A Moment of Bliss (12 page)

“Complicated?” Though what was so complicated about it, he wasn't sure. They could keep it simple, if that's what she wanted.

“Yes.”

“Does this mean I shouldn't join you for dinner tonight?”

“No. No, I mean I want you to join me for dinner. I'd like your opinion on what they suggest and prepare.”

“But I should go back to behaving? And we pause on the sex in the woods?”

Madison tilted her head, silent for a moment. “I . . . Yes? Yes. I think that'd be best. Err on the side of discretion.”

“Then I will try.” And by
try
, he meant try his best to make all of this happen again. The woods were optional.

S
he didn't see Roark again until that evening. All day was spent in town, trying to find someone who would make her a freaking wedding cake. Flour and frosting. You wouldn't think it'd be a big deal.

But apparently it was.

Conflicts ranged from not enough notice, already booked, to not budging from the kind of wedding cake they typically made. One lady did white cake, buttercream icing, and that was all she'd do. One kindly baker told Madison he was big into fondant, and she ought to go that way. All very typical, very safe, and not what she wanted at all.

Madison smoothed back her braid as she walked to the restaurant. It would be fine. She'd find a damn cake somehow and it'd be the most unique, memorable cake in the world.

Just as well she'd decided to spend the day away from Roark anyway. Roark, and all that came with him.

The tiny dimples when he smiled, the storm of his gaze when he'd touched her, urging her toward orgasm, and those hands . . .

“Dear god.”
She shook her hands out before she reached the great room. Thinking about him would not be conducive to a relaxed, business-focused meal. She'd end up forgetting about the food and spending every second wondering how his hands would feel all over her, everywhere, holding her waist, her thighs, what it'd be like to be stretched tight beneath him . . . on top of him.

Madison stopped walking altogether and took a deep breath.

Dinner. Menus. Tonight was about finding the perfect food selections for Whitney and Jack and their guests. Tomorrow she had to find a freaking cake lady and a cake, and her lust for Roark Bradley didn't have a thing to do with any of it.

This morning had been a moment of weakness, and honestly, who could blame her? She'd felt selfish for not returning the favor, but perhaps their interruption was a sign. Get on with her responsibilities so she could get it on with Roark, later.

She found him in the far, windowed corner of the restaurant; only two other couples still dined. The lights were low, white candles inside hurricane lamps sat in the center of each table. She hoped like hell they weren't the only two eating tonight, because this was way too much like a romantic date.

She dated occasionally, but she didn't do romantic dates. It'd been almost eight years since she'd allowed for things like candlelight and long talks, opening up and sharing, making promises and trusting someone. That road had been traveled, and she'd thought it was love. She'd always thought it was love, be it with her family or boyfriend, simply because
she
felt it.

The catch?

Love isn't poetic and beautiful when you feel it alone.

If no one is there to love you back, or they refuse to, then love is destructive and painful. Love, believing in it, trusting the feeling of it, only ever brought her pain and grief.

So she just . . . didn't.

“I hope there's a lot to choose from,” he said, getting up to pull out the chair next to him. “Because I'm starving.”

She opened her mouth to tell him not to pull out her chair, but clamped it shut. Pointing that out would only make him think something was up. Plus, he'd had his hands in her panties. Pulling the chair out could slide. Her fear of having a quiet dinner with him was
her
fear. She could squash it with the expertise that came from years of practice.

“I'm hungry too.”

“I feel like a glass of wine. Would you like some wine?”

She would love some wine, but it'd only make the atmosphere seem that much more romantic. “I don't like sweet wine.”

“Not surprised.”

Madison narrowed her eyes.

“Don't look at me like that. I don't like sweet wine either. I think tonight, given the mixed menu, maybe a cabernet. You probably like cabernet, right?”

She loved cabernet. “Sounds fine.”

He ordered a bottle and gave her a knowing smile as Steve opened and poured. Roark sipped at the wine and nodded. “Let her try it too. We'll both decide.”

Steve poured her a small amount, a knowing smile on his lips.

Madison took a sip. “Nice.”

Steve filled their glasses and left the bottle for them. A great idea, for sure.

“I knew you'd like it,” Roark said, raising the wineglass to his lips.

“You enjoy that, don't you? Being right.”

He shrugged with one shoulder. “A little. You don't?”

“I plead the Fifth.”

“How did it go with the cake bakers today?”

“Don't ask. And they don't like to be called cake bakers.”

“Seriously?”

She nodded, taking a long, slow sip of her wine, smooth and rich on the way down. “It's a funny business I'm in; plenty of little quirks that don't make sense in the regular world. I once called a pianist an organist. I won't make that mistake again. Don't ever piss off the church lady either—if you happen to ever work with a church lady. She can make planning anything in the church a living hell. Then she'll pepper the earth with your ground-up bones.”

Roark blinked at her. “Damn. Maybe we can make things easier on you. I've yet to grind up anyone's bones. Though I did threaten to throat-punch a marketing guy once. Tried to screw us over on advertising space and that wasn't going to happen.”

Madison smiled, because she probably would've threatened the same thing had someone tried to pull one over on her. She raised her glass, suddenly feeling better about the vibe of the evening. She could talk about work, share war stories, and
not
look deeply into Roark's eyes. It would be fine. “Here's to not taking people's crap.”

Roark picked up his glass and clinked it against hers. “And to finding you a cake. I bet we could help with that.”

“How?”

Wright approached, with Devlin right behind him. Similar in height, but beyond that, the two friends couldn't look more different. Where Devlin was dark, all intense blue eyes and angled jaw, Wright was bright, with sandy brown hair and soft brown eyes. If Devlin had an air of daring, Wright oozed comfort.

“I hope you guys are hungry because I've cooked a spread for you.” Wright grinned and rubbed his hands together, his excitement contagious.

“I've tried some already,” Dev added. “So good, you'll fall out of your chair.”

Roark tilted his head toward Wright. “How do you feel about wedding cakes?”

Wright's brow furrowed. “They're okay, I guess. Usually pretty boring. No offense,” he said to Madison.

“I'm not the personal protector of all things wedding. It's okay.”

“Why do you ask?” Wright settled back on his heels as the penny finally dropped for Madison.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, loud enough to make Dev and Wright flinch.

Roark chuckled. “Madison is in the market for a cake . . . maker? Decorator?”

“I need a chef to make Whitney and Jack's wedding cake,” she clarified. “Please say you'll make their wedding cake. No one in town is cooperating.”

“I make
cakes.
Love making those. But I've never tried a wedding cake.”

“That's perfect. I don't want it to be traditional anyway.”

“I don't know. There are stabilizing issues with tiers. You don't want a lopsided mass for a cake.” Doubt wrinkled his forehead.

“You could totally make a wedding cake. Come on.” Devlin nudged him in the shoulder, enough confidence for both of them. “There's yet to be something you couldn't whip up. You'll figure out the tiers, no problem. At least give it a try. We've got time before the real deal is needed.”

“Exactly,” Madison agreed. “We could do a test run to be sure, and if it turns out great, then I'm in if you're in.”

“I guess I could come up with a mini–wedding cake. Bake something up and let all of you try it. It's not my area, so I'd feel better if everyone liked it and agreed.”

More family time, more food. She hadn't been this well fed or included since—ever. She'd
never
had someone look after her the way they did here.

“Then it's decided.” Roark leaned back, stretching his legs out enough that they brushed hers. “Wright will bake a test cake, which I'm sure will be perfect, and we'll all try it and rave about it, and Madison will have her wedding cake.”

“Okay, but let's get through the main menus first.” Wright tugged Devlin toward the kitchen and they both reappeared with armfuls of food.

“This place is a foodie's wet dream,” Madison muttered.

She didn't mutter quietly enough, because Roark shot her a look, mischief in his eyes. “Told you that's why I run.”

Just mentioning the run made a little color rise in his cheeks. The sight sent tingles down her back, like a hundred tap-dancing fairies, reminding her of how irresistible Roark was.

“Oh
that's
why?” she teased him, making him blush more.

The man was ridiculous and he made her react without thinking. Sexy and strong, but without all of the arrogant baggage. It only made him hotter. She grabbed the first thing that was set down in front of her, stuffing it into her mouth to keep from telling him so in front of Devlin and Wright.

“What all do we have here?” Roark asked, the perfect gentleman as she chomped on some kind of crostini that had her salivating.

Wright went over each item, all of them some kind of finger food or appetizer. “I thought you could pick your favorite combinations and decide when you might want to serve them, rehearsal dinner versus wedding reception, or both. I'm open to other suggestions that come up too.”

He stood back, arms folded over his broad chest, as Devlin stepped forward with two notepads and two pens. “To write down your opinions and votes.”

Madison swallowed her mouthful of food. “You're so prepared. I'm impressed.”

Dev smiled at the compliment.

Armed with taking notes about the food, the meal and the night felt less date-like and more like work. Work was better for her focus. “I don't know what kind of crostini that was, but it was delicious.” She sipped at her wine.

“A tomato and olive bruschetta,” Dev said.

Roark popped what looked like a stuffed date in his mouth. He moaned in appreciation while Madison tried one.

“Okay, well, we're going to leave you to this course.” Devlin turned to go, but Wright lingered, watching over his creations. Dev nudged him and he dragged his feet as he followed, but turned back. “Don't forget to make notes so you can tell me what you think, exactly. And don't fill up; I have main courses for you to try next.”

Madison watched them go before trying one of the dates. “I can't promise I won't fill up. It's all too good.”

Roark nodded and chewed.

“I'm going to assume everything Wright cooks is delicious and go with what I think would be the best and most memorable. Something special.”

“These dates are pretty special. I think this is prosciutto wrapped around them.”

“That looks like bacon-wrapped something over there.”

“Anything wrapped in bacon
has
to be on the menu.” He speared one with his fork. “It's shrimp. Put it on the menu.” He held the fork out toward her, waiting.

“You're going to feed me? Is this common practice at Honeywilde?”

He smiled, unfazed at her attempt to keep things strictly business. “Nothing about today has been common practice.”

She buried her face in her wineglass, remembering his lips on hers, the hard heat of his body. Her pulse skittered as though he was pressed against her now.

“Why don't you just take the fork before you suck down all of your wine?”

Madison reached for the fork, her fingers brushing over his. A smile played on his lips.

Had his mind drifted back to their tryst in the woods and what he'd done with those fingers? Because her mind insisted on going back there, at least once every half hour.

“Mm-hmm,” she managed. “You're right. Definitely putting shrimp on the menu.”

Roark picked up his wine, tapping the glass. “And the stuffed dates. They're a must. Salty and sweet and creamy. Good combination.”

Nodding, she put dates on her list.

“I can only think of one thing that might taste better,” Roark added. His voice was low and rough, the tone spilling into her senses, his meaning clear enough that she felt the flood all the way to her toes.

She stubbed those toes against his shin. “Stop,” she whispered, her body wanting him to never stop.

“What'd I do?” He grinned over another date.

“You said you'd try to behave.”

“This
is
me trying. Turns out, I'm not very good at it.”

“You used to behave quite well.”

“That was then.” He shrugged. “You're a bad influence.”

“I'm a—” She gaped. “Aren't you supposed to be responsible?”

“I'm responsible for us behaving?”

“Yes,” she hissed. Because if the responsibility was hers, they'd fail.

He lifted a shoulder again. “Then I think we're screwed.”

The urge to look away struck, but she wasn't some blushing bride.

Fine. If he wasn't going to keep his eye on the task at hand, she would. She swallowed down the last of her wine and nodded, not trusting her voice at the moment. Anything she said was likely to come out all breathy and needy, and hell yes, that's how she felt, but she was a professional, dammit.