Craving Perfect (25 page)

My chest tightened.

“That’s good. Because I love you too.”

I chuckled. “Am I still dreaming?”

Carefully, he brushed the back of my hand against his cheek. “This is no dream.”

I wanted to wrap my arms around him but my arms were pinned by tubes and needles. It was hardly romantic and yet it was, at least to me.

“This is just the beginning.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“Just promise me one thing.”

“Anything.” My eyes locked on his, his lips a breath away from mine.

“The next time you decide to run a marathon in the middle of the night.” He paused. “Just make sure you got a partner. Preferably me.
Comprendes?
”

The tip of his warm nose touched mine. Then his lips.

Dizzy, my head pulled back, just an inch. “Don’t worry. I think my running days are officially over.”

One Year Later

The Desert Java was the same, but different. Just like me. We were both kind of like a scone—you could dress it up on the outside with fresh raspberries and powdered sugar but it still tasted comfortingly familiar on the inside every single time.

A potted cedar tree about half as tall as me, a gift from Carlos the day of my hospital release, stood against the middle of the front window, catching the sunrays between its brilliant green branches. A new photo hung next to my family’s photo behind the cash register. Bursting with color and proud smiles, Carlos’s entire family surrounded Kathryn, Eddie, Carlos, Elena, and me on the day Carlos graduated from law school. It had taken the photographer almost thirty minutes to herd everyone into the shot. I blamed the sangria.

And six months ago, a new sign had replaced the old one on our brick building above the faded awning. The new one said
The Scones & Sopapillas Café
in pink and green letters. It had been hung when Elena Flores and I had become full-fledged partners after Kathryn moved to San Diego with Eddie. The new name had felt nothing but right from the moment Elena and I said it together. Even Kathryn loved the new name and promptly decorated with pink and green pillows strategically placed throughout the café on chairs, corners and couches. The new arrangement hadn’t hurt business either, but I suspected that it was mostly because we became the official pastry chefs for Uncle Mario’s restaurant. Three months ago, we’d become busy enough to hire two full-time employees. It felt like the world’s greatest luxury to have them.

“How are the raspberry scones today, Charlie?”

Charlie sat at a table on the other side of the cedar tree next to the window. He paused long enough from his chess move with Carlos’s dad to answer me with a crinkled brow.

Mr. Flores answered for him. “
Delicioso
.” He kissed his fingers.

“
Gracias
, Mr. Flores,” I said, bowing playfully for him. Men of few words, Charlie and Mr. Flores complemented each other like peanut butter and chocolate. They spent hours playing chess and checkers, taking their boards outside when the weather turned cooler or the café got too crowded.

Reaching for the handle, I unlocked the front door but kept the handwritten
Sorry, We’re Closed: Private Party
sign in the window. Elena and I planned to be closed Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. It felt weird to be staring down the barrel at so much time but I knew every minute would be crazy busy, closed or not.

Later in the afternoon, I expected a truckload delivery of rented tables, white linens, and chairs, along with catered Mexican food from Uncle Mario’s. As I spun around the café and stared toward the kitchen, I wondered for the zillionth time how everything would fit. Somehow in all the confusion, I’d forgotten that we also needed room for the band and a dance floor. The dancing would need to happen outside on the sidewalk, maybe even the street. Was it too late to get a city permit? Oh, no…

My forehead began to pound but fortunately the killer headaches where white fuzz floated across my eyeballs had lessened since my treadmill accident. This worry headache was different. That’s because the party—the weekend—had to be perfect. It would only happen once and I had it all mapped out in my mind, right down to where we’d place all the lavender and gardenias. I could see it. I had to. It wasn’t every day your older sister got married.

The Cahills offered to host Kathryn and Eddie’s wedding reception at just about every fancy restaurant and country club in town. But Kathryn had insisted. She wanted it at home and I knew why, even if she didn’t say. I loved her for choosing home. What did size matter when you were with the ones you loved? I prayed that’s how everyone felt when seventy-five people crowded into The Scones & Sopapillas Café tomorrow.

Elena and I volunteered to create a four-tiered wedding cake layered with nothing but raspberry scones and sopapillas, another special request from Kathryn. And we’d already exhausted our raspberry supply when Elena offered to drive to the farmer’s market for more. I only hoped she would find fresh ones in time. I despised using anything from a can.

I glanced down at my wristwatch and sighed just as two coppery-brown hands as wide as tortillas wrapped around my waist. “You worry too much. Everything will be perfect.”

I leaned back into the warmth of his chest and smiled. “Can’t help it. It’s my job to worry.”

His nose nuzzled against my neck.

“Shouldn’t you be studying?” Carlos was supposed to be preparing for the state bar exam. The Phoenix law firm where he interned actually paid him to spend his days at the library. But that didn’t stop him from sneaking back to the café at least twice a day.

“I got hungry.” His lips pressed against my neck and then he turned me around, his hands slowly moving up to my shoulders.

I smirked even as his eyebrows wiggled, trying to ignore that smile that still turned my kneecaps to Jell-O.

But then I remembered we had an audience. My head tilted toward the chess players.

Carlos responded by spinning me into the kitchen with one arm, kicking the door closed with his foot while, somehow, untying the apron knot behind my neck. The man was nothing if not determined when he wanted something. “My dad’s practically deaf.”

“Well, he’s not blind,” I countered.

“If I know Pop, he’s wondering whether to move his knight or his rook. We might as well be invisible.” His soft lips pressed against my neck.

My eyes closed as I sank further into his arms. “Elena will be back any second.” Even so, I wrapped my arms around his shoulders as the straps from my apron loosened around my neck and fell to the floor. My whole body pressed against his, responding, the heat rising exponentially between us—and not just because we were dangerously close to an oven pre-heating to 350 degrees.

But just as his warm lips met mine, I felt something hard jab my waist from below Carlos’s belt. It wasn’t the usual protrusion.

I pulled back. “
Qué esto?
” I said in clunky Spanish.

But Carlos didn’t correct me. He only pushed forward. In a heartbeat I was backed up against the counter with cold steel pressed against my back.

Carlos lifted me so that we were eye level. I knocked over a silver bowl of powdered sugar. It dusted the right side of my jeans and his left forearm. He paused from kissing me, reluctantly. The corner of his mouth turned up in a sheepish smile when I reached again for his pocket.

“What is that?” My finger reached for his pocket but hooked instead on his belt loop.

“What’s what?” His lips found mine again.

“
That
,” I said against his lips as his hands moved up my legs, squeezing them, then to my arms, before threading his fingers in my hair.

Breathing became more difficult.

Quickly, I forgot all about his pocket.

But then the bell above the front door jingled faintly at the worst possible time.

“Damn…” I mumbled.

“Ignore it,” Carlos exhaled against my ear, taking my earlobe with his teeth.

“Can’t,” I moaned even though every nerve ending in my body wanted nothing more than to stay wrapped beside him, exploring. Who wouldn’t want kitchen sex?

Carlos grumbled something fairly unpleasant in Spanish.

“It could be your Uncle.” I sighed. “Or the table rental guys. Or the florist. Or about a dozen other people.” Cruel reality invaded our few quiet moments together.

Carlos pulled away slowly, his arms still braced against the counter, each muscle taut against his shirt. But his gaze looked through me, almost as if he was seriously considering whether to cement the kitchen door shut in the next twenty seconds with nothing more than a bag of flour and butter.

My disappointment reflected in his eyes. Since Kathryn had returned home for the wedding, we had had so little alone time in the apartment. I missed Carlos. Bad. Sure, Carlos still stayed the night sometimes. But it was different with Kathryn in the room next to us.

With an irritated sigh, he helped me slither down from the counter and then followed me out the kitchen as I wiped powdered sugar from my jeans and tried my best to adjust the buttons on my blouse.

The kitchen door swung open and I walked toward the front door, expecting Uncle Mario.

“Hello?”

It wasn’t Uncle Mario.

“I saw the sign. But—”

My jaw dropped. “Callie?”

The woman’s mouth snapped shut. “Um, yes? Do we know each other?”

Do we know each other?
My eyeballs practically snapped out of my head as they swept her over, top to bottom. I was dreaming all over again. Perfect blond hair, flawless make-up, manicured nails, body to die for—it was Callie, all right.

My body swayed in place with the onset of shock. Carlos’s hands held my shoulders from behind, probably as surprised as I was. Even if he’d never met her, he certainly knew her name as well as I did.

Carlos and Kathryn knew all about Callie. I’d told them everything about her—about me—in the hospital. They should have called me crazy but they just listened as I told them detailed stories about the treadmill, condo, job at the station, even my perfect size six feet. They listened without judging, nodding in all the right places, never doubting me but gently reminding me that I had spent the whole time in the hospital and was pumped with some pretty strong drugs at exactly the same time I thought I was engaged to Max Kramer and anchoring the noon news.

“Maybe you just saw her some place and it stuck in your subconscious?” Kathryn had said, although even she couldn’t explain how I suddenly became an expert in eyebrow plucking and appropriate mascara shades. Carlos had reasoned that perhaps it was easier for me to daydream than deal with my parents’ deaths. Both their theories sounded logical but it didn’t explain how I could remember the bitter taste of Max Kramer’s tongue in my mouth or the purple bruises on my arm from where I pinched myself to wake up but never did.

I remembered to breathe. “You are Callie Collins.” I blinked. “Aren’t you?” The chairs from the chess table scrapped against the floor. Even Charlie and Mr. Flores paused long enough to listen.

Callie tilted her head and smiled that perfect white smile, not one crooked tooth in the whole bunch. I remembered that well. I even remembered using it to my advantage a few times. “Well, you got it halfway right. I’m Callie Carter.”

My chin pulled back. “Carter?”

“Yes. Carter.”

“You’re sure?”

Callie’s eyes widened. “Quite.”

My eyes narrowed. “Never Collins?”

“Never.”

“Oh,” I squeaked, a bit stumped. Then I opened my mouth to say something else but my lips stopped forming words as my mind raced forward to make sense of this news.

“Look, I can see this is a bad time. I shouldn’t have ignored the sign on the door. But then I saw those two gentlemen in the window.” She paused to nod at them, propelling even Charlie to flash back the rarest of acknowledgements.

I cleared my throat. “No problem. Really—” I stopped myself from incoherent rambling and then said. “How’d you find me—I mean, us.” My arms spread toward the café. “This place?”

“I’ve been meaning to stop by the last few months—”

“You got my note?” I swallowed, hard.

Callie’s eyes narrowed, confused. “No…” she said slowly. Very slowly. “The doorman at my building recommended your coffee.”

My temples pounded. “Kevin?”

Callie paused. “No. Kurt. But close.” She swallowed and her clear blue eyes narrowed a fraction more. “Have we met before?”

My knees wobbled. “I…I…I…”

I really didn’t know at this point.

“I’ve done some modeling. Maybe you’ve seen me in a magazine?” Callie tried to be helpful. “Or in a television commercial?”

“Well, I…well…you…” There was so much I wanted to ask her, so many questions that raced through my mind. Unfortunately none of them made much sense. I was afraid that I could easily send her running out the front door in search of the nearest police officer. I finally settled on something less frightening. “Do you like scones?”

The pink color returned to Callie’s cheekbones. Her shoulders caved forward. “Love them.”

“Raspberry?”

“My favorite.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

I turned slightly and looked at Carlos, wide-eyed. Other than the hint of a calm smile on his face, his expression was unreadable. “Well,” I said, swallowing back the dryness in my throat. “My name is Grace. And this is my boyfriend, Carlos. We’re so glad you found us.”

“Where do you work?” Carlos asked as I threaded my arm around his waist, more to keep from falling forward.

“I just started at Channel 10. I’ll be doing the weather.”

I coughed as though a popcorn kernel had suddenly wedged in my throat. “Channel…10?” I finally managed.

Callie nodded. “Have you seen the newscast?”

I blinked wide. Maybe I had. Maybe I hadn’t. By ten o’clock I was usually too exhausted to care. So I said nothing.

Callie shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I can see that you’re busy.” Her eyes landed on a stack of chairs in the corner. “I’ll come back another time.” She backed up a step and turned for the door.

“Wait!” I said. I raised my hand. “Stay there. Don’t move. Please.”

Callie nodded. But I wouldn’t have blamed her for bolting for the sidewalk.

Two minutes later, I returned with a large foam cup of coffee and a white box with two raspberry scones.

“For later,” I told her, handing her the packages.

Callie smiled again, inhaling the box, her blond hair falling forward in perfect silky waves over her shoulders. “I look forward to it. How much?”

I raised my palm. “On the house. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Thanks, Grace. Kurt was right about this place.” Her eyes scanned the room from corner to corner before they landed briefly on the photos behind the cash register.

“What’d he say?” I was instantly curious.

“Who?”

“Kevin—I mean, Kurt,” I said.

“Said it was the best café in town. And the friendliest.” She raised her packages, the coffee in one hand and the scones in the other. “He was right.”