A Fine Romance (5 page)

Sam reached under the counter, the same position as when she’d first entered the store. “I wanted to use one of your own napkins, since it is your first day here.” He put a plate down in front of her, draped with a white napkin stamped with her store’s red logo. “I hope this sweetens your feelings toward me. Enjoy.”

Intrigued, and more than a little charmed, Mira lifted the corner of the napkin. Underneath sat the richest, most decadent-looking breakfast pastry she’d ever seen. It did not, however, appeal to her in the slightest. She dropped the napkin and pushed the plate back at him.

“Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

His eyebrows shot skyward. “You’re kidding. On Saturday mornings, we have people lined up for twenty minutes waiting to buy one of these.”

“Then I’m sure you won’t have any trouble selling it today.”

Sam shook his head, then whipped off the napkin. “You’re new here, so you don’t know that Lyons Bakery is famous for its triple-chocolate éclairs. We’ve been written up in national food magazines for these. Chocolate pastry, filled with cocoa and hazelnut pastry cream, and covered in a dark chocolate glaze.” He pushed the plate back in front of her with an expectant nod.

It was like playing air hockey, but in slow motion. Mira shoved the plate with a tad more force so it slid almost past him. “It looks lovely. But I don’t eat chocolate. Ever.”

Staggering backward, Sam slammed into the refrigerator handle, and his openmouthed gape turned into a tight-lipped grimace. “You can’t be serious.”

“I don’t like chocolate.”

“But it’s the food of the gods. Literally.” He paced the narrow strip between appliances and counter. One hand rubbed at his still-bare chest, as if she’d punched him right in the sternum. “The Mayans honored a cacao god, Quetzalcoatl. The Aztecs used it as money, and Cortez took it to Spain, where the nobility used it as medicine. It spurs on the heart as an aphrodisiac, and can help prevent heart disease. It is an eight-billion-dollar industry worldwide. Everyone likes chocolate.” As his argument gathered steam, his voice steadily rose. Sexily shirtless and eyes bright with enthusiasm, Sam became more irresistible every second. It was all too easy to transpose his passionate state into a vision of him in bed, equally flushed and missing more than just his shirt.

“I need to get to work. Thank you for stopping by.” Mira remembered his all-access pass. The last thing she needed was Sam stirring up her hormones with unscheduled visits. “Oh, could I have the key to my store back?”

“What? Why?”

“So I don’t accidentally take a chunk out of the other side of your head. I’ll be here every day to accept deliveries. You won’t need to come over anymore.”

Sam stalked around the counter until he loomed over her, a breath away. “Our businesses don’t just coexist. The plan is to leave the door open between here and the bakery. Your customers can purchase desserts for their romantic picnics from us, and bakery customers will wander in and buy whatever romantic crap you’re pushing that day.”

Looked like he hadn’t let go of the temper she’d riled by turning down his éclair. Wow. The guy really cared about chocolate. “We’re not open yet. I don’t need random people wandering in while I’m doing inventory and organizing our carefully chosen romantic crap. That’s an open invitation to shoplift.”

“Of course. Because people who want a dozen cookies from me will get all wild on a sugar high, come in here, stuff a foot-high vase down their pants and try to sneak off with it?” Sam fished the key out of his pocket and slammed it down. Every muscle in his body, from his pecs to his biceps to his abs, were as rigid as his clenched jaw. “Dark chocolate boosts serotonin and releases endorphins, which lifts your mood. In other words, if you ate a truffle, you might not be such an uptight bitch. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

Sam stalked out, slamming the connecting door to the bakery behind him. Wow. The sexy stud had a seriously short fuse. The mama’s boy who blew off his promise to pick her up at the airport and barely apologized, then all but broke into her store actually had the nerve to call
her
names? Mira looked around at the empty shelves, stacks of boxes, and wondered if it was too late to find a different location for A Fine Romance.

Chapter Three

Climbing that fourth flight of stairs to Ben and Ivy’s roof deck reminded Sam he’d been on his feet since the wrong side of dawn. He’d almost given in to the temptation to stay home and fall asleep in front of a Cubs game. But the lovebirds were excited to show off their new nest, and it was rare at the height of wedding season for their whole group to have a night off. So he manned up, bringing a housewarming present of a six-pack of Goose Island beer for Ben and six kir royale truffles for Ivy.

“Welcome to Casa Westcott,” Milo said, greeting him with a tray of drinks at the top of the stairs. Despite the August humidity, a white linen jacket topped off Milo’s shirt and white slacks. Whenever he acted as bartender, he liked to dress the part, although Sam had yet to encounter a real bartender who tied a sequined white scarf around their neck.

“They’re not married yet. Why assume Ivy’ll take Ben’s name?” Sam set his presents down on a glass-topped table.

“Because saying welcome to Casa Rhodes-Westcott doesn’t have the same panache. You know I’m all about the panache.”

“True.” Flamboyant was Milo’s middle name. The only time he dropped the swishy shtick was in their monthly poker games. There he chomped on a cigar, drank scotch straight and routinely took all of their money. Or at least he had until Ben joined their group.

“Have a gin rickey. It’ll cool you down.”

Sam looked at the sweating glass. Milo liked to experiment with girly drinks. Tonight’s cocktail might be sweeter than Lyons Bakery’s famous cherry fritters. A sugar-bomb drink pretty much guaranteed a hangover, and Sam was just getting over his headache from Mira’s unwarranted attack.

“Try one.” Milo fisted a hand on one hip and sighed. “I promise there’s beer in the cooler to go with dinner.”

“You said the magic words.” He could drink one glass of anything as long as there was beer to wash it down. Too bad he couldn’t hold his nose and throw it back like a shot of Jäger without hurting Milo’s feelings. Sam took a cautious sip.

“Well?”

“Not bad. The lime juice curls the tongue enough to balance the simple syrup.”

Another huff from the drama queen. “Trust a baker to analyze the sugar content. Most people would call it refreshing and delicious.”

“So go hawk your wares to them.” Sam grinned and walked away. He only made it a few more feet onto the deck before a bundle of fabric hit him in the chest.

“Got a wardrobe upgrade for you. It’ll get you in a party mood.” Ben Westcott flashed an evil grin. “Or it’ll put you in the mood to drink heavily.”

Sam looked at his friend. Although Ben spent his life behind a video camera, the women in their group swore he was gorgeous enough to pose in front of one. Sure, he was tall, with surfer-blond looks and lankiness. But Sam didn’t usually spend any time thinking about how Ben looked. Tonight, though, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the party’s host. He wore a bright turquoise shirt printed with rows of thatched umbrellas, tiki torches and crashing ocean surf. It was the tackiest, most garish piece of clothing he’d ever seen.

“Why the hell do you look like a reject from an Elvis movie?”

Ben grimaced and plucked the front of his shirt away from his body as though it was made of acid-dipped sandpaper. “Leftover favors from a Hawaiian-themed wedding Ivy did last weekend.”

“Somebody forked over the cash to hand out shirts as favors?” The amount of money the über-rich were willing to waste constantly amazed Sam. He charged a fair price for his cakes and truffles, even though he knew good word of mouth meant he could probably ask twice as much. In fact, charging more might net him more business from the idiots who bought things just
because
they were expensive. The idiotic wealthy class pissed him off. Sam took another sip of the surprisingly tasty drink to cool down.

“For the guys. The girls got leis,” Ben held up a hand, forestalling the inevitable, “and don’t make the obvious joke, because I spent three days straight doing it. I’m done with leis.”

Sam struggled to keep a straight face. “I hear that happens once you’re engaged.”

“Very funny. You won’t be laughing once you put yours on.” Ben slapped the back of his hand against the shirt Sam had caught one-handed.

“You’re kidding.” Setting his drink on the wooden railing, Sam unfolded the shirt. This one was toxic-waste green, and covered with hot-pink hibiscus flowers as big as his palm. “What have I ever done to you to deserve this?”

“Besides the fifty dollars you stole off my ace-high full house last month?”

God, that had felt good. He still remembered the look of utter shock that replaced the cocky grin on Ben’s face when he laid down his cards. “Four of a kind always beats a full house. Period.”

“But it never comes around. I’m supposed to feel secure and joyful with a full house.”

Sam shrugged. “Keep telling yourself that. And keep your ugly shirt, too.” He tried to hand it back, but Ben refused to take it.

“Sorry, but Ivy insists. To get everyone in ‘a festive mood,’” he said, bending his fingers into quotation marks. “Humor her? Throw it on over your T-shirt, and then burn it tomorrow, for all I care. It’s our first party in the new digs, and it means a lot to her.”

“For Ivy,” Sam agreed. He loved her like a sister, and as long as all the other guys would look equally ridiculous, he could deal.

Ben pointed at the still-fierce sun, which had turned Chicago as steamy as a guy’s pits after basketball. The humidity made rolling out his trademark fondant icing a struggle for Sam, even with the air-conditioning blasting. “Since we’re dressing you, do you want to borrow a baseball hat? There isn’t much shade up here on the deck.”

One more reason to be mad at the crazy-hot girl next door. And that’s what pissed him off the most. Mira was annoying and had a stick up her ass bigger than the Sears tower, but she was gorgeous. Sam couldn’t deny that despite her peevishness and the two-inch dent she put in his skull, he wanted to wrap his hands around that curtain of dark brown hair and kiss her until the only thing out of those lips was his name. If he hadn’t been covered in blood and woozy, he’d have pulled her onto his lap in that bathroom and made his move.

“No can do.” As he pulled on the shirt, Sam turned sideways to show the raised scab across his head.

A long, low whistle split the air. Gibson Moore, looking like a suave idiot in tailored suit pants, suspenders and a Hawaiian shirt with sunsets splashed across it, pointed at Sam’s cut. “Looks painful. Did a dissatisfied bride come at you with a cake knife?”

“Sam doesn’t leave any women dissatisfied, clients or otherwise,” said Milo with a wink and a hip shake.

Truer words were never spoken—although Sam didn’t need Milo, of all people, talking about his prowess in the sack. “A client would be easier to handle. This is the handiwork of my new neighbor.”

Ben coughed, spraying his gin rickey across the deck. “Mira Parrish split your head open like a cantaloupe?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t believe it. I’ve met her. Heard plenty more stories. Mira comes from old-school money. She’s got class up the wazoo.”

“She’s uptight, snippy and is convinced the world revolves around her. This woman wouldn’t know real class if it bit her on the nose.” As he warmed to the topic of the most annoying woman ever, Sam began to pace. “She tried to knock me out. Worst of all, she doesn’t eat chocolate.” He threw his hands up in the air. “There’s got to be something wired wrong in her head, like a serial killer. Chocolate makes everyone happy. Or maybe she really does like it, and just wanted to piss me off?”

His friends stood in a loose circle, looking at him with identical squints of confusion.

“That’s the most words I’ve heard you put together at once in the four months I’ve known you,” said Ben.

“Well, I’ve known him for four
years
, and I’ve never heard him rant like that,” Milo piped in, extending the pitcher for refills. Sam didn’t know when he’d drained his drink, but he did know he needed more. Or maybe just straight shots. Four in a row, one for every day of irritation and frustration he’d suffered since meeting Mira.

“She coshed you on the head—” Gib’s British accent made even a bloody wound sound like a costume ball invitation.

“With a crystal vase. So sure, I guess that makes it classy.” Sam drained his second glass in one long gulp. Why’d Ben stick up for Mira?
She’s
not the one who walked away from their conversation with a scalp lac. Where was the sympathy for the pal who kept them in a steady supply of muffins most mornings? Ben slipped in at least once a week for a slice of cake, too. Didn’t that earn him a little loyalty?

Gib waved his hand as if erasing Sam’s comment off a chalkboard. “—but you’re most upset that she doesn’t care for chocolate?”

“Yeah. It’s just wrong.” In so many ways. Sure, he knew people who were allergic to it, or dropped it for Lent or a diet. All that made sense. But to flat-out not
like
it? Impossible. Might as well say she didn’t like oxygen, or water. And yeah, Sam knew he was probably overreacting. He’d let her pissy attitude get under his skin. So if Mira said the sky was blue, he’d probably argue back that it was really zebra-striped. Because chocolate wasn’t just his livelihood. It was his passion, his religion. How could she dismiss it, with a cool nod and a glare that dripped off her nose like an icicle? It made no sense.

“So is equating her to a serial killer for not liking chocolate,” Gib pointed out.

Gib called every couple of months, needing an emergency cake at the fancy hotel he managed. Next time, Sam might not be so quick to answer the call. Where’d he get off taking her side when he hadn’t even met Mira yet? “She
did
hit me. Maybe she’s got violent tendencies.”

“
Why
did she hit you with the vase? What the hell did you do?” Ben spread his hands at his waist, palms up. “Ivy’s going to grill me for details. Easier for you to spill to me than to have her hammer away at you.”

Sam propped his forearms on the railing and stared at the city skyline. He could just catch a glimpse of Lake Michigan. Too bad they weren’t close enough to catch the breeze off the water. Sweat already glued both shirts to the small of his back. “She thought I broke into her store,” he muttered.

Behind him, the guys all laughed. Milo’s titter rang out a little higher, and stopped first as he broke into a barrage of questions. “Didn’t Ivy give you a key? What did you do—throw a brick through the window? Trash the place?”

The stench of inevitability grew stronger. His friends wouldn’t lay off until he spilled everything. Sam hoped the brats and burgers were as good as the lemon meringue pie he’d left down in the kitchen. He hadn’t planned on being forced to sing for his supper. This interrogation would cost Ben no less than three brats
and
a burger.

“I spooked her. You know, her first time in the store. Mira didn’t know I had a key. It was dark. But she didn’t give me a chance to say anything—just came in swinging.” Sam spun around, full of righteous indignation.

One of Gib’s eyebrows shot skyward faster than a fly ball at Wrigley Field. “A woman alone, in an unfamiliar city, wouldn’t pause to ask a burglar for his identification and three references before defending herself. I’d say she behaved sensibly.” Gib swirled the ice cubes in his glass. “In fact, this Mira Parrish sounds like a delightful handful. I can’t wait to meet her. Is she attractive?”

“Hands off,” Sam snarled.

Gib backed up a couple steps. “Whoa. You called the lady a psycho. Forgive me for assuming that means you don’t want to sleep with her. I thought she was fair game.”

The guy had a point. Especially since Sam wasn’t sure why he’d reacted so strongly. Just because Mira had all the right parts didn’t mean he’d take his life in his hands and try to rub up against that short-fused stick of dynamite in a dress. But he wanted the conversation to be done, so he pulled out tried-and-true ammunition.

“You don’t sleep with women. You pop them like Tic-Tacs. Since we all have to work together, you probably shouldn’t pull your usual screw-and-scram routine.”

Gibson Moore had elevated the casual hookup to an art form. They had a running joke it was a good thing he managed the Cavendish Grand. That way he’d always have a steady stream of new women, along with four hundred and twenty beds to choose from with clean sheets every day. Amazing how fast women dropped their panties for a guy who sounded like Prince William.

“Follow your own advice, Lyons,” Ben warned. “Sleeping with the girl next door’s never a good idea. Sleeping with a business associate’s even worse.”

“Dangerous as juggling best friends in your bed.” Gib winked. “Trust me on that one.”

“Ivy needs Mira focused and happy to get her shop off the ground. Don’t mess with that plan.” Ben softballed a punch into Sam’s arm.

“No worries,” Sam said. “She hasn’t spoken to me in three days. Even though I only scared her because I was trying to apologize. The lady can sure hold a grudge.”

“Wait, there’s more? You’ve had two altercations with the untouchable Ms. Parrish?” Gib asked.

Of course Milo chimed in with the missing piece. At Aisle Bound, he was equal parts office manager and gossip sniffer. “He forgot to pick her up at O’Hare. She got caught in that massive storm on Sunday.
She
was pissed.
Daphne
and
Ivy
were pissed. Many snarky things were said about Sam at our staff meeting. You are deep in the doghouse, buddy.”

“Damn it, I apologized. More than once.” Sam knew he fucked up. Didn’t even mind apologizing. But since he had...repeatedly...he expected Mira to get over it. “My mom needed me. It was only about twenty percent forgetting, and eighty percent re-prioritizing.” Again, the circle of confused squints aimed his way. From the unanimous disapproval of his friends, Sam could either think two things. That they’d all turned in their balls in exchange for the fluorescent shirts, or maybe, just maybe, he’d jumped the gun on his assessment of Mira. After all, he did feel bad about leaving her at O’Hare. Maybe he should forget about trying to smooth over their rocky start, and make an entirely fresh start.