Delightful: Big Sky Pie #3 (9 page)

Her resolve wobbled, her grasp on the situation slipping through her fingers. But she couldn’t think when he looked at her like this, when she wanted to feel his mouth on hers, his arms around her, his body pressed close.

He came toward her. “Can’t think of anything?”

“Yes. I can.” But nothing was coming to her. Nothing she’d say to him.

He’d backed her into a corner, heat issuing off him, making her panties wet and her heart thunder. She felt like a moth fluttering toward a killing light. If she wasn’t careful, she might let him strip her naked right here, just to extinguish the flame that burned for him. So much for being in control of any area of her life. She was a screwed-up mess.

He groaned her name, shoved his hands into her hair, and captured her mouth in a brain-tingling explosion of lust. She wanted to claw his clothes off and climb on top of him, right here, right now in the pie shop. He broke off the kiss, panting, his forehead to hers. “What is it about you…”

Andrea couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t answer, despite realizing the question was rhetorical. A clatter sounded in the hallway.
Oh, my God, Wade was back.
They jumped apart and moved several feet away from each other, Ice readjusting his pants, she straightening her sweater and licking her kiss-swollen lips. Flynn came in first, but the male voice behind him was not Wade’s. And she could hear Molly, too.

“It’s the freezer guy,” Flynn said, clueing them in as he swung the camera to his shoulder and aimed it toward the doorway.

Charlie Mercer and a noisy hand truck appeared a moment later, with Molly following, squawking like an irate mama bird berating a predator who’d tried to rob her nest. The fact was that Charlie had sort of robbed the nest by selling her a faulty freezer. If the cause of its death was natural. She caught a silent exchange between Ice and Flynn that roused her suspicions all over again.

Charlie nodded to the others as he spotted them.

“I’m here for the freezer,” he announced, apparently not realizing everyone knew that already. Andrea stood to one side, gathering her composure, measuring this ebullient man with a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair, a matching mustache, and the most honest face Andrea had ever seen. Was that face his perfect conman’s tool? The reason people bought his sales pitches? Or was he what he seemed?

He moved the hand truck to the upright freezer. “Molly, I swear to you I had no idea this would happen. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

“Humph.
You’re
sorry?” Sarcasm and sorrow twisted through her words. “I’ve lost my winter pies if I can’t find that fruit elsewhere. That’s a huge loss for a new business, Charlie Mercer.”

“Damn. I hadn’t considered that, Molly.” He looked so genuinely upset and sympathetic that Andrea wondered if he actually was. “In deference to my friendship with Jimmy, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay for half your losses. Will that help?”

Molly looked as though she was about to tell him what Jimmy really thought of him and that he should pay for all of her loss, but Andrea could see his offer was slowly sinking in. Half was better than nothing, and the insurance might cover the rest. Molly lifted her chin, her expression softening as she gazed up at him. In that moment, Andrea realized Charlie had a thing for Molly, and Molly knew it. Maybe he always had. Maybe that was why Jimmy trash-talked Charlie to his wife. “Why, Charlie, that’s a very nice offer, and I’m going to accept.”

Andrea could almost hear Molly thinking,
But only because you sold me a bill of goods and deserve to pay for the damage it caused.
Molly, however, was obviously smart enough to know when to keep her opinion to herself.

Or maybe she realized the camera was on, that she was playing to an audience, and giving them “sentimental crap” would make this pilot sell.

“Don’t settle for a tiny slice of the pie, son, not when you can have the whole bloody thing.”

His father’s decades-old advice scrolled through Ice’s mind like credits on a screen as he handled the old digital camera as if it were an Oscar bestowed on him by his peers. It had been a present on his seventh birthday, a gift from his internationally acclaimed director father, Ivan Magnus Whittendale. At the time, Ice felt as though he’d been given the keys to the kingdom. In a way, he had. For this “key” released the evil genie that turned his happy boyhood into a wasteland.

His gaze flicked around the hotel suite. He should get moving. Bobby and Flynn were already at the pie shop, but he’d slept in, ordered breakfast sent up, and was lingering over a last cup of coffee. He’d needed to be alone. To sort through the unrest this shoot was causing him, the sentimental homesick feeling that he couldn’t even explain. Like wanting to phone his mother.

As if she’d take his call. Instead he’d reached for this camera as a reminder of all the reasons that calling her would be unwise. He hadn’t understood his father’s advice at seven years old, but he soon understood it too well. When the dust had settled, he’d found himself stowed away in a private boys’ school in Northern California, his name legally changed to Ian Craig Erikksen, the latter being his mother’s maiden name.

They’d done it for his sake, the lawyer told him. To keep the scandal from tainting him in any way.
So that nosy reporters couldn’t hunt me down and get the real story, more likely.
From his prospective, he might’ve been abandoned on the moon. His father blamed him for the divorce, for the loss of his “box office gold.” That was what he’d called Ian’s mother, a genuine movie star adored by the world, whose presence in a movie guaranteed a hit every single time. His adoring mother could no longer stand to look at Ian because, except for having her blond hair, he was the image of his father.

He didn’t know any of this then. All he knew was that he’d done something bad, and it had cost him everything he cared about. Sitting in his dorm room, scribbling his new initials over and over, he’d realized they spelled “ice” and how apropos that was for how he felt inside, like a frozen block where there used to be a soft, fuzzy warmth. He never celebrated another birthday, never allowed himself to even consider getting involved with someone, friend or lover, who might demand a piece of his heart. Even Berg was expendable. As far as Ice was concerned, love was the nastiest four-letter word in the dictionary.

But here he was, feeling something he couldn’t name, for a woman he didn’t know.

Not that the unwanted stirrings for Andrea were love. Hell no. But whatever they were, he couldn’t seem to shake loose of them. Normally sex had the opposite effect. If he nailed a woman who’d roused his libido, the minute it was over, he could walk away without a backward glance. No regrets. No second timers.
No strings.
Andrea’s words taunted him. Why couldn’t he stop thinking about her, wanting her? Why had he hated the smiles she’d been exchanging with that hammer jockey?

His body grew hard just thinking about their kiss in the pie shop. Damn it.

At times like this, he wished he had someone to talk to. But this was not a conversation for his mother. He lifted his phone and went on the Internet. His parents had moved past the scandal eventually, married others, had other children. Children they seemed to love. Ice had met none of them. He wasn’t included in family holidays or get-togethers. His choice as much as theirs. If ever he felt like catching up on his parents or stepsiblings, he only had to visit an online celebrity gossip site. None of their names jumped out at him today.

But something else did. A featured story. Dread and ire swirled in his gut as he read:

Y
ou could take a trip with those bags under your eyes,” Zoe told Andrea the next morning. “Some concealer should do the trick. Whenever your eyes look this puffy, though, try some cucumber slices.”

Or I could try not to have erotic dreams about a certain director.
Andrea yawned. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

Zoe daubed cover-up under Andrea’s eyes; brandished her mascara wand, blush brush, and lipstick; then stepped back to gauge her handiwork. “That’s better. Dark circles gone.”

Andrea went into the ladies’ room to check that Zoe hadn’t gone overboard. She removed a bit of the eyeliner and tamed her hair to something that resembled her usual style. Ice Berg Productions would have hidden cameras in the café today to catch exchanges with the staff and customers. Apparently they needed some everyday activity to supplement the scripted materials. And if any of the customers proved interesting, they would contact them for a possible recurring role in future episodes should the pilot actually sell.

Bobby and Flynn were just securing the hidden microphone at the counter. Molly would not allow any at tables or in booths. No one wanted to be sued for invading someone’s privacy. Andrea set about her morning routine, switching on the music, starting the coffee and espresso, putting clean tablecloths on each table, filling the condiment holders, checking the cash register, and finally looking over the display case. Brand-new fruit pies, cream pies, and a variety of tarts and cobblers filled the shelves. The air was scented with the perfume of fresh-baked apples and caramel.

Andrea had decorated the coffee counter with a tiny pumpkin, a witch, and a fake spider to commemorate Halloween.

“Place looks great,” Molly said.

“Yep.” Now if some customers would show up. “Oh, hey, I have a surprise for you.”

Molly winced as if in pain. “I’ve had enough surprises lately, thank you very much.”

“This is a great one.”

That brought an immediate twinkle into Molly’s bright blue eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron and gave an encouraging nod. “Well, I like the sound of that. Did you book a date with Wade?”

“No.” Andrea laughed, then remembered the hidden cameras and hoped they weren’t already rolling. She didn’t want her dating life on tape. “My mom treated the boys and me to dinner last night at that new diner across town. I noticed their dessert menu was sorely lacking. The waitress overheard Mom say they should carry some of your pies and mentioned that to the manager. Long story short, they want to offer Big Sky Pie desserts in their diner.”

Instead of a smile, Molly reacted as though Andrea had struck her, stepping back and frowning. “But won’t we lose customers who would come to this café for dessert by offering our pies elsewhere?”

“Well…” Andrea couldn’t swear that wouldn’t happen. “We might at first, but in the long run, it will put our brand out there and give folks more reason to come here when they aren’t eating at that diner.”

Molly pursed her lips, thinking it over, then nodded. “I guess that makes sense. Okay, then. I’ll leave the pricing up to you and Quint. Just remember we need to make a profit, too.”

Andrea never forgot the bottom line. “In regard to that, we won’t be delivering the pies, they will come here and pick them up. That saves us the cost of fuel and a delivery person. And they aren’t going to ‘special order’ anything to begin with either. They’ve agreed to make their selection from whatever we’re already producing on any given week or month.”

The last of the frown between Molly’s brows eased away, and she was nodding her head, smiling. “The more I think about this, the more I like it. If it works out, we might be able to expand on it down the road. Good job, Andrea. Oh, they will use some sort of signage or mention on their menu of Big Sky Pie, right?”

“I have Callee doing placards like she makes for our display case.”

“Sounds like you’ve got everything under control. Let’s get this place open. We have pies to sell.”

Bobby and Flynn had settled into the middle booth, heads together over an iPad and coffee. Andrea left them to it, taking care of her own chores. She raised the blinds, unlocked the door, and found two cars parked in the lot. The customers exited their cars at the same time.

“’Bout time you opened up this morning, Andrea.”

She wasn’t sure which one had said it, but she offered a cheery smile, genuinely glad to see them. “It’s the same time as always.”

She welcomed them inside and took their order, bringing them coffee and cobblers. Another customer arrived. A stranger. A lean brunette in her early thirties, Andrea estimated, wearing black slacks and a tank top with a black cardigan. Large glasses perched on a hawkish nose. She took a seat in a corner near the window, balancing on the edge of the chair like she might dart off at any given moment.
How curious.
She set a laptop on the table, and Andrea guessed she might be a writer. She ordered coffee and a lemon tart.

A half hour later, Sharla Tucker, the chamber of commerce’s director of special events, came in. A big woman unafraid of bold color, loud jewelry, or big hair, she gave Andrea a warm greeting. “We’re surprising the mayor today for his birthday, and that man does love Molly McCoy’s pies. What would you recommend?”

“Well, this month’s specialty is the Granny Smith caramel apple pie, but we also have a spicy pumpkin rum pie.”

“Ohhh. That’s sounds naughty, but yummy.” Sharla’s finely painted brows twitched, and a smutty smile spread across her face. She perused the display case and its delightful selection of desserts. “Hmm. Which would the mayor like best? You know what? I’m going to take your suggestions and get both the apple and the pumpkin rum just to be on the safe side.”

As Sharla left with two Big Sky Pie boxes, Andrea began to hum quietly to herself, her mood lifting. She’d just closed the cash register when a familiar voice said, “Hey, Andrea. Long time no see.”

It took her a second to realize the man standing across from her was Dave Vernon, aka Dave the Realtor. She barely recognized him. He must have lost thirty pounds and gained a lot of muscle. Even his dark brown hair looked different, longer, yet more stylish than his preferred crew cut.

“Well, hi, Dave. I think the last time I saw you was when you closed the deal on Callee and Quint’s house.” While she worked for Quint, she’d speak to or see Dave at least every week or so. He was a hardworking realtor, nose-to-the-grindstone kind of guy with a quirky sense of humor. “You’re looking very fit.”

The compliment seemed to make him ill at ease. He shifted on his feet and glanced around, tugging at his tie like a guy wanting to ask a woman a serious, perhaps embarrassing, question. She couldn’t even guess what he wanted. “Would you like some pie or coffee? Or both?”

The question seemed to make him more uncomfortable. He toyed with the ring on his right hand, a realtor’s ring, she knew. “Coffee, I guess.”

“Have you tried Molly’s pies?”

He sighed, regret heavy on his face. “Can’t. Sugar diabetes. I don’t suppose Molly makes any sugar-free pies?”

Andrea shook her head, but the suggestion wasn’t lost on her. This was another way to expand the pie shop’s business. “Not at this time, but I think she has plans for that.”

The lie wasn’t meant to hurt, but to keep, a potential customer. It was a great idea. She would mention it to Molly and let her and her chefs take it from there.

Dave accepted the coffee from her, remaining at the counter while she refilled the other customers’ cups. When she got back and started a fresh pot of coffee, Dave said, “I heard a rumor.”

“A rumor?” Andrea straightened and stared at him, waiting for him to expand. When that didn’t happen, she said, “About?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it.” He worked at the knot in his tie again.

“There’s no pretending you didn’t already mention it, Dave. So out with it. What rumor?”

His face got a little pink. “It seems like a fool thing now that I’m here and can see no such thing is going on.”

A weird fluttering started in Andrea’s stomach. Was there some sort of rumor going around town about the pie shop? Like rats in the cold room? Bugs in the food? Drugs or something? Small town. Smaller mind-set sometimes. Everyone keying in on gossip and spreading falsehoods across the county. Was that the reason sales had fallen off? She dragged Dave over to the end booth and made him sit, aware that the cameras might see them, but that whatever rumor was out there wouldn’t be recorded. “You’d better tell me what this rumor is right now, Dave Vernon.”

The shock of being dragged to the booth kept him quiet for a minute more, then he lowered his voice to a whisper. “I heard there’s a reality show being filmed in this pie shop. I laughed it off, but my source insisted it was true, said it’s even on the Internet.”

“What?” Holy cow. Andrea let the impact of that sink in and wondered if it accounted for this morning’s sudden rush of customers. As she thought about it now, she realized that everyone who’d come in seemed to be smiling too much, fussing with their clothes, their hair…as though they might be on camera at some point.

 She groaned inwardly.

“It isn’t true, is it?”

Andrea sighed. If she confirmed it to Dave, the news would spread like wildfire. They didn’t want that. She rolled her eyes as though the very idea were ludicrous. “What do you think?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He grinned and drank his coffee. “You know, that apple pie smells so darned good, I wish I could eat it, but since I can’t, I still think I’d like to take one back to the office for my staff. Then they’ll know for sure that I checked out the rumor with the source.” He handed her a ten-dollar bill.

She boxed the pie and brought it and his change to the booth, sitting with Dave for a few more minutes.

Dave asked her about her boys and offered her sympathy over Lucas’s broken arm. “I don’t suppose you’d like to have a drink some night, if I gave you a call?”

She quirked her head, pleasure and wonder skipping through her. Wasn’t Dave full of surprises today? She hadn’t ever considered him dating material, but then, like Wade Reynolds, he’d never set off her bad-boy meter. She found she didn’t hate the idea of meeting him for a drink and gave him her number. “Call me, and we’ll work something out that suits both our schedules.”

As she watched Dave walk out, she felt her bad-boy antennae start to vibrate. But it wasn’t Dave. This was coming from behind her. Ice. Had he seen her handing Dave the slip of paper with her phone number on it? Overheard her accept a tentative date? She hoped so. Maybe that would discourage his advances and the desire for him that haunted her waking hours and her sleeping ones.

This town was full of a lot of nice guys that, until now, she’d never considered getting to know better. But she intended to start. She couldn’t go on the way she was—always getting caught up with a guy who didn’t make her feel good about herself except for that space of time when they were having sex.

Ice moved up behind her. “We have a problem.”

If he was talking about her dating life, which was none of his business, then that was an understatement. She spun around to find him closer than she’d calculated. His gaze was like a slate blue storm cloud, and intense anger wafted off him in waves.

“That steam billowing from your nostrils better not be rage directed at me.”

“Someone leaked to the press about the reality show.”

“I just heard, but it wasn’t me.”

“Didn’t think it was.”

“The site that originated the news is located in Hollywood. I’m pretty sure the leak is in my own crew.”

The glare he cast at Bobby and Flynn gave her a chill. It didn’t bode well for an ongoing partnership. “Do you really think either of them would betray you that way?”

The conflict in his eyes said he didn’t know for sure, but she knew that his believing it even for a second had already damaged friendship and partnership. She advised, “If I were you, I wouldn’t accuse anyone, just ask nicely if they’re aware of it. Don’t make accusations you can’t prove. What if you’re wrong?”

He blinked. She’d penetrated his ire, but he was still too furious to calm down. “Go outside, walk off the mad, then speak to Bobby.”

The brunette in the corner rose, shoving at her glasses and heading straight for them. Her laptop was still on the table. Andrea assumed she wanted more coffee or another tart. She started toward the woman, but the woman wasn’t interested in her. She wanted to speak to Ice. “Aren’t you Ian Craig Whittendale?”

Ice paled beneath his tan, a stunned expression spreading over his handsome face.

Andrea froze, gaping at Ice, at the woman, and back at Ice. Had this woman been waiting for Ice to come in? Was this connected with the Internet leak, or about something else? Had she called him Whittendale? But Ice didn’t answer the woman. He turned and headed into the kitchen. The woman tried to follow, but Andrea cut her off. “I’m sorry. Everything from here back is employees only.”

“Like he’s an employee. Not. Son of the rich and famous, that’s who he is. He can run, but he can’t hide. I will find him.”

Andrea plastered on a smile. “Can I get you something else?”

“Sure, I’ll take another one of those tarts.”

Andrea wished the woman would take a hike, but kicking out paying customers wasn’t taking care of the bottom line. She wanted to hunt Ice down herself at that moment to find out who this woman was and why she’d called him Ian Whittendale. What was that all about? She brought the brunette the coffee and another tart, pumpkin this time.

She wanted answers and realized, instead of Ice providing them, perhaps she could ask this woman. “So what brings you to our little town, if you don’t mind my curiosity?”

“I’m a reporter for CEN, Celebrity Entertainment News in Los Angeles.” She passed a card to Andrea. Rita Grace.

“And you think Mr. Erikksen is a celebrity?”

“Honey, I don’t know what line he’s fed you, but he is the real deal. The firstborn son of Ilse Craig and Magnus Whittendale. I’m writing an unofficial biography about his family, and he’s my missing link. He knows all about the scandal that broke his parents up when he was a kid. I only need a few minutes of his time. Do you think you could arrange that?”