Sugar Rush (19 page)

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Authors: Donna Kauffman

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary

BOOK: Sugar Rush
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Maybe it was the thrumming in her ears, but his voice sounded a bit gruff. She decided it wasn’t wise to think about that. Or how badly she’d wanted, in that expanded moment of silence between them, for him to kiss her again. So much so, she ached with it. “Ah, yes.” She forced the image, the idea, from her head, looking to where he was pointing. “That’s the place.”
He walked a step ahead of her, leading the way, brushing the sand from the bench seat when they arrived under the open-sided, wood-beamed pavilion. Moving around to the other side, he took a seat for himself—putting the wide planked wood table neatly between them.
He popped the lid off the thermos to reveal another smaller cup under it. He filled both, and she reached for the smaller one.
She took a savoring sip, then groaned in bliss. “How is it better than I remember, when what I remember is nectar of the gods?”
“I know,” Baxter agreed, after taking his own first sip. “If he wasn’t such a good pastry chef, I’d hire him as my own personal barista and have him follow me around all day and produce this on demand.”
“You know, the perks of celebrity are starting to look better to me all the time,” she said, enjoying the heady scent as it filled the air.
He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “I won’t deny, there are a few. Although I haven’t let it go so far to my head that I’ve taken to hiring personal personnel, if you know what I mean. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do retain a maid service for my home. Since I’m never in residence, I suspect I’m the easiest client they have.”
“I’m ashamed to admit I’ve thought about it.” She laughed. “They’d probably charge me extra. Things tend to lie where dropped for far longer than I promise myself they will when I drop them.”
“You keep saying you’re a bit of a sloth, but knowing your work methods, I find that hard to believe.”
“You ran a tight ship.”
“I’m motivated to never let the health department cite a single violation.”
“I’m pretty sure they make some of them up, just out of spite.”
“I’m not doubting you’re wrong. Which is why I take great personal pleasure thwarting even the most overactive imaginations amongst them.”
She laughed, and took another sip. “And here I thought you were just a Felix.”
“Felix?”
“Unger. From
The Odd Couple
? Broadway play turned into iconic movie starring Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, then a television show in the seventies? Still in reruns, I’m sure.”
“Sorry. Can’t say as I followed the cinema or telly growing up. Not that there was one, at any rate, even if I had.”
“No television? The horror,” she teased, then saw that his brief smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was just kidding. Lots of kids grow up without television. Stunted emotionally and lacking all social reference, I’m sure, but nonetheless, I hear that it occurs all the time, and those poor, poor, deprived children do survive. Somehow.” She mock shuddered and finally drew a smile from him.
“I take it your experience was somewhat different, then.” His eyes warmed as the conversation shifted to her.
“My mother called me square-eyes because I spent so much time parked in front of it. In my defense, I was doing my homework at the same time.” She smiled when he merely lifted his eyebrows in question. “Okay, most of the time.” She propped her elbows on the table and cradled the warm plastic cup between her palms. “So, you probably had a childhood filled with culture and art and music and all things insufferably British, which I’m certain you cling to, mainly to make us Americans feel like the inadequate, uncultured heathens we are for deigning to vacate the royal soil and start up our own gig across the pond.”
He laughed outright at that. “Nothing so grand, I assure you. But had I known about or even considered the potential global ramifications, I’d have worked extra hard to add at least one or two of those things to my regimen.”
She was grinning as she finished her last sip. Baxter took the cup from her before she could refill it herself. His fingers brushed hers, briefly, casually, but tell that to her suddenly skittish pulse rate. You’d have thought he’d run his palms straight down her naked body, given the way her nipples had gone instantly hard and the more sensitive muscles of her inner thighs had twitched and quivered.
She took the refilled cup back, and managed to get that shivery-all-over sensation when they came into contact again. For a whole fraction of a second. That did not bode well for her newly voted in relax-and-enjoy-the-ride edict. And the on-camera kitchen time she was about to spend with him was looking especially dicey.
Yeah, she’d have to work on that. And fast.
“So, no television, no museums and art,” she said, striving to get back to the conversation. She did fine with conversation. Just ... no more touching. Or staring deeply into each other’s eyes. No more of that. “You know, come to think of it, there’s never been much press about your childhood. I’m not asking about it, it’s none of my business, but when someone gets the kind of media attention you have through your show, I’m surprised there’s not more out there on you.”
He smiled over his cup. “What, have you been Googling me?”
“No,” she retorted, rolling her eyes, “but during the time I worked with you, I was aware of the content on Gateau’s website, and—don’t let this go to your head—I read the bio stuff on your network’s website after
Hot Cakes
started. It’s sort of thin. Just this long list of your accomplishments and awards, blah blah blah.” She grinned when he raised his eyebrows. “There’s nothing fun and dishy.”
“There’s not much of interest to report, I’m afraid. I spent most of my time accumulating the accolades on that list, I suppose. The only thing dishy in my world is the food I put on the dishies.”
“Ha ha. I’m teasing, you know. That list is something to be ridiculously proud of. We all wish we had such a list.”
“I didn’t work for the accolades. Or, only as much as they helped me to keep working.”
“So ... what is the story of you? Siblings? Parents? What was your hometown? Did you grow up in London proper?”
“I thought you weren’t going to ask.”
She gave him a patented unrepentant-Charlotte-shrug. “You don’t have to answer.”
He held her gaze, and, it was only because she knew him as well as she did, enough to read even the most subtle of nuances in his facial expressions—first rule of any kitchen, always learn to read the head chef as accurately and thoroughly as possible, because not all of them communicate well—that she realized he wasn’t as comfortable as he’d been a moment ago. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “I was only teasing. It really is none of my—”
“London,” he said, easily enough. “East end. No siblings. I’d ask the same of you, but I already know you grew up in your nation’s capital city, as an only child.”
“Yes, well, you had the advantage of reading my employment documentation when I was first hired to work with you.”
He smiled. “Maybe I just paid attention. Or maybe I Googled you.”
She laughed at that. “Right, because I’m such a rock star.”
“You’ve been interviewed plenty of times, Ms. James Beard Nominee. Your list is growing. And, okay ... maybe I might have glanced at your employment forms. Once I tasted your ancho chile and cherry dark chocolate soufflé cake, with that incredible dulce de leche”—he drifted off, closed his eyes for a moment as he savored the memory—“you weren’t going to work for anybody else. Not if I had anything to say about it.” He opened his eyes, and grinned at her. “And I did.”
“Yes, well, it’s a good thing you skipped over that part in my background check about liking sharp things a little too much.”
“I must have missed that part.”
“In fifth grade home economics class, I gave Caroline Haxfield a haircut she’ll never forget.”
He chuckled. “You have a long—what do you call it?—rap sheet, do you?”
“Oh, yes, I was a delinquent of the first order.”
“I find that rather hard to believe.”
“Just ask Caroline Haxfield. I bet she’d still beg to differ.”
“Just what did Miss Haxfield do to earn her new coiff?”
“She said I cheated on my homework, that there was no way I could have made my strudel by myself. It was Great-grandmother Harper’s recipe, and it was complicated, but I made it with my own two hands. I’d done it dozens of times, right in Grandma Winnie’s kitchen in Savannah. I could have made it blindfolded. I was all ready to explain every step to the teacher during final tasting. But before she got to mine—and this was for our final grade in cooking—Caroline ‘accidentally’ knocked it on the floor and destroyed it. So, I got a failing grade. I’d never had anything less than an A in a class in my life.”
“Well, I can understand the umbrage. Let’s hope you weren’t likewise blindfolded when you relieved Miss Haxfield of her ponytail.”
“Yes, well, that too I could have done with my eyes clo—wait, how did you know I chopped off her ponytail?”
“Maybe I did read your file.”
“Okay, that was not in my file. I mean, it happened, but my dad assured me that even though Caroline’s mother called the police on me after Caroline got home that afternoon, no police report was ever filed. I’d already been sent home from school early, which if you knew me—the kid who’d never missed a single day of school—that was punishment enough. It ruined my perfect attendance record. I was ten, for God’s sake. I just had to give her all of my saved allowance so she could go get her hair professionally styled. And I know they didn’t normally go to Alexandre’s. She only went there so I’d have to give her every last penny.”
“Was it worth it?”
Lani could swear his eyes were twinkling. And maybe they were. “Every last snip and dime.”
“Well done, then.”
“So ... how did you know?”
He grinned. “Good guess.”
“Ah.” She eyed him consideringly, still not entirely sure.
“So, your grandmother was from Savannah?”
“My mom’s mother, yes. Grandma Winnie. And her mother, Great-grandmother Harper, lived here on Sugarberry. It’s where my grandmother grew up and where my mom spent most of her summers growing up. Harpers are very well respected here. Everyone loved my Grandma Winnie and my mom. And my mom has always loved the island.”
“Is that why your parents relocated here?”
“My dad was up for retirement right around the time I decided to head to Europe to study, and my mom was all done with him putting himself in danger every day. She was homesick for the South, and when she heard through an old friend that the sheriff’s position here was opening up, she pushed my dad pretty hard to go after it. She knew he wasn’t ready to stop working, she just wanted him out of the city. It’s a testament to how well loved the Harpers are that he got the job, given he’s otherwise an outsider. I know I owe a large debt to all my Sugarberry Harper forebears, and to my dad, too, for the goodwill that’s been extended to me by the locals here.”
“I can’t imagine you wouldn’t have earned it anyway.”
She smiled. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you, but I’m grateful for the hand up, nonetheless. All I have to do now is live up to it. And that’s no small thing, so it does motivate me.” She lifted her cup in salute. “Of course now, with my being responsible for bringing you here—even though I haven’t taken any credit—my future status is probably sealed.”
Instead of accepting her toast, his expression turned more serious. “You know, I can’t help thinking about what you said, about wanting to know you’d made it on your own here, and not on the back of my show, or celebrity, or any of that rubbish. You’ve decided to be a good sport, and I appreciate it, deeply, but I still feel sorry that I’ve interceded where you—”
“Baxter, it’s okay. No,” she said, when he started to argue. “I mean it. Charlotte said something to me on the phone the other night that made me think about it. Things happen in life we can’t control. Like my mom passing too young, and my dad almost following along right behind her. I don’t know what that might have done to me, or my projected goals and dreams. Just like I don’t know what my life would have been like here if my mother and her family hadn’t been so beloved. I’m accepting the benefit I get from that, and am grateful for it. So why is this any different?”
“That’s family. That’s your bloodline, your heritage. It is different.”
“Maybe. But, you understand what I’m saying, right?”
He nodded. “Doesn’t make me less sorry for it, though.”
“What’s done is done. I know I was hard on you when you showed up. Though there’s a lot of me you don’t know, or haven’t seen, I’m not generally like that. And I didn’t like feeling that way. If something unexpected happens that I don’t like, well, that stinks, but I usually try to find a way to deal with it, and maybe take something positive from it. Like with my mom passing. Instead of feeling sorry for myself, or for my dad, for what we lost, we tried to celebrate who she was, and led with that example, so all the good cheer and warmth she spread around her everywhere she went wouldn’t be forgotten. She was this bright shining star in our lives, in everyone’s lives that she touched. I really wish you could have met her.”

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