Sugar Rush (27 page)
“You mean how did I know? Finding the shop seemed like a huge, giant sign, especially given where my thoughts had been taking me. But how I knew for sure was when I stood inside that shop, and looked around ... and I could see it. Easily. Clearly. All of it. Right down to the figurines on the shelves. And I was excited, terrified—still am—and challenged. I wanted to do it, try it. It just felt right. More right than any step I’d ever taken. I did grapple with the guilt, the worry, the wondering. . . but I never doubted that it was a challenge I wanted to take on. Once I’d allowed myself to think about actually doing it—”
“You were happy.”
She nodded, beaming. “Some would say it was actually delirium from all the stress of my dad’s heart attack and my career, and questioning my sanity. I did, too. But, wow. I stood in that gutted out, horribly ugly little space, and ... it was just ... it was mine.”
“Did you ever think of getting your own place in New York? Was that ever a goal?”
“Not really. If I’d thought about it, I’d have assumed it would have to be a place like Gateau. Otherwise, why bother, right? Cute and homey would just be a gimmick in the city, if anyone really got it at all. I saw what it took to actually own and run a shop like that in the city. I wanted to cook, to create. Not manage. Being executive chef was as far up the management chain as I wanted to go. On really tough days I fantasized about becoming a private chef, or starting a catering business, but those were the dreams of the overtired and overstressed. At least that’s what I told myself.”
“And now? Any regrets?”
She shook her head. “I miss Charlotte and Franco.” Her smile softened, and grew a little poignant. “And you. But you know what my dilemma was where you were concerned, and I knew that if my friendship with Charlotte could sustain itself while I was overseas learning, it would surely survive my moving to Georgia.”
“I’ve seen you with the people here. And I know you’re happy. I can see a joy in you that I didn’t see in New York. You were proud of your work, but that pride didn’t include the kind of lively, full-bodied delight I see you living and breathing all the time here.”
“I am happy here, Baxter. You’re very right about that. I never lived here growing up, but the ties to my family feel so strong. I feel connected to my mother, and enjoy seeing how people admire and respect my father. Instead of just being good at what I do for the sake of proving I’m talented, it feels like I’m sharing my talent—my gift, if you want to call it that—with folks who’ll truly appreciate it. They don’t have the first clue what goes into it, or that it’s something I studied long and hard to learn, not just something I do, or picked up, like they can knit, or build tree houses, or chop wood. And I don’t care. It’s so much easier to experiment, to think, to create, to ... well, to just play. The end results are recipes I’m ridiculously proud of. It doesn’t matter that my customers have no idea of the complexity that goes into my cupcakes. I enjoy that challenge. I get it, so that’s all that matters. It doesn’t matter that my cupcakes won’t ever grace the plate of a formal state dinner, but instead be the featured dessert at the Kiwanis Club cookout. In fact, that’s turned out to be a hell of a lot more rewarding, and a lot more fun.” Her animated expression sobered a little, but the light of excitement didn’t diminish in the least. If anything, it grew stronger. “That’s why I know I won’t leave here. It wouldn’t be the same somewhere else. I’m meant to be here. But, more important, I want to be here.”
“I know that,” he said. “I honestly do. It’s obvious, like I said, just looking at you. Beyond that, I’ve tasted your work now, and it’s nothing short of inspirational. What you can do inside a fluted paper cup is unbelievable. You’ve made a convert of me. You haven’t walked away from your talent at all, but embraced it and pushed it in an entirely new direction. In fact, you’ve already done what I was attempting to do with this season of the show. Take elegant, fussy, elaborate desserts and find a way to combine them with the more local, the more rustic and rudimentary, so they’ll work for anyone. Rosemary hasn’t stopped raving since we did the recipe read through and narrowed down the choices. You saved me because I honestly hadn’t a clue how I was going to pull off the theme.”
“Don’t you think your show already does that? Bringing elegant desserts to the masses? I mean, your viewers are those very same people.”
“Not really. I mean, yes, they are, but that’s not why they watch. I explain technique and the recipes are available to them online, and I have to keep things somewhat simplified in order to be able to demonstrate them within the time constraints of an episode. But I think viewers tune in not because they think they’re going to really make my desserts, but just to see them, be wowed by them a little, and—”
“Drool over your handsome face and hot British accent.”
He felt his face warm a bit. “I’m thankful they tune in, whatever the impetus.”
“And humble, too,” she teased.
Their gazes met and held, as did their smiles. “I do understand why you’re here, Leilani,” he said at length. “Truly. You’ve found your home.”
She nodded, but with a bit of sadness, maybe resignation. He really, really didn’t want to think about that.
She pushed her stool back rather abruptly, and stood. “I should be heading home. Early start tomorrow.”
“Right. Quite.” He stood as well.
“They have you over at Frank and Barbara’s place, right? At least, I heard—”
He nodded. “Yes, yes. I couldn’t commute from Savannah and I’d put the kibosh on the tour bus idea, but I’m rethinking that.”
She grinned widely. “Tour bus. You’re a rock star. You totally should go for that.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly. “Precisely why I passed on it. But for privacy’s sake, I’m reconsidering.”
“I can understand that, actually,” she said with a light laugh.
“Are you going back to the cottage?”
She nodded. “I think so. I’m so tired I don’t think any number of people who might be in my kitchen at the moment could deter me from a good, solid face-plant.”
“Face-plant,” he repeated. “Very descriptive.”
“And true.” She laughed. “Hey. You know, I have a bed up in the loft above the shop. I stayed there often when I was cramming to get everything built and installed. You’d have to share the space with a bunch of storage shelves, but the linens are clean and it’s comfortable. And private.”
He had to admit, it sounded pretty much perfect at the moment, but in the end, he shook his head. The last thing he needed was to wrap himself in Leilani’s sheets. “I don’t want the Hughes’s to think I’m not grateful for their hospitality.”
“I doubt they’d care one way or the other; they’re a pretty sweet old couple. But suit yourself. You have a key to the shop anyway for production, so you could let yourself in up there if you change your mind. Same lock. Separate entry outside, and up the back stairs.”
He nodded. “I saw those. Thank you.” He moved to the trailer door and opened it for her.
She waited for him to go through first, but realized he was holding it for her. “Oh, thank you.”
Stepping through it meant brushing close to him to get by, and though it had only been the two of them in the trailer for the past half hour or so, it wasn’t until that moment that the proximity felt truly intimate.
He wanted—badly—to block her there, trap her in the doorway, and ... he didn’t know what he’d do next. He just wanted to keep her right there, her body next to his, for one more moment in time.
Their gazes caught and held, and she paused, making his breath catch in his chest. But then she stepped through, and down the steps.
“Good night.” She lifted her hand in a short wave, before trotting over to her little SUV.
“Night.” He lifted his hand in an automatic return wave. “Sweet dreams,” he added, more to himself, as he watched her taillights while she drove off the lot. “Dammit,” he muttered, and slapped the door shut behind him, before trotting down the stairs himself. Couldn’t have her, couldn’t get her out of his bloody mind. There was no future for them, none. He knew that. Just in case he’d tried to talk himself into believing otherwise, listening to her in there had been all the proof anyone would ever need that this was where she belonged. To make it more frustrating, he was happy for her, seeing how truly content she was. He wanted that for her, though it would have been a lot easier if he could have found some fault in it, yes?
But no. No, this was where she belonged and he wanted what was best for her. He wished what was best for her didn’t also leave him feeling as if his heart was being ripped from his chest, and stomped on until lifeless. As if he was being forced to give up the one thing he’d ever cared about more than his work. Work was his life. It was what defined him. What fed his soul. What made him happy. So there was no reconciliation. No way to combine their dreams.
He didn’t want to leave her. And yet, he couldn’t take her with him.
“Bloody goddamn hell.”
“Baxter?”
Rosemary. “Yes,” he called out. “Right over here.”
“Oh good, you haven’t left. I’d like to talk over tomorrow’s schedule with you, make a few changes based on this afternoon’s tape.”
“Certainly,” he said, with a deep sigh of relief. If work was what he had, then work was what he’d do.
Chapter 14
L
ani pulled up in front of the cottage and sighed when she spied the lights on, then noticed that only Charlotte’s little rental sat parked out front.
ani pulled up in front of the cottage and sighed when she spied the lights on, then noticed that only Charlotte’s little rental sat parked out front.
“Thank God,” she murmured as she pulled in behind it. Charlotte had come by a few times during the day to watch the first round of taping, but there had been no time to talk. She’d seen enough to know Lani would likely be exhausted and wouldn’t be surprised by her wanting to head straight to bed—which was just as well. She wasn’t in the mood for a bitch and bake session. That would mean talking about Baxter. But she was too tired to talk about him.
It had been such a challenging day on so many levels. No recipe was therapeutic enough to allow her to think clearly at the moment. She just needed to go to sleep and not think at all. Rest. Restore.
“Right, so you can get up and do it all over again first thing in the morning,” she muttered. “Without any time to think at all.” She could only hope she woke up with sudden clarity about the situation with Baxter.
That entire morning had been brutal, trying to figure out how to handle herself on the set and handle her rioting hormones where Baxter was concerned, all at the same time. Then had come the lunch break—which had given her libido a whole new raft of things to fantasize about. If Alva hadn’t come in when she had, Lani couldn’t rightly say where that kiss would have gone. The rest of the day on the set had been pure torture. The only saving grace being she was so hyperaware of every breath Baxter took, she couldn’t worry about all the other demands being made of her at the same time.
She was basically on autopilot, worrying that Rosemary would have a fit because she was coming off like a zombie. Either the producer had more or less given up on her putting in a good performance, or she was so desperate to get the day over with, she’d told Lani whatever it was she thought Lani needed to hear. It had seemed as if Rosemary was pretty happy with how the rest of the day went. Maybe Baxter had had a talk with her or something. Lani wasn’t sure—and didn’t much care. It was over. She prayed she didn’t come off looking like a complete spaz, but at the moment, she didn’t even care much about that. All she cared about was bed. Sleep.
Tomorrow she’d deal with another day in the trenches. Tomorrow, she’d deal with her rioting emotions about Baxter. Tomorrow, she’d get a grip.
She stepped up onto the porch ... and that was when she saw the sock. A white sports sock that wasn’t hers was draped over the front doorknob. “What in the ...” She picked it up, thinking the only time she’d ever seen a sock on a doorknob was in the movies when—“Oh.
Oh!
” She shook her head.
Nah
.
That can’t be it
.
Who would Charlotte be entertaining?
Oh!
” She shook her head.
Nah
.
That can’t be it
.
Who would Charlotte be entertaining?
Then Lani heard what sounded like a squeal, and she instinctively glanced through the gauzy drapes covering the front picture window—and immediately slammed her eyes shut and spun so her back was to the front door. “Well,” she said, gripping the sock against her chest. “That certainly answers that question.”
She blindly stepped down from the porch and went back to her car. Once safely inside, she stared at her house. And tried like hell not to picture what the current occupants were doing inside it. On her fold-out couch. “Thank goodness the house is set back off the street.” She looked at the sock in her hand and wondered if she shouldn’t put it back on the doorknob. Would Alva or Dre know the signal? Normally, she wouldn’t be worried about having anyone drop by so late. Charlotte had texted her that they’d already come by earlier, and baked. Clearly they were gone. But the way her life had been lately, it wouldn’t be completely out of the question for them to come back.
Well, Lani wasn’t going back up on that porch, so she could only hope that Charlotte had locked the door. Lani squeezed the sock to toss it on the passenger seat so she could start the car, but felt something crinkle inside it. She pulled out a rolled up piece of notepaper, which she recognized as being from the Strawberry Shortcake grocery list pad she never used, but kept magneted to the side of her fridge. Her mother had given it to her when she’d gotten her first apartment, and Lani had moved it to each successive fridge in each apartment she’d leased. Just in case. And because it made her smile whenever she looked at it.
She unrolled it to find a hastily scrawled note from Charlotte.
Yes, I’m the worst houseguest ever. But it’s been TEN months, Lan. Turns out Carlo makes more than good coffee.
There was a smiley face after that. And lots of exclamation points. Which was so un-Charlotte-like, Lani had to laugh. The note ended with
Hope you can stay over the shop. I’ll make it up to you! Promise! TEN MONTHS! The drought, it is over!
Lani smiled, and folded the note back up. Just because she was stupid enough to turn away the only man she’d ever wanted didn’t mean her best friend had to turn down an opportunity. So ... Carlo. “Huh.” She shook her head. She didn’t see it. Except, well, for the part she
had
seen. Now that the shock had worn off, she had to admit... “Go, Charlotte.”
had
seen. Now that the shock had worn off, she had to admit... “Go, Charlotte.”
Her smile faded before she was even halfway to town as weariness settled in bone deep. She was going to crawl upstairs, crawl into bed, and let tomorrow take care of tomorrow. A night spent not tossing and turning and overthinking everything would be a blessing.
She parked behind the kitchen trailer and shimmied between it and the production trailer, then climbed the narrow, wobbly set of metal stairs leading to the second story door. There was entry from inside the shop, but she didn’t want to look at the cameras, cables, and lights littering her kitchen. In fact, she wanted to block everything out of her mind completely. She let herself in the back way, having to push a bit to make the warped wood door open. The dampness from the sea air made doors and wood flooring a challenge to keep properly fitted, but she thought it added to the charm of the place. Most of the time.
She worked the door shut again, then leaned against it for a moment, and oriented her vision to the shadowy open space. The wood floor, covered with linoleum, had buckled here and there from the damp air. A few area rugs helped to cover the worst of it, and take a bit of the chill off during the cooler months. Lani kicked her shoes off and curled her toes into the rug she was standing on, then took a moment to stretch them again, and let the soles of her sore feet relax fully into the pile.
The entire left side of the loft space was used for storage of nonfood items like packaging, shop bags, storage containers, and extra kitchen equipment. The other half contained the old double bed frame that had been left there by the former tenant, to which she’d added mattress, box spring, and linens from one of the guest room beds at Harper House. A small bedside nightstand with a lamp, an aging rolltop desk with a banker lamp on top, and an old television with rabbit ear antennas were also left behind. The TV actually picked up the local networks surprisingly well.
The bathroom was in the far corner. Originally she’d thought about taking a long, hot shower, but she just wanted to go straight to bed. The moonlight coming in from the two front dormer windows provided enough light. She shuffled straight over to the side of the bed and peeled her clothes off, letting them fall in a heap at her feet. When she felt a light breeze on her skin, she absently realized the overhead paddle fan was moving. And the front windows were cracked open. She must have left them that way after she’d hauled up her last order of shop bags, and done a quick inventory of stock. Even though the entire building was wired with heat and air conditioning, the steamy temperatures during the day made the upstairs pretty muggy.
At the moment, she was thankful it felt freshly aired out. As she flipped back the covers she made a mental note to remember to turn the fan off and close the windows before going back downstairs to the shop. With a sigh of appreciation, she slid between the cool sheets and reached up to plump the pillow ... right at the same exact moment her toes came into direct contact with very warm, very naked flesh.
She squealed and shot upright and would have flown out of bed, but she got tangled in the chenille cover, trying to preserve modesty and get away from whoever the hell was in her—
“Whoa, whoa, slow down there, luv. It’s just me.”
A large, wide hand closed around her upper arm, keeping her from flailing herself right to the floor.
She twisted around, clutching the white, fuzzy-nubbed bedspread to her chest, while spluttering her hair from her mouth. “Baxter?”
“In the, um ... flesh.”
She was too discombobulated from tangled hair, twisted blankets, and a serious punch of heart-pounding adrenaline to be able to see him clearly, but she couldn’t mistake the amusement in his voice. “What on earth are you doing in my—”
“I believe I was invited. So to speak. I ended up okaying some edit work with Rosemary after you left, then opted to just climb up here and sleep. I didn’t know you planned on joining me, or I’d have left a light on.”
“I’m glad you’re finding this amusing. You scared me half to death.”
“Perhaps I should be the one asking why you’re here. I thought you headed home.”
“I did. But Charlotte was already there. With company.”
“Ah, more of those marauding all-night bakers?”
“Oh, no.” She tried to get her heart under control. “Just one baker.”
Maybe he heard something in her voice, or maybe he was just a good guesser. When he said, “Oh,” he clearly understood that the baker in question wasn’t Alva or her shop assistant.
“Oh, indeed.”
“Is your friend in the habit of bringing home stray ... bakers ?”
“She’s impulsive, as I believe I mentioned, but this would be a first, even for her. She did leave a note.”
“Decent of her.”
Finally Lani managed to scrape the last of the tangled mess of hair from her face and make him out in the moonlit darkness. Perhaps it would have been better if she hadn’t. He was lying half on his side, half on his back, one hand behind his head, the sheets draped somewhere between his chest and a dangerously low spot below his navel. She’d thought about him many times, in a variety of settings, but she’d never once imagined he’d look that damn good in her bed.
“Yes,” she finally said, knowing she should look away, but not exactly managing it. “I—I’ll just be—can you like, roll over or something, so I can get my clothes back on?”
“I’m hardly going to kick you out of your own bed, luv.”
“Yes, well, I appreciate that, but you were already deep asleep, and so it seems to be smarter for me to just—”
“I have another bed.”
“And I can go to Harper House.”
“And explain to your father why both of your beds are taken at the moment?”
She sighed, and might have even sworn under her breath. “You have a point.” She couldn’t seem to get her heart rate back to normal, her thoughts were a rioting jumble, and she wanted everything to slow down for five blasted seconds so she could think straight.
“There’s a perfectly good bed right here. And you’re already in it. Might as well stay.”
“You know that’s not—we can’t—”
He reached out then and traced his fingers up the side of her bare arm. She shuddered in pleasure at the sizzle that single touch sent skittering over her skin.
He slipped his fingers around her upper arm, and tugged ever so gently. “Come here, Lei.”
She sighed, and her willpower wavered dangerously. Oh, who was she kidding, her willpower deserted her completely. “It’s going to make things so much harder,” she said, as she let him pull her toward him.
She could see his grin in the moonlight. “Luv, I don’t believe it could be any harder than it is already.”
She shouldn’t have laughed at that. But she did. And that’s what did in any last chance she had of reclaiming control of the situation, or at least control of herself.
It was one thing to get swept away in a moment of passion, but laughter—especially shared laughter—had a way of grounding the moment, making it a conscious choice, not something mindlessly swept aside to be dealt with in the morning. And still, she wasn’t choosing to move away.
“You’re beautiful in the moonlight.” He eased her down next to him. The chenille was bunched up between them, so they weren’t skin to skin ... quite yet. He rolled more to his side as he tucked her close, then skimmed the backs of his knuckles across her cheeks as his gaze roamed over her face, her neck, her bare shoulders.
Her breath caught in her chest and she couldn’t seem to form words. She was too busy reveling in the reality that she was in the exact place she’d dreamed of being, for so long. It was light years better than anything she’d ever fantasized it would be. His hands were big, but gentle. His words soothed, but there was an edge to his voice that incited as well. And he was bigger somehow, more imposing, more densely muscled than she’d imagined him to be. She’d thought of him as the tall, lanky golden boy, all sunny good looks and breezy charisma.
But, looking up at him from where she was, tucked in the shelter of his body, she could see the street in him. She’d had a hard time imagining that such a good-natured charmer could have been forged from the rough and tumble life he’d described. But she believed it now. There was a hard edge to his jaw, and the muscles in his shoulders bunched tightly as he skimmed his fingers into her hair. He exuded heat, and she swore she could feel the thudding beat of his heart, even with the bedspread bunched between them.
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