind right now.”

“That’s why she’s your ex,” Ice said a little more harshly than he might have if her loss to Bobby had been a bad thing. But it was the smartest move his buddy had made in a long while. A social-climbing, world-class bitch, she’d set her sights on Ice first, wanting him for all the wrong reasons. When she realized that wasn’t going to happen, she’d gone after Bobby, thinking he might be a means into Ice’s inner circle. She didn’t understand that Ice was an island, cut loose from all ties to his famous family, who had legally changed his name to keep him safe from fame-by-association seekers like her. Just thinking about her pissed him off. She was one more reason he was never getting married.

Not that he needed another reason.

What really bugged him, though, was how she’d discovered his true identity. He guarded that secret like the Colonel did his original chicken recipe. Bobby swore he hadn’t been the leak, and Ice wanted to believe him…because if he found out that was a lie, this partnership was toast.

“What do you think?” Ice asked, leaning back in the suite chair, stockinged-feet crossed at the ankles. He took a long drag of his favorite morning heart charge, a venti Caffè  Mocha, grateful that Starbucks was everywhere—even in the uncivilized wilds of Montana.

Bobby rubbed the stubble on his chin, his bloodshot gaze shifting to Ice. “I think this is the least prepared we’ve ever been. No loglines, no script. Not even a rough outline.”

“Yeah, well, having someone offer to sponsor the pilot negated any need for those things. And it gave me time to wrap up the final cut on
Bikini Barristas of Malibu
.”

Bobby’s grin was X-rated. “I really thought that was cash in the bank. Can’t believe how fast studios have passed on it.”

“Not all of them. ID TV is still considering.”

“The Investigative Discovery channel?” Bobby plopped into the chair, his jeans and shirt rumpled as if he’d slept in them. He smirked. “Yeah, I suppose it’s appropriate. There’s a lot to investigate and discover.”

Ice took another slug of coffee, welcoming the kick of caffeine. “Seriously, if sex doesn’t sell, what do you think of the potential for this pilot now that you’ve seen Big Sky Pie?”

Bobby stood and zipped his fly, then dug in his duffle for a fresh T-shirt emblazoned with the Ice Berg Productions logo. “It’s a great title for a reality show.”

“That’s true.” Ice nodded. “And…redneck is the new black.”

“Shit yes.” Bobby sat back down and pulled on socks. “From Monster Hunters to Honey Boo Boo, and Duck Dynasty, why not a Montana pie shop?”

“What angle do you think we should take in the story?”

Bobby grew thoughtful. “I’m not sure. My main concern is that everyone we’ve met so far seems too…nice. ‘Nice’ don’t sell.”

“Ah, come on. Everyone is always on their best behavior when we first show up. That’s why we didn’t walk in and announce ourselves yesterday. I wanted to capture something genuine and unguarded.”

“And boy, did we.” Bobby tied the laces of his sneakers.

Ice glanced at the iPad screen again, at Andrea’s enticing curves. “Their true colors will come out once we dig down to the bottom of the pot and give it a few good stirs. During the interviews today, see if you can figure out what the moral code is or should be, and who is following it, and who is breaking it.”

“And who will make the most appealing villain.”

The sexy blonde sprawled on the floor with her skirt hiked to her hips flashed through his mind. She hadn’t apologized for dumping pie and ice cream on his jeans. Just given him a sassy glare. She might make a great villain. And a hell of a lot more.

The thought shocked him.

Ice pulled his gaze from her delightful image on his iPad, reminding himself of
Rule 1
in the reality series game:
No fraternizing with the cast.
That included making friends with benefits. Nope. That was a mistake he wouldn’t repeat. As tempting as Andrea Lovette was, he’d rather pay for sex than deal with the complications of a relationship, even a temporary one.

Rule 2: See Rule 1.

People, he’d learned, were all the same. Rich or poor. Famous or unknown. They all wanted fame and money. Fame usually more than money. As if being a celebrity would make their lives better. He could tell them otherwise, but he knew they wouldn’t believe him.
It is what it is.
A huge steaming pile of bullshit.

“You’re doing it again, Erikksen.”

“What?” Ice tossed a puzzled glance at Bobby.

“Sneering like a cynic.”

“I’m just a realist.”

He thought he caught a look of pity in his partner’s eyes, but Bobby clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “Nope.” Bobby chortled. “You just need to get laid.”

Andrea leaned on the frame of the office door, taking a break from her bookkeeping, and listening to the kitchen staff chattering about their two favorite subjects. Guys and pies. Her own mind had been on one guy in particular since yesterday. Ice Erikksen. She made a face. The thought of the humiliation he’d handed her still rankled. A decent guy would have been up front about who he was. Just one more reason to dislike him.

And yet recalling that hot gaze that could melt the very thing he’d been named, she knew she didn’t dislike him. A warm thrum stirred inside her. Without thinking, she blurted out, “Who names their son ‘Ice’ anyway?”

“There is no accounting for some mothers’ tastes,” Molly said, looking up from the Granny Smith apples she was slicing over a huge ceramic bowl. The bowl contained a mixture of sugar, nutmeg, salt, and cinnamon.

“He’s from Los Angeles, the land of kids named after fruits and nuts.” BiBi Hendersen, assistant pastry chef, glanced over her shoulder. A small, big-eyed brunette with a pixie haircut, she stood at the sink, peeling and coring green apples. A new tattoo glowed red at her wrist. A single word.
Defiance.
“I know. I grew up there.”

“Nick and I won’t be naming our child after a food item.” Jane Wilson Taziano, head pastry chef and an artist with piecrusts, rolled a mound of dough to the perfect round, a task made harder every day by her advancing pregnancy. Pink flooded her face and spread into her strawberry blond roots as if she’d said something politically incorrect. “We’re only considering normal family names.”

Since Jane’s mother’s name was Rebel, Andrea couldn’t help wondering just what Jane considered a normal family name. But she hadn’t asked the question about Ice’s name to criticize anyone. She hadn’t meant to voice that question at all. It had just spilled out.

What was wrong with her that she was expending so much energy thinking about a man that she had no intention of getting to know beyond the filming of the pilot? He was the walking-one-night-stand kind of trouble she didn’t want or need, but couldn’t usually resist. Dread for today’s meeting swam in her stomach.

“What time is Ice Berg Productions due to arrive this morning?” She tried to sound casual, but heard the tremor in her voice.

“Yeah,” BiBi said, “I want my hair and makeup camera-ready. Or wait, are they bringing makeup and hair people for the filming? Does anyone know?”

Jane blushed. “I might have a doctor’s appointment today. I need to check my schedule.”

Andrea tensed. The film crew weren’t even here yet and they were causing stress. She went to the pastry chef’s side. Jane was shy. Having her pie-making skills praised was one thing, but a camera following her every move? A sure recipe for disaster. “It’s going to be okay, Jane. Just be yourself and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

Jane peered up at her, a smudge of flour on her nose, looking anything but convinced. “What if I say something stupid? I don’t want to embarrass Nick, or my folks.”

“That’s what editing is for,” Molly said, setting aside the paring knife and reaching for a large wooden spoon. “I’ll tell Mr. Erikksen and Mr. Bergman that we don’t want anything in the pilot that reflects badly on one or the other of us. I’m sure they’ll cooperate.”

A choking sound issued from BiBi. Andrea’s brows arched. Either their boss was getting high on the fumes of sugar and cinnamon as she stirred the finely sliced apples into the mixture, or she had just out-and-out lied—something as alien to Molly McCoy as dancing the tango in a country-western bar.

“Stupid is good for ratings,” BiBi said, gathering the apple peelings into a garbage receptacle and then scrubbing the freshly skinned Granny Smiths. “Trust me, the more drama they can squeeze out of us, the better the chances are that some network bigwigs will option the show. Then we’ll be lining our pockets with the kind of dough that I can spend on a new car.”

Molly scowled at the assistant pastry chef as though she’d like to find a roll of duct tape and seal her mouth shut. Andrea had had that same reaction herself, but this time, BiBi wasn’t in the wrong. The conversation frayed her last nerve. She headed to the café for some coffee.

It was Monday, the usual “closed” day for the pie shop, and there were no customers. The pies being readied in the kitchen today were for a special order. The last of this month’s special orders.

Worry crept through her as she filled a mug with coffee and added cream for the sake of her stomach. Her mind reeled. Would this Hollywood solution blow up in their faces like the crazy stunt that it was? Or would the pilot get sold and put the shop back in the black? And if it did, would the show change everyone’s lives in ways that none of them expected? The latter was her biggest fear.

But Molly seemed intent on denying the chaos that reality shows thrived on, despite being a self-professed fan of the genre. She had to know that if this pilot was to sell to a network, it would need to include a lot of juicy gossip, snarky sound bites, and embarrassing moments—like the embarrassing moment she’d had yesterday spilling pie on Ice and landing on her behind.

She came into the kitchen as Molly was saying, “I plan for our reality show to be real, and to reflect the harmony in my pie shop, and to show that our delightful desserts bring the Montana community together in a family-friendly atmosphere.”

“No offense, Ms. McCoy,” BiBi said, “but this isn’t an ad for Big Sky Pie.”

“No, dear, but it can be.”

BiBi glanced away, then back at Molly, her lips pursed in disbelief. “Well, then, I hope for your sake it doesn’t turn out that they expect some nitty-gritty, redneck-female, back-stabbing bitchiness.”

Molly’s mouth snapped shut. Andrea knew she’d put all her eggs in this pilot basket, and the set of her shoulders said she didn’t want to hear anything that hinted at what a huge mistake that might be. It spoke volumes, Andrea realized, about how worried she actually was over the falling receipts. Molly began filling the readied pans with the apple mixture she’d made, and Jane started rolling out the top crusts.

“I’ll take that next batch of apples if they’re ready, BiBi,” Molly said. “You can help me make dumplings.”

The chatter died off to a normal pie production discussion, measuring ingredients, rolling pin clicks, and soft music floating over the room from the CD player. Andrea returned to the closet-sized office. She sank onto the desk chair, sipping coffee, considering what she could do to help the shop’s bottom line. An idea occurred to her. She closed QuickBooks and pulled up the special events folder on the computer. The few items stood out in bold lettering against a sea of empty calendar squares. Disheartening. But she found the best way to fight discouragement was with action. She read her notes on potential customers who’d consulted her in the past month, and her training in the real estate office kicked in. She had been the master of follow-up phone calls. She began jotting down numbers.

The noise level in the workroom suddenly amped up three octaves, like a crowd cheering at a football arena, sending a jolt through Andrea. She dropped her pen. It took another second to realize that Ice Berg Productions had arrived. She rose to shut the door, but Molly gestured for her to join them. With reluctance, she did.

Bobby Bergman looked as though he’d been rode hard and put away wet. His red hair hid beneath a Rams baseball cap, but even the shadow of its brim couldn’t block the streaky redness in his eyes or the gray pallor of his tanned skin. Ice, however, sauntered in as cool as a winter breath. His magnetic gaze swept the room and landed on her. Andrea felt a flash jab through her, something like a fork of lightning—hot, electric, terrifying—rendering her weak-kneed and too aware of his gaze on her cleavage.

If she could blink herself home, she’d be back at her closet choosing something button-to-the-chin chaste to wear. Like a turtle-necked muumuu.
Is there such a thing?
She rubbed her hand down the second-skin jeans she’d loved at first try-on, wishing she’d chosen something in a dark, gloomy color to complement them instead of her sunny yellow sweater. The one with the too-low neckline that hugged the body she’d worked so hard to get back and maintain after having her second son.

She swallowed and mentally bitch-slapped herself. She wouldn’t give a hoot that she was wearing this if some other guy, any guy but Ice Erikksen, was the one taking her measure. She could have opted for something Amish just to keep him from glancing her way, but why should she change who she was for the sake of some guy who couldn’t keep his sexy gaze to himself?

As Baby Face came through the back door, a ginormous camera on his shoulder, Ice said, “Flynn, I want some film of the staff putting these pies together.”

“Sure.” Flynn adjusted some of the wires that snaked down into a fanny pack around his waist. Someone else came in with a klieg light, and the room lit up as if the sun had burned away the roof. Everyone flinched like criminals about to be interrogated.