Raspberry Crush (15 page)

Okay, that was it. Things were going to be different now. He had to focus on what really mattered: selling his mom's house, keeping up with his business, and getting back to Seattle in a reasonable amount of time. If he kept focusing on his lust for Billy, he'd never get anything done.
Get your head straight,
he thought.
Both of them.

Chapter 12

"So what did you say?" Corryn asked.

"What could I say?" Billy said, stirring her drink. "I told him I was seeing someone. I'm sure I misread it anyway. He was probably just being nice. Nothing even happened, but I still feel so guilty."

"Then I guess Mom's done her job."

They'd met after work at George, a dim, moody bar on Boylston. This was the first chance Billy had had to fill her sister in on what happened at the jubilee on Saturday night and her lunch with Seth today. She supposed part of what made this afternoon so unsettling was the recollection of that long, sizzling moment at the jubilee—right before the scream—when she could've sworn Seth was about to kiss her.

"What did Seth say when you told him about Mark?" Corryn asked now.

"Nothing, really," Billy replied with a shrug. "Except that he's happy for me. Jeez, does he always have to be so
nice?"

Corryn let out a laugh. "Yeah, what is up with you and these nice boys? First Seth, now Mark—and both are decent-looking. What's your secret?" Billy just rolled her eyes as she slurped her raspberry crush. "Is anything else bothering you?" Corryn asked gently.

"No..." Except that she couldn't stop thinking about kissing Seth, and that was frustrating—plus, she knew that thinking about it was wrong, so
that
was frustrating. If only she could replace her spicy, erotic fantasies about Seth with ones of Mark, but it was hard.

"Well, speaking of men," Corryn said, "guess who I ran into on Saturday night while I was hanging out with Pike?"

"Who?"

"That guy from the T." Billy looked at her sister questioningly, and Corryn clarified: "The charmer who tweaked my nipple—but it turns out he didn't."

Billy's eyes shot up. "Ew, him? Wait—he didn't do it? You mean you actually
asked
him about it?" she said, giggling.

"Of course. I couldn't just let it go. But I believe him. Now that I talked to him, it doesn't seem like his style."

"How long did you guys talk?"

"Not long. And then I basically made a fool of myself."

"How?" Billy asked skeptically, because Corryn's negative portrayals of herself often lacked authenticity.

"He asked me to go for coffee, and I acted like a complete dumb-ass. I acted like I never even
heard
of coffee."

"Why do I have the feeling you're exaggerating?"

"No, it's true—oh, but I did find out his name. It's Joe Montgomery. He's a homicide detective."

"Wait a minute," Billy said. "Joe Montgomery? I know him!"

"What?"

"I know Joe," Billy said again, her face lighting up with a smile. "I mean I
used
to know him. He's friends with Seth."

"Oh... wow," Corryn said, feeling a pang of disappointment. Somehow this Joe thing had been
her
little intrigue. Knowing that he was connected to Billy and Seth made her feel more exposed—more vulnerable. "Small world..."

"God, this is great!" Billy continued excitedly. "Joe is
such
a nice guy; you should totally go for it!"

"Whoa, go for what?" Corryn said, putting up her hands to slow her sister down. "He's cute, but we talked for two minutes. I'm not planning to see him again."

"Why not? You like him; I'm sure he likes you—
you're
single;
he's
single—"

"Billy, please, I've told you, I don't want to date," Corryn said, then, "He's single?"

"Divorced," Billy replied eagerly. "Oh, that's perfect, too—
he's
divorced;
you're
divorced—you guys can sit around bashing your exes together."

"What a treat."

"C'mon, if you're not going to have a hot romance for yourself, then do it for
me,"
Billy pleaded. "Let me live vicariously through you."

Corryn scoffed. "What are you talking about? You have Mark."

Hmm...
Interesting theory. But did anyone really
have
Mark? Billy was beginning to wonder. Sure, everything seemed great on the surface, but it was hard to get close to someone who had a million friends and little free time. Then again, an everlasting relationship and a soul-deep connection were probably a lot like hot sex—they would simply come with time.

Right?

* * *

She had the next day off from work, so she figured it was finally time to meet Kip, the wonder headhunter, and watch him work his magic. Adrienne was home right now, literally waiting on bated breath, salivating for details about Gladys's son, the powerhouse.

Yet when Billy arrived at the shabbily run-down building off of Tremont Street and climbed three flights of creaky steps to the Belding Personnel "suite," she began to doubt Kip's power. Maybe it was wrong to jump to conclusions, but it was kind of hard not to when her first impression of Belding Personnel was peeling paint and dry rot.

She knocked lightly on the door and heard papers rustling frantically on the other side. Then feet shuffling... then the thump of someone tripping... then someone whispering, "Shit!" Finally the door swung open. A skinny guy in his twenties with a frosted goatee, who was slightly out of breath, smiled down at her. "Hi, Kip?"

"Hello, sweetie," he enthused, and offered her a cool, clammy handshake. "Come in. God, I feel like I already know you, the way my mother always goes on about you!" That seemed hard to believe, because Gladys had met her only once, and had persistently called her Bailey. Kip led her over to his desk, which was about a twelve-inch journey. The office had a musty kind of quality that hopefully came from not opening the windows enough, and not from asbestos. "Please have a seat," Kip said. He dropped into his chair and wheeled it forward with a squeak.

"I appreciate your meeting with me on such short notice," Billy said, tenderly sitting down in the wobbly, torn chair that faced Kip's desk.

"No problem. I was thrilled to finally match the name with the face," he said.

Which name?
she thought sardonically, then pushed her flippancy aside. Really, she should be serious about this—this was her career at stake. Working at the bakery was a fun, diverting sideline, but she was twenty-seven years old already. She needed to be hitting the proverbial pavement, breaking back into the corporate scene, and, with any luck, Kip would help her do that.

While Kip got organized, Billy shifted a little in her seat to get comfortable. As it was, she didn't feel quite like herself today in a black suit and high heels. It was her standard interview outfit, which was considerably tighter today than when she'd bought it six months ago. She'd obviously gotten spoiled working at Bella Donna in soft, warm sweaters and faded blue jeans, and right now she missed the worn comfort of her battered green velvet coat.

"Okaaaay... let's seeee here... Got your résumé," Kip said, rooting around on his desk for the sheet that Corryn had faxed over for Billy that morning. "Let me just find it...
un momentitooo..."
After a few more minutes of shuffling, he said, "Well, while I'm looking for it, why don't you tell me more about yourself?"

Billy gave him her professional history, in brief—-which wasn't difficult, because it
was
brief—and Kip nodded profusely while he rooted around his office. "Ah! Here it is," he said, finally locating her résumé and scanning it briefly. "Looking good... Web design experience, advanced computer skills, degree from BC—nice. The old-boys' network
loves
that."

Billy supposed that was a good thing—to an extent.

"Let's see here... Net Circle... three and a half years. So what happened there?" Kip asked, looking up.

"Oh, the company declared bankruptcy. It just couldn't bear the declining market."

"Ouch," he yelped sympathetically, and set her résumé down on his cluttered desk. "Okay, let's be honest. You're looking for a thriving, fast-paced environment where you can apply your natural creativity, and where you can grow, right?"

"Yeah, definitely," Billy said, perking up. Gee, when he put it like that, it sounded pretty good. She recalled the surge of elation she'd felt when she'd presented the Renoir cakes at the jubilee. She wanted to feel that rush again, and if she could get paid for it, even better.

"Fabulous, because it just so happens that I have a
supremo
fit for you."

"Really?" she said, leaning forward with anticipation.

"There's a position that's just opened up for a smart, detail-oriented, and fabulously creative individual—how does that sound?"

"Wow, that sounds great! Where's the job?"

"Tuck Hospital in Dorchester," he replied... much to Billy's disappointment. Okay, not to be a diva, but working in a hospital hadn't been remotely what she'd had in mind. She supposed it had to do with her heightened fear of her own mortality—similar to why she'd never watched
ER
for all the endless years it aired, also why she compulsively avoided televised surgeries and movies about killer viruses. It was a little quirk of hers.

But, on the other hand, the mature thing to do would be to keep an open mind. "Okay..." she said now, trying to conceal her uneasiness. "And what would I be doing there?"

"Well, in the terrific position that's currently available, you'd be working in the Infectious Disease Unit—you know, greeting incoming patients, and attending to some basic administrative needs."

Hmm...
"Basic administrative needs" was suddenly not sounding so creative, and the prospect of greeting patients
before
they got treated for their infectious diseases wasn't all that enticing. "Kip, I'm sorry," she said, chucking maturity out the window. "But I really don't want to work in a hospital. It's just a personal preference—a
strong
personal preference."

Kip looked flummoxed by that one. "Well, it's a great job, Billy," he said, with an edge to his voice that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "It's just not for me."

Now he looked a little peeved. "O-kaaaaay," he said, and shuffled some more papers on his desk. "If you're suuuure..."

"I am, but thanks for thinking of me," she said brightly. "Um, are there any other positions open that I could interview for? I'm pretty open, you know, besides hospitals." Oh, wait, maybe she should specify that she also wasn't crazy about cemeteries, prisons, and nuclear-waste dumps, before they had another misunderstanding.

But as it turned out, there was no need. Kip cut the meeting short, saying, "You know, let me look through my client portfolio and give you a call, okay, sweetie?" Even though he'd called her "sweetie," Billy sensed that Kip's flamboyant positivity had dwindled.

"Okay, great, just give me a call," she said, smiling amiably, and left his office.

As soon as her high heels hit the pavement, her cell phone rang. Jeez, did her mother have some kind of sixth sense?

"Yes?" she answered, assuming it was her mom, though she couldn't see the number in the glare of the sun.

"Hello, may I speak with Billy Cabot, please?"

It wasn't her mom—it was a man. With some sort of an accent, too.

"This is Billy," she said, pressing her free hand to her other ear to block out the sound of traffic as she walked toward Government Center.

"Why, hello!" he said. "This is Greg Dappaport of the Churchill Dappaports." Now she recognized that accent! (Did she say accent or affectation?) It was the quasi-English man with the slicked hair and silk neckerchief whom she'd met at the jubilee. The one who'd been arguing with Ted Schneider on the beach.

"Am I catching you at an inconvenient time?" he asked.

"Um, no."

"Oh, wonderful, because I would love to discuss your work."
Huh? What work?
"I got your mobile phone number from Sally Sugarton; I hope that's all right."

"Sure, sure," Billy said, still zeroing in on the word "work." What had he meant?

"The reason I'm calling is that I am interested in commissioning you for a mural at my gallery."
What!

"A street mural," he explained. "Of course, I'm sure you're busy with many of your own projects, but would you have time this week to meet with me at the gallery? I could tell you more about what I have in mind."

For a moment Billy remained speechless. This didn't make any sense—how did he know about her love of painting? Had Seth told him to call her? "I'm sorry, Mr. Dappaport, I'm confused. Could you back up here?"

"Oh, of course, I apologize," he said with a chuckle. "It's just that when I get excited about a new artist, I tend to forget myself. You see, I became a fan of your work at the jubilee this past weekend. The cakes you decorated were nothing short of breathtaking. The detail was nearly flawless—it blew me away. Everyone was talking about it, you know."

Clutching her stomach, Billy swallowed a hard lump of surprise. "Thank you, thank you so much. But... well, you realize that those images weren't original? I mean, that wasn't really my work—it was a very loose recreation of Renoir's
Les Grands Boulevards."

"Oh, I know, of course, but you really made it your own!" Dappaport enthused. "It was quite delightful—I really fancy your flair for muted emotion. You turned Renoir's vision into a vague hallucination, as though his strokes were washed by a silken hand."

Stunned, Billy's mouth curved open; she wasn't sure what to make of the strange compliment. Still, excitement struck her, as well as the pressing need to ask if this was all a joke. How could sheet cakes have made such an impression?

Then again, she sensed that Mr. Dappaport wasn't exactly married to the mainstream. From his clothes to his affected accent, he seemed more than a bit eccentric. They talked briefly and set up a meeting for the following day. When Billy hung up her cell, she smiled into the cold air—grateful for this unlikely chance, and for unconventional people like Greg Dappaport.