No Weddings (11 page)

The woman continued revealing pieces to an ever-growing puzzle.

H
ow did I
not
say
no Valentine’s Day
?

If there was any single holiday worse than a wedding, it was Valentine’s Day. But worse than the entire Western World’s commercialism of a day sprung from Christian saints and courtly love, worse than all the cutesy hearts and obligatory bouquets, worse than even the professions of love and
proposals
, were all the suckers that bought into that shit.

My stomach soured.

I’d been staring at the blinking cursor on my screen for longer than was visually healthy when I sighed and decided to just buck up and deal. They didn’t have therapy for what ailed me, but maybe if I drowned myself in little pink hearts and boxes of chocolate, all the sap-filled overload would shove me into a sugar coma—or off a cliff.

Resigning myself to the fact that the event Kristen had booked was happening—whether or not I wanted to stab myself in the eye with a fork over it—I drafted the email, providing the pertinent details to Hannah, and hit send. There. Done. Moving on.

The blender or mixer, or whatever had been whirring in the background on and off in steady rotation for the last hour, stopped. I closed my laptop and settled further back into the corner of a fairly comfortable couch.

Hannah appeared suddenly, stalking toward me with the lit screen of her sparkle-coated cell phone held up by her face. Her hair was a tousled mess, trying to escape a pink hair clip. Her eyebrows were raised. She was goddamn adorable with that incredulous look on her face—kind of made a guy want to keep putting it there.

“Did you just email me from twenty feet away?”

I looked past her, gauging the size of the front room. “No. More like thirty-five.” I leaned back, bouncing into the cushion, rocking my thighs forward and back. “This couch is perfect.”

Her eyes narrowed, hiding their icy green color behind thick black lashes. “Glad you approve. Couldn’t you have just
told
me we have a new gig?”

“Why would I do that? This method was much more effective in getting your attention.”

Yes. I was the kid who pulled on girls’ pigtails just to make them squeal.

“Urgh!” She clenched her hands into fists and then exploded them out in midair toward me. Her phone went flying into the back of the couch, bounced off the middle seat cushion, and flew onto the floor before skidding to a halt next to her bright yellow tennis shoe. She glared at it, as if bending over and picking it up would lessen her frustrated display.

She stormed off, abandoning the innocent phone.

I scooped it up and chased after her into the bakery war zone. “Awww, c’mon. Don’t be like that. I’m kidding.”

Ignoring me, except for a cute little snort she made, she measured off dry ingredients into various sizes of clear bowls. While she pretended I wasn’t there, I watched as she visibly unwound with every measure and pour. By the time she dumped them all into a larger mixing bowl, her breathing had calmed, her expression relaxed.

Work was her therapy; it dissipated stress. Very much like bartending did for me. Familiar tasks that required your attention pulled you out of your head and into the present moment. Kendall, all into yoga and meditation, once told me the practice was called “mindfulness.” I got it—what I called my Zen Zone.

I walked over to her desk and placed her phone on the center of the surface, in between a fax machine and a neatly stacked pile of mail. “Besides, now you have a written record of the event, time, place, and cake request.”

Hannah glanced over her shoulder, her expression softening further. “Yeah, I guess. Thanks.”

Leaning back on the edge of the desk, I regarded her while she lost herself in her craft as she poured measuring cups of liquid into the bowl before turning the mixer on again. And, privileged as I was to be ignored, yet at the same time allowed to be here while her guard was down, I saw right through the ice-queen façade. That wasn’t her—never had been. She excelled at constructing monstrous walls, then hiding behind them. Compartmentalized like no one I’d ever met before.

Well, besides me.

She turned the mixer off and pulled a bowl of batter out from under it before lifting it with both hands over to a worktable. She glanced up at me before pouring the mixture into a dark-gray rectangular mold, amusement glinting in her eyes. “Were you joking in your email about the cake theme being ‘Love is a Battlefield?’”

“No joke. The client didn’t have a preference, but I did. So that’s the theme.”

“Seriously?” She smiled.

“Seriously. It is. Might as well have fun with it.” There was no doubt in my mind she’d do something awesome with the idea. And it helped soothe my inner devil. Cupid and I would duke it out till the end if I had to be involved in this nightmare.

She held my gaze, cocking her head. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to pick your brain about something.”

I crossed my arms. “Sure, go ahe—” My stomach growled loudly, and I paused, blinking. “Wait, hold up a second.”

Rapid-fire thoughts flowed in. I needed a distraction. She wanted help. My thesis needed attention. Her business needed a shot of adrenaline and a direction in which to run. And I needed to eat…

“You need to feed me.”

She gaped, then her eyes narrowed as her mouth closed. “Excuse me?"

My gaze lingered on her full lips while my mind stuck on the split-second image of her wide-open mouth, and I totally blanked, guttering my thoughts. I swallowed, my throat bone-dry.

Her brow furrowed as I looked at her, likely as if I wanted to eat her. I shook my head, closing my eyes, banishing thoughts of burying my face between her bare legs, because I did want to. Shamelessly. Like a starving man.

I crossed my arms over my chest, sighing heavily while I tried valiantly to stay on topic. “You do cook, don’t you? Meals? Something other than desserts?”

She scoffed. “What do you think? I’m a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America.” As if that was supposed to mean something to those of us who didn’t speak cooking-Greek.

“I think if you want help with your business, it will start costing you.” I scrubbed a hand over my chin, thinking this through.

She stared at me as if I’d gone insane.

“You cook a meal and feed me in exchange for one hour of my time. After dinner.”

Her hands flew out, that pretty jaw dropping again, before she pointed toward the front. “What do you think you’ve been doing up there all this time? Using my Wi-Fi, using my space as your own personal library? Now
you’re
charging
me
?”

I shrugged. “I don’t recall seeing a ‘no trespassing’ sign up there, and it wasn’t being utilized by any other customer while I offered you free advice. Plus, you had the added bonus of me breaking in your new couch.”

She blinked, looking dazed.

I snapped my fingers. “Now, focus, woman. Stop distracting me with nonessential information. We’re negotiating here.”

Her delicate brows arched higher over wide eyes. Then those shards of ice green were hidden behind narrowed lashes. “Two.”

“What?” I stood taller.

She came closer, exerting her confidence in our game. “Two. For every dinner I cook you, you will provide two hours of business advice.”

Now we were getting somewhere. I took a step closer, causing our bodies to almost touch.

Her face tilted up with my movement, holding my gaze, fearless.

I wanted to kiss her so badly in that moment, but I held fast, keeping my eye on the prize. Which definitely did
not
include kissing a baking Ice Queen. Not tonight, anyway.

“Two. For every dinner you cook me—a five-star, restaurant-worthy meal—I will give you two hours of my time afterward. One will be nothing but business, the other can be about any topic I choose, business or personal.”

“P-personal?” She shook her head.

I nodded mine. “Oh, yes. As personal as I want it to get.”

Her slender throat worked down a swallow. I knew I had her. She wanted my help too badly not to invest some time into getting more of what I had to offer.

“Fine.” She gave a single nod. A wisp of hair that had been falling down broke free, caressing her cheek. “Once a week for a few weeks should do it.”

“Three times a week. Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays. We’ll do it for two months. More if you need it.”

She gaped again. My gaze dropped to those delectable lips once more.

Her tropical scent drifted up between us. My mind hazed, barely holding on to the details she and I worked out. Her soft body leaned into mine, heat scorching through the fabric of our clothes. Gauging by her nonreaction, she’d been so blown by my last counterproposal, she had no idea how close we’d become, how dangerous an edge we teetered on.

The desire to kiss her became undeniable, but I balked. The entire suggestion I’d made was ridiculous in light of the fact she was off-limits in so many ways, and yet, I couldn’t help myself.

I waited.

Her heated breath puffed little scorches through the cotton of my shirt.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

She nodded, closing her eyes while she backed up a step. Then another. “Don’t ask me again, because I might change my mind.”

I grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Oh, and, Hannah? I’ll be using your business as a part of my thesis project. So, thanks for that.” Didn’t want her to know I got something more out of it than she realized until the die had been cast.

Without waiting for her reply, I turned and strode to the front.

A cupcake thudded into the wall beside me, barely missing my head. I paused, staring at a purple icing imprint on the white paint. I grinned wide.

Oh, yeah. This was going to be fun.

“Good night, Hannah. See you tomorrow night.”

A low growl sounded out from the back.

So much fun.

I
scrolled through my phone contacts, grinning like an idiot. Couldn’t help it, really. I’d gone into full-blown stupid mode.

Clicking on Hannah’s number, I hit the text box and typed.

We doing your place or mine?

I waited, watching two kids on scooters race by on the sidewalk.

Her reply came through seconds later.

Are you up front on my couch?

I grinned and replied.

Nope. Breaking in your new chair. Spun it around a quarter turn.

Better angle . . .

Her message bubble popped up while she typed her reply.

Did you just make that dirty?

I laughed.

Is that what three little dots does to you? I’ll have to do it more often

. . .

A minute passed. Then another. No whirring noises happened. I began to wonder if Little Miss Ice Queen had frosted over, or melted down.

Finally, her message bubble showed her typing again.

Your place.

I nodded.

My roommate might be there . . .

The sigh I heard was so loud, she had to be standing right inside the kitchen doorway.

I am NOT interpreting those three dots to be anything sexual.

I don’t do threesomes . . .

I choked, coughing like I’d inhaled a gallon of water. My mind blanked—zero thoughts between my ears.

She saved it, compensating for my total wipeout.

Does he bite . . . ?

I stared at those three naughty little dots. My cock twitched, and I adjusted in the seat. On a deep breath, I shook my head, taking control.

Only 5-star food.

Do you do threesomes . . .

for dinner . . . ?

She appeared in the doorway, smiling.

Damn, I loved that smile. I grabbed my messenger bag from the table and joined her. “Ready?”

She nodded once. “Sure. We need to go shopping first.”

“No we don’t. I went shopping already.”

She pulled her head back, surprised. “How did you know what we’d need? Or that I’d say ‘your place?’”