No Weddings (8 page)

M
onday afternoon, I left campus at 3:50 p.m. and had plenty of time to grab a bite at home before heading over to Sweet Dreams, and yet, I ate nothing. For some stupid reason, I was nervous before our business meeting. Although Invitation Only’s concept had been Kristen’s idea after the renovation of her barn, and therefore her baby to take the lead on, I made it clear to her that the follow-up meeting was mine once Hannah had agreed to negotiate. Kristen agreed, wisely leaving the negotiations in my capable hands.

Extreme punctuality had always calmed me in an oh-so-OCD way, so I grabbed my laptop and the printed copies of the agreements and shoved them into my messenger bag before heading over to Hannah’s.

Pre-rush-hour traffic was so light, I slipped into the end space in front of Hannah’s shop inside of ten minutes. I glanced at my watch: 4:15 p.m. Undaunted by what she might think of my encroaching on her time, I stepped through the front door of Sweet Dreams.

The empty display case and stacked chairs all remained the same, with the bistro set remaining exactly as we’d left it, ready and waiting for our meeting. I took a seat, pulled out my laptop, and set the bag on the floor.

“You’re early,” a disembodied voice called out from the kitchen, tone flat.

“Got Wi-Fi?”

Unintelligible words were mumbled from the back, but I flipped open my laptop and it fired up, hooking into Hannah’s Wi-Fi like a charm.

Calm washed over me as I typed away on a business theory paper.

Yes, business theory.

Actually, it was a subtopic I’d requested in my Entrepreneurship and Venture Initiation class. The instructor was cool and gave me some leeway off syllabus as long as I met the core requirements of the class. Considering myself a budding entrepreneurial philosopher, business theory had become a hobby of mine, and I was interested in further exploring the subject for feedback.

Hannah appeared from the back at exactly 5:00 p.m.

I glanced up after I finished typing out a thought.

Holy shit.

She wore black, thigh-high stiletto boots, a black mini skirt, and a corset-style top. Her hair was down, long brunette waves flowing down her shoulders. I forced my gaze up to her face. Her expression was all business—hardened, actually—as if she was testing me.

Nice move.

But I’d been negotiating since I’d learned how to talk, thanks to my dad’s unorthodox father–son lessons. Tearing my attention away from her, I took a head-clearing breath, saved my business theory paper, and pulled up electronic copies of the agreements. I would’ve pulled out my printed versions, but I noticed she’d brought sets of her own.

When she sat down, she held a pair of folded glasses in one hand and two clipped packets in the other. She pulled her chair closer to the table and leaned toward me, sliding one of the packets over.

She put on the glasses, and I had to stop myself from entertaining a sexy librarian fantasy. “On top is the agreement I’ve signed—with revisions I won’t waver from. I also added in my fees. Although it seemed sensible to charge by the hour for my time, I took an estimation of the hours and materials in various scenarios and gave you a range depending on the circumstances. There will be a flat rate charged for each event, and it will be quoted within forty-eight hours of notice.”

I nodded, listening and understanding. All reasonable. I scanned through her revised contract, noting every word change. I knew, because I’d created it. “You got anything to drink?”

Her eyes widened, likely because I hadn’t balked yet. “Sure.” She got up and went to the back.

Business required a calm mind and tough negotiations, when warranted. It also required plenty of hydration to keep the brain cells firing.

She brought me a chilled Pellegrino in the bottle then took her seat again. I took a few swallows while flipping to the second page.

Hannah crossed her legs but sat there in silence, waiting.

When I’d identified a third talking point, I reached down and grabbed my yellow lined notepad, unclipped the pen attached to it, and flipped to a fresh page. I wrote down my thoughts, then continued.

About fifteen minutes later, I finished reading the four-page counterproposal. I folded the pages back into their order and glanced at the Confidentiality and Noncompete Agreement she’d included in the packet before looking up at her.

“I didn’t alter that agreement,” she said before I could ask.

“Good.” I picked it up from the table, flipped through the pages to confirm she’d initialed and signed in all the appropriate places, then slid it into my bag.

I leaned back in my chair, shifting my gaze back to hers. “You have valid points. I’m agreeable to all your terms—except for one.”

She looked at me without emotion. Her demeanor suggested it didn’t matter which one was unacceptable, either because she didn’t care a great deal about any single one, or they were all important enough to be deal breakers.

Knowing how to read the signals in any negotiation was paramount to winning one. It was like the perfect game of poker. Anyone could play decent hands and bluff. A good player had to study their opponents’ body language and make their next move accordingly.

I took her tells into consideration before speaking my next words, countering the one sticking point we were predictably going to butt heads on. “No weddings.”

Yeah, I didn’t give a fuck. That was a deal breaker for me. She would accept it, or we would find another cake maker. Was it personal? Yes. Were there sound business reasons? Absolutely.

Her head cocked slightly to the right, but her gaze never left mine. She focused on reading me too. “Why would you care whether or not I make wedding cakes?”

I shrugged, easing back into the chair which creaked under the pressure. “I don’t. You can make cakes for whomever you choose. But if you want to be a part of Invitation Only, you’ll work with us exclusively with regard to events. A wedding is an event.”

“It doesn’t have to be me ‘working’ for them or with them. I could just be the cake supplier. They order, I supply.”

“No.”

She narrowed those darkened hazel eyes at me, hiding them behind thick black lashes. I understood her irritation over the point. Weddings were the stuff of girls’ dreams. She named her store Sweet Dreams for Christ’s sake. Like all women, she got caught up in the fantasy painted into their minds by commercialism—manipulated by the billions-of-dollars-a-year industry.

Kudos to the wedding industry.

But not from me. I wasn’t ensnared by the hype. Nothing pretty went on there. The entire pretense was only to provide momentary escape from the guests’ lives onto the shoulders of one couple’s stress and dollars under the guise of a “celebration.”

I waited while she regarded me under that scrutinizing gaze.

Her move. Nothing on Earth would make me speak first. Or budge on the one point.

“I will provide cakes to hotels.”

I blinked. The left-field comment lost me. “What?”

“Hotels and resorts. I will provide cakes to them. They’re my backdoor business, as you so aptly pointed out. You were the one who argued I couldn’t ignore my biggest money-maker. If I have to give up working with all other event companies to remain exclusive to Invitation Only, including those that throw lucrative weddings, then I claim any and all business directly from a hotel and resort as fair game.”

I cocked my head.

She leaned forward.

Her meaning registered a split second before my protest hit my lips.

In calm confidence, she clarified her point. “Even if it’s for a wedding.”

I shook my head. “No.”

An empty laugh. “Is that the only word you know?”

I smirked. “No.”

She crossed her arms, pressing them into the pert breasts already spilling over the corset. Really? Who the hell wears that shit to a business meeting?
Clearly a female angling to win
, I thought as I tore my eyes away from her absent neckline and met her eyes.

Now she smirked. “My contact will only be the hotel staff. No communications with any event planners. You said yourself it would be business suicide not to solicit the resort industry.”

Cunning. Using my own words against me. I didn’t make a habit of arguing with myself, even if someone else spouted off the quoted material.

“Fine.”

“Fine?” She pulled her arms away, surprise widening her eyes.

I chuckled. “Don’t get used to it, Maestro. And you cannot attend those events. You want to be a supplier to the resorts? You supply the cake. Nothing else. No deliveries by you in person, and no attending any of the events.”

She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. “No. You obviously don’t understand what I do. I create works of art. I deliver and set up. You agree to that, or we have no deal.”

I took a deep breath. “I can’t agree to that.” The whole point of keeping her interactions away from other event-planning companies was to minimize the risk of her forming any kind of relationship with another company. That’s how business ideas and clients got stolen.

Her eyes narrowed. “Can’t or won’t?”

I smiled. She was still in the game. She just didn’t realize it. And the next words out of my mouth could make the difference between her continued interest or her withdrawing entirely. “What if we don’t sign the contract yet? How about we do a trial run with our first party?”

She tilted her head to the side, gaze holding mine. “Why would we do that?”

“Consider it a good-faith act on both our parts. We’ll get to see how each other operates. I’m hoping you’ll come around to our side of the fence. And I don’t have the authority on my own to alter such an important contract point.”

I knew the whole thing sounded harsh, but this wasn’t coming from just me. The Founding Foursome of Invitation Only had pounded these additional rules and details out over a fierce game of Monopoly. And that shit was set in stone.

“I’ll agree to that.”

“Good. Why don’t I make the changes we’ve agreed upon and destroy the ones you’ve already signed?”

She nodded. “That sounds okay.”

I took the contracts back out and tore them in half. Deal sealed. Well, almost. But I felt confident her signature on the new dotted line was only a technicality.

After a solid handshake, I typed furiously on my laptop, making the revisions to the contract with our agreed-upon amendments. I tried not to notice the generous amount of toned thigh Hannah revealed between the tops of her boots and the bottom of her skirt every time she shifted her legs, recrossing them.

By the third time, I stopped typing midsentence and raised a brow, not bothering to take my eyes off the screen. “I noticed. A man would have to be blind not to.” Then I leaned back, removing the laptop that obstructed a full view, and glanced over, taking a good long look, deciding two could play at her game.

She sucked in a breath as my gaze lingered at the juncture of where those thighs met.

I imagined what she had on underneath there, probably some lacy black thong. I let my thoughts drift over what treasure lay waiting beneath the thong and licked my lips. Slowly scanning up from there, I made plans of how I would take my time working my tongue up her body until I reached those gorgeous tits before setting them free from that confining material.

On a deep inhale, I thought about the deep pink tips hardening for my touch and raised my gaze further, to those matching full lips that would be parted on a moan. By the time my gaze met hers, those beautiful green eyes had darkened, dilated.

Oh, fuck yeah. No line had been crossed. The off-limits zone hadn’t even blurred. The damn thing had been obliterated.

Ignoring the hardening demand behind my fly, I focused my thoughts and calmed my hammering pulse. Now all Hannah could see was a collected exterior, which was all she needed to know.

Her lips pursed, and she let out a slow breath.

I chuckled and returned to the matter at hand, lifting my laptop screen and finishing the amendments. Business first.

But the rest?

Game. On.

“T
hat is
not
a holiday.” Kiki stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips, standing behind an imaginary line she’d drawn in Kristen’s antique looped rug. Anti-sports Kiki.

My Seahawks had won, and we were going to the Super Bowl. It was
so
a holiday.

“All in favor of the event?” I didn’t pull punches. On my side of the line were die-hard football fans. In my peripheral vision, I saw Kristen’s and Kendall’s arms shoot up in the air.

“The ‘ayes’ have it. You, my dear artistic soul, are overruled.”

Kiki rolled her eyes in the cute way she always did and stormed to my favorite corner of the couch. I almost let her have it, but then I casually walked over and sat on her.

She became a spider beneath a boulder, arms flailing. It was only when I fell over, grunting from an elbow jab in the ribs, that she settled down, relishing her small victory with a grin while huffing to catch her breath.

Giving Kiki a moment to bask in the glory of her territory nab, I grabbed my Fat Tire from the table and flopped into the other corner. The cushion wasn’t near as flattened on this end. Maybe I needed to break in a new side.