A Fine Romance (12 page)

“Why don’t we invite your dreamsicle of a neighbor over? He deserves a tasty lunch, too. Especially after how he slaved over my cake yesterday.”

“Oh, I don’t think we should bother him.” Eating with Sam the other night had been wholly sensual. He’d fed her, using the excuse to run his fingers over her lips until she almost forgot to chew. No way could she sit across from him—and Helen—and watch those blunt-tipped fingers stacking cheese and crackers. What if she lost all control, lunged across the counter and kissed him? No, they needed to stick to their plan to stay in their own stores during working hours.

“Why not? It’ll be good to get a man’s opinion in the mix.”

“A man, yes. But not Sam.” She grasped at the first reason, well, besides the real one, that sprang to mind. “I doubt he has a sophisticated enough palate to be useful. After all, he’s spent his whole life rolling out cookies. If you needed an opinion on doughnuts, he’d be your guy.”

“So that’s how it is? You think I’m nothing more than a blue-collar hick with flour for brains?” Sam’s forearms were braced on the bottom half of the door. He had a white towel thrown over his shoulder, and smears of chocolate like a Rorschach test across his plain blue tee. Blue flame burned in his eyes. This time it burned ice cold, and lust had nothing to do with it. Mira recoiled from his anger. Or was it hurt? Whatever the emotion, she regretted being the cause.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were standing there.”

His full lips twisted downward. “So you’re okay saying those things, just not to my face?”

“Well, no, of course not.” Why did he have to turn what she said into something hurtful and ugly? “You’re obviously smart. You run your own business.”

“Remember when we were on the boat? You accused me of being too quick to judge you by your parents’ money? Aren’t you just as guilty of judging me by my appearance?” He whipped the towel off his shoulder and wiped off his hands. She didn’t think the cloud of flour that arose was anything but deliberate.

Backed into a corner, and embarrassed at how his words hit home, she went on full defense. If he wanted to be a jerk, then she’d toss more proof in his face. Something she should’ve already brought up to him as an issue. “Clichés exist for a reason, Sam. You know what? Sometimes you
can
judge a book by its cover.”

“Is that so?”

“I think I left the crackers in my trunk. I’m just going to nip out and get them,” Helen murmured as she eased off her stool.

Mira whirled around. She’d completely forgotten they had an audience. Humiliation stung like lemon juice on a paper cut. “No. Sam chose to pick this fight in front of you, so you should stay to see how it ends. What I’m about to say affects you, too.”

“You want to spread your gospel of judging people to the whole world?” Sam slammed through the door to glower at Mira up close. Like her own personal storm cloud about to crack open and pelt her with icy pellets of anger. “Be my guest.”

“Okay, I’ve got an iron-clad example for you. There’s a group—maybe even a gang—of teenage hooligans who hang out in the alley. Jeans halfway down their butts, hoodies, chains, your typical thug wardrobe. As a matter of fact, I planned to warn Helen about them today. They scavenge your leftover cookies out of the Dumpster.” She shivered at the memory. Whether she was being overly judgmental or reasonably paranoid, Mira wasn’t sure. She just knew that they’d scared her. Now she didn’t go out in the alley without first cracking the door and peeking to be sure the coast was clear.

A loud, dismissive raspberry burst from Sam’s lips. He backed off a few steps to lean against the refrigerator. “Those boys are harmless. Don’t get your panties in a knot because they’re eating cookies.”

Mira snapped. Ripped the muzzle and leash off her temper and let fly. “Are you siding with them? Is this a stick up for the entire male race sort of thing?” She knew she was loud, and how had her fists crept onto her hips? But she couldn’t stop the tirade. “Any chance you encourage gang activity by leaving them sweets on
top
of the Dumpster? Tell me, how is that good for customer relations? When one of our customers gets mugged by them, or worse, are you going to explain to Ivy how you turned a blind eye?”

“For Christ’s sake.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Can’t you accept that they’re decent kids with a bad fashion sense and leave it alone?”

Why did he insist on being so lackadaisical about a genuine safety issue? Would it take an actual attack for him to take her seriously? “No, I won’t. They’ve already scared me once. I’m not going to stand by and let them scare someone else.”

Sam lurched forward and gripped her by the elbows. “Explain how they scared you. Did they threaten you? Call you names? Did they touch you?”

“I...I don’t know. I didn’t hear.” His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her inner arms. The fierceness in his gaze made it hard to think. “They pointed at me and laughed and whispered to each other. I didn’t want to stick around to find out the specifics of the conversation. Why are you interrogating me all of a sudden?”

“Sorry.” His fingers gentled, then stroked her arms in a quick caress. “You had me worried there for a minute. If those boys had truly hurt you, I would’ve pounded them into next week. With a lot of help from their probation officer.”

Their what? The perceived danger ratcheted up into a whole different level. “They’re criminals?”

“Not anymore.” Sam gestured for the ladies to take a seat. He walked around the counter to lean his palms on the sink. “They’re part of a work-release program with a juvenile halfway house. None of them are violent offenders. Just good kids who took an extra dose of stupid one day, and got caught.”

“So you know them?” asked Helen. Interest lit her face, and she looked far more intrigued than scared. Mira, however, wasn’t there yet. She needed to hear more.

“They work for me. Well, for Lyons Bakery. We keep it a secret because we don’t want other retailers in the neighborhood to fly into a panic over nothing. Technically, they’re ex-cons.”

Mira cleared her throat. “Sounds like a reason for concern to me.” A prison record didn’t exactly make these kids sound like model citizens.

“But in reality, they’re turning their lives around.” Sam paced the narrow length of the kitchen. “Only a select few get invited to live at the halfway house, and even fewer get recommended for the work program. Social workers, probation officers, judges—they’ve all said these kids screwed up once, but probably won’t ever again. They just need someone to believe in them.”

“Is this a redeem-your-past sort of thing? Were you a bit of a hellion, Sam?” Helen propped her chin on her fists.

“Nothing out of the ordinary. Shoplifted gum when I was eight. Dad put the fear of God into me over that one. Had a motorcycle in high school.”

A sigh slipped out. It was so easy for Mira to picture dark, brooding Sam. Under a black leather jacket he’d wear a tight white tee that strained across his pecs. Even though they were from the wrong decade, she topped him off with a pair of mirrored aviator shades. His legs were wide spread astride a Harley. Mira couldn’t pick a Harley out of a lineup of bikes, but for her daydream, it seemed the way to go. Then she realized she’d sighed out loud. Helen and Sam both stared at her. In a less than convincing attempt to cover her sigh, she sniffled several times.

“Sorry. Fall allergies must be kicking in.”

Coming to their side of the counter, Sam hitched out a stool with his foot and sat. “I’ve worked with six of these kids for almost a year now. Every single one shows real promise, and a strong work ethic. They have to stay in school and keep their grades up before they’re allowed to come help me. Two of them are finishing their GEDs, at night. And they’ve been a huge help. I don’t think I could’ve kept the bakery afloat without them.”

Wow. Talk about a ringing endorsement. And aside from bad clothes, the boys hadn’t really done anything in the alley to alarm her. In a new city, not yet able to feel out the danger vibes of Chicago, she’d jumped to conclusions. The wrong ones. “Your mother knows about this?”

He gave a short, sharp nod. “You bet. We’re proud to be a force for change.”

“I’m proud of you, too.” Helen gave his forearm a squeeze.

Tears welled up at the corner of her eyes, but Mira blinked them back. It was too important to get her point out without it being choked off by stupid, emotional waterworks. She’d already cried once in front of Sam. If she did it again, he might wonder if she was actually stable. “When you think about it, my commitment to Camp Ticonderoga and teaching the girls to respect themselves is similar to you teaching the boys a trade, to respect themselves enough to better themselves.”

“Maybe you two have more in common than you thought,” Helen murmured.

Sam pushed of his stool and jammed his hands into his front pockets. “Speaking of things in common, did you pick up any other languages on all your trips through Europe?”

“I speak French.” Poorly. She’d never learned to properly conjugate verbs, but did know how to order ice cream in five languages.

“
Comment
osez
-
vous
me
juger
pour
la
cuisson
des
biscuits
?
Vous
pensez
qu’il
y
a
pas
d’art
à
la
cuisson
des
cookies
?”

Oh. My. God. Sam just standing in front of her was the epitome of sexy. But Sam spitting out a barrage of perfectly accented French she didn’t begin to understand took her breath away. “I’m a little rusty.”

“He asked how dare you judge him for baking cookies. Do you think there’s no art to baking cookies?” Helen met her astonished gaze and shrugged. “I helped my kids with their homework. A lot. At a certain point, it became easier to just break down and learn the language. I’m also a whiz at history. I’ll bore you silly one day by listing all the Plantaganets and Yorks involved in the War of the Roses.”

Sam stalked forward, bristling with offended aggression again. “Baking is a profession people spend their entire lives mastering. You think all I do is pop open a tube of Pillsbury slice-n-bake and upcharge the hell out of my customers?”

“No.” Mira thought they’d talked it out, reached a truce. And yet waves of some murky emotion still radiated from him. She couldn’t one hundred percent classify it, but the top contenders were fury or annoyance. Either way, he might as well have picked up a Sharpie and written
I’m
still
mad
at
Mira
across his shirt.

“Gib and Ben filled you in on my life story, right? They tell you I went to college?”

“Yes.” Had she somehow disparaged his college? Unwittingly made fun of his unknown mascot?

“I got my degree from the Culinary Institute of America. A bachelor’s in baking and pastry arts management, to be specific. That’s where I learned to speak French.”

A long, low whistle from Helen stopped his monologue. “Your credentials are quite impressive. The CIA’s renowned the world over.”

Once again he paced, this time the width of the store. “It was a terrific school, but it wasn’t enough for me. After working with my parents for a few years, I still had the urge to learn more about chocolate. So I went to Europe and studied with French, Belgian and Swiss masters.” The pace of his pacing picked up. Sam stared at the floor as his words came out in a torrent.

“I learned to make truffles, and sculpt sugar art and distill flavor essences. I’d spend three months at a bakery, then a month at a restaurant in another city apprenticing to a dessert chef. But when Dad died, I came home early. All of that experience and drive got back-burnered while my hands were full keeping the bakery and my family afloat.”

Hearing the story again, with more detail, put a lump right back in Mira’s throat. Sam tossed aside his dreams. Declared them to be less important than his family. The man had a spine of steel and a heart of pure gold. “Sam, I’m so sorry for what you went through. It isn’t fair.”

He finally stood still, leaning against the wall, his tan ankles crossed. “Yeah, I’ve tried that argument on my mom. Ever since she’s been back on her feet, I’ve begged her to let me do a line of gourmet truffles. I tried to keep everything as normal as possible for her once she came back full-time. Which means Mom’s back in charge. The final decision-maker. Kind of screwed myself with that step back.”

It didn’t make any sense. “But you do that already. Ivy told me she’s used your chocolate as wedding favors, and we’re going to be selling them here in the store.”

“Side jobs only. I do that for fun. In my spare time. What I really want is to devote myself to just specialty chocolates and designer cakes.”

Helen beamed at him. “You want to be an artist. What am I saying? You
are
one. Everything I’ve had from your bakery, whether my lovely cake or your famous cherry fritters, has been a work of art.”

“Thanks.”

She turned to Mira, laying an index finger alongside her nose. “Have
you
ever tried one of his creations?”

“Um, no. Not yet. But the smells that waft over are amazing.” Shame filled Mira. After she pushed his éclair back in his face her first day in the store, an apology wasn’t enough. The right thing to do would’ve been to march right over and buy a non-chocolate pastry. If she dated a painter, she’d ask to see his work. Or listen to the band of a guitar player. Being a groupie in a smoke-filled club at 2:00 a.m. was a lot harder than strolling next door to try a doughnut. How could she have been so thoughtless?

“Well, until my sister comes back from her no-end-in-sight trip across Europe, I can’t fully expand. There simply isn’t enough time to carve out of the regular daily schedule of baking. And if she doesn’t come back before Mom retires, I’ll have to give it up entirely to handle the bakery by myself.” The passion dimmed, both from his voice and his face. “It isn’t fair that Diana’s off having the time of her life while I churn out those cookies you mentioned. But since we were old enough to speak, Mom’s told me life isn’t fair. Funny how she hasn’t mentioned that to Diana recently and dragged her butt back home.”