Dangerously Dark (29 page)

Yes, that made sense. I wasn't completely lacking in self-awareness; I knew I only procrastinated when faced with doing something I didn't want to do. Something that caused me basic existential dread. Something like perfecting a temperamental chocolate soufflé. Controlling the fruit-forward flavors in a chocolate varietal from Ghana. Or sorting through receipts at tax time. (I knew
that
was fun for Travis—sorry, Travis!)

But the only thing left on my to-do list was to keep my formerly deferred date with Tomasz. What was there not to like about keeping a rendezvous to get up close and personal with a vintage cacao roaster and the man who owned and operated it?

Nothing . . . that's what, I reminded myself. Tomasz was (secretly) rich, (secretly) altruistic, and (openly) charming. He was also
really
good-looking, excellent at creating harmony (sometimes via well-timed boozy drinks), and devoted to everyone in his Cartorama “family.” Plus, he wore good shoes and mixed a pretty amazing Cacao Negroni, too. In fact, I decided, there was no time like the present to just get on with our date.

You know . . . if it
was
a date. Although Tomasz had texted me back with a Come over anytime response, I still didn't know if we were getting together romantically—the way Danny thought I wanted to get together with Travis—or if we were just going to behave like food service colleagues admiring some nice equipment.

That (unintentional) double entendre reminded me of Danny again. If he'd been there, he'd have interrogated Tomasz about his undisclosed wealth. But I had no plans to do any such thing. I hadn't come clean about
my
fortune, either. It didn't matter.

I was going to close out my time in Portland on a high note, I told myself. All it would take was one trip across the picturesque Hawthorne Bridge, one meander up to the northeast side of town, and one quick jaunt over to Muddle + Spade and the Cartorama cart pod. I was coming for Tomasz Berk, all right. No matter how weird Portland got on the way there, I was coming.

I might even resist stopping to call Travis while I was at it, I decided. Because that's just how strong I felt.

After all, nobody told Hayden Mundy Moore what to do and got away with it—especially not her own procrastinatory tendencies . . . which were infamous in certain circles for good reason, after all. So I put my car in gear and just got going.

Seventeen

The first thing I noticed when I arrived at Muddle + Spade was that it was quiet. Although Cartorama was open, there wasn't much business at the cart pod. (I blamed the on-again, off-again rain showers for that. I mean, seriously, Pacific Northwest: just decide if it's raining or not, then
do
it!)

Tomasz's bar wasn't open to customers yet. Apparently, in my eagerness to get a look at his equipment (I'm kidding), I'd sped across town too quickly. The familiar A-stand wasn't even outside yet, luring in visitors with promises of house-made cocktails, artisanal herb- and fruit-based drinks, and beer.

In Portland, I'd learned, there was
always
beer.

Momentarily daunted by Muddle + Spade's generally deserted appearance, I hesitated with my car keys in hand. I looked over my shoulder, taking in the neighborhood's row of trees. They were dripping rainwater at the moment. As I stood there, those drops picked up speed. I watched for a second, perplexed.

Then I realized it was raining (again) and hurried to the bar's door. I knocked, huddled against the struggling downpour.

Nobody answered. I considered texting Tomasz, but he'd said he might not hear my knock, hadn't he? So I took advantage of my exclusive access, unfastened that monogrammed key fob from its position affixed to my car-rental ring, and worked the lock.

Ah.
Inside, it was warm and snug. Ordinarily, Tomasz's bar was packed with customers and throbbing with music. Most of the time, it smelled of beer and tequila, CHISELED! body spray and women's perfumes. Today, though, the only aromas wafting through Muddle + Spade were a hint of disinfectant cleaner and rosemary.

And
women's perfume and hair spray. It was faint, but there.
Not
there (at least not in sight) was Tomasz. I frowned.

“Tomasz?” I called. “It's me, Hayden. I'm here!”

I gave a little ta-da wave, just in case he could see me from the back of the house. It would have been like Tomasz to stroll out with a bar towel over his shoulder, wearing something dapper and smiling at me. I felt unaccountably on edge as I stepped past the empty tables and booths, moving toward the bar.

I bumped into a chair and overturned it.
Real smooth.

“Hey, Hayden.” Tomasz chose that moment to emerge, looking as handsome and unruffled as he always did. His gaze shot to that upended chair as I endeavored to set it upright again. “Did you lock the door behind you? I have to keep it closed. Otherwise, the cart pod customers wander in before opening time.”

“Oh, no problem.” I wielded my personal key and did just that.
Presto.
Then I turned back to him, smiling as I showed off that familiar (to Tomasz) key fob. “I'm afraid this means we
won't
be going steady, though,” I joked, referring to our earlier banter about the implications of accepting it. “I'm already booked on a flight out. That's why I'm here early.”

Tomasz's face took on a stony quality. He seemed troubled. I hadn't realized he was so wedded to the idea of my being in Portland. It was flattering, but unnecessary. We hadn't known each other
that
well. Not beyond some mild flirtation, anyway.

“Maybe I can change your mind about that.” Rallying, he nodded at one of the empty bar stools. “What's your pleasure?”

“Hmm . . . a lifetime supply of chocolate?”

“Sorry, no can do.” Tomasz grinned and placed his palms on the bar, his arms spread wide in a comfortable pose. He looked like the king of Muddle + Spade. Of course, I knew he was. “Do you have a backup? For you, I'm willing to go pretty far.”

Aw, that was sweet. “A lifetime supply of
noncaloric
chocolate?” I suggested. “My pants are getting tight, thanks to the tour.” Ruefully, I tugged at my jeans' waistband. Usually, I managed to keep my weight down by running around kitchens, hiking around foreign markets and far-flung locales, and (if under duress) going running with Danny. “That would be super.”

He appeared to consider it. “Nah, you look great to me.”

I smiled, duly complimented. “So do you, to me.”

It was true. Today, Tomasz had come to work in another pair of perfectly-fitted black pants, a white-and-black checked shirt, and a pair of black braces. He'd groomed his shadowy beard to perfection, left his hair perfectly tousled, and maxed out his hot-indie-guy appeal with vintage leather wingtips.

If not for the uneasy look in his pensive blue eyes, he would have been a poster boy for runaway rich kids everywhere.

Not that I knew he'd run away,
I reminded myself sternly. I didn't even know where that idea had come from. It was a major tangent. For all I knew, Tomasz was as stable as Travis was.

You know, on the inside . . . which was all that counted.

Deciding to appeal to that inner nice guy of his, I smiled. “It was good to see you bringing everybody to Providence Portland last night to see Janel. I know Austin appreciated it.”

Tomasz nodded. “Did you really think so?”

Rather than take one of the bar stools, I strolled to join him at the bar. “Sure, I did. It was awful what happened to Janel. Austin was worried. He needed his cart pod family there.”

Just steps away from Tomasz, I leaned against the bar. I've been inside enough bakeries, confectionaries, restaurants, and shops to feel comfortable in the front or back of the house.

“You really see us as a family?” Tomasz asked, touched.

I nodded. “You all seem very close. It's nice.”

“Is it?” He gave me what I'd swear was a guarded look.

Was he really
nervous
in my presence? It seemed that way.

I was about to make my move when a noise from the back startled me. It sounded like a woman crying. Or maybe retching?

Was one of Tomasz's employees here? “Is there someone in the back?” I asked, uncomfortably alerted to the fact that we might not be alone. “Is she okay? If you want, I could help.”

Tomasz grabbed my arm before I could get far. He loomed over me, tall and broad shouldered—and suddenly alarming.

“Is it?” he pushed. “Is it ‘nice' that we're a family?”

I didn't understand his hostile demeanor. Frowning back at him, I yanked free my arm. “I just said it was,” I told him in a sharper tone than I intended. I don't like feeling trapped. That's (abruptly) how I felt. “Look, if this is a bad time—”

“If you think it's so ‘nice' here, why are you leaving?”

I'm not going to lie. I was getting a bad vibe from him. In my gridskipping life, a person learns to listen to intuition.

Right now, I reflected too late, my intuition was screaming that getting away from Tomasz was a good idea. Maybe it
hadn't
been reluctance to leave my cozy Airbnb foursquare house that had pushed me into procrastination mode earlier. Maybe it had been an unacknowledged and indistinct reluctance to see Tomasz.

If it had been, it was sharpening up pretty quickly now.

“I'm leaving because it's what I do.” I tipped up my chin, making sure to keep a few feet between us as I confronted him. “I have another job in another city. People are expecting me.”

It was always good to let someone know that, I figured.

“But you told me you liked it here.” Tomasz shook his head, giving me a tsk-tsk sound. “Maybe you were lying all along.”

“I do like it here.”
Not here in the bar, not at this moment,
I amended silently. But in general, Portland was fab.

“I don't think you do.” Tomasz's modelesque good looks couldn't hide the resentment and disappointment he felt. “But maybe you just need more time. Maybe if you stayed longer . . .”

“I won't be staying longer.” I hauled in a breath, knowing too late that this had been a mistake. I heard another heaving sound come from the back, followed by a feminine cough.

Who could be back there? A Muddle + Spade employee? Someone else? One of the errant tourists who tried to come in before the bar was open? A woman would explain the perfume and hair spray I'd detected. Maybe Tomasz had tied her up back there and—

—and I was getting carried away. This wasn't a movie.

“I'd like to stay,” I fibbed, “but duty calls. You know.”

Maybe I could buy enough time to make sure that whoever was sick in the back room would be okay. I couldn't just
leave.

Besides, I could handle myself. I always have before.

“What if duty didn't call?” Tomasz asked, looking heartened. He put down his bar towel and regarded me squarely. “What if you could stay here in Portland forever? I know you like Cartorama. I know you like the vendors. You like Chow.”

I
had
gotten close to the cat. I didn't think anyone else had particularly noticed me cuddling the kitty, though.

“I'm afraid ‘full-time kitty cuddler' isn't very lucrative,” I joked. “A girl's got to keep herself in brownies and hot-fudge sundaes somehow, right? It's been fun, though.”

That
was a gross overstatement. Of all the things I'd had in the Rose City, “fun” was not at the top of the list. Not this time.

But Tomasz seemed mollified. I dared myself to edge closer again, hoping I'd be able to see into the bar's back room.

After all, if no one had come to my rescue after the killer-shelf incident, I'd have been in pretty bad shape.

“What if you didn't need money?” Tomasz asked.

He looked sincerely interested in my answer. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe all the
murder!
in the air had me spooked.

I shrugged. Technically, I didn't need money. But Tomasz Berk didn't know that. I saw no reason to enlighten him.

I might make friends easily, but I don't do it by sacrificing my sense of safety or privacy. I'm kooky that way.

But apparently, I'd spent too long debating my answer, because Tomasz rushed in to give me one. “Because you
don't
need money. Not if you stay here. You could work at Muddle + Spade.”

I almost laughed. I wasn't Janel. “I'm no good at staying put,” I said, holding my mirth to a smile. “Thanks, though.”

Tomasz's expression darkened again. “Do you think you're too good for Muddle + Spade? Too good for Cartorama? Is that it?” He advanced toward me. “Maybe I had you wrong from the start.”

A wheeze came from the back. Then a moan. Concerned, I hooked my thumb in that direction. “Does somebody need help back there? I'm no nurse, but I've been hungover a time or two, so if that's one of your customers after a rough night, maybe I—”

“Yes, you
do
seem to have a drinking problem. We've all noticed.” Attentively, Tomasz dropped his gaze to my hand. I was still holding the key fob he'd given me. “We were all talking about the rough days you've had since you've been here.”

When I'd maybe been poisoned?
Yeah, I remembered.

Also, enough was enough. I wasn't going to stand around and let Tomasz insult me. I drew in a breath and stepped decisively toward the back room to help. I didn't need permission to—

—run smack-dab into Tomasz's debonairly clad chest.

I gave a muffled exclamation. He glowered down at me.

“That's why nobody's going to think it's strange at all when they find out you let yourself in here alone,” he said in an eerie tone. “Go ahead. Sit down. I'll mix you a drink.”

“I don't want a drink.” I added, “Thanks, anyway.”

You know . . . just in case he was merely having an off day.

But he wasn't. Deftly, Tomasz slipped the key from my hand. “I'll give this back later. After you've had your drink.”

“You can keep it. I don't need it anymore.”

I almost said
I don't want it anymore.
Something told me not to. Probably, it was the same something that warned me when harmless-looking kids at the base of the Charles Bridge in Prague were really gangs of pickpockets. I stepped back.

I tried to peek around Tomasz's shoulder. I couldn't.

“I really wish you'd reconsider,” Tomasz told me. He seemed genuinely distraught. “We have a lot to offer at Cartorama. You fit right in, too. I was hoping I could convince you to stay.”

“By being extra creepy?” That's right. I'd had it. “Nope.”

Tomasz only laughed. “You're feisty. I like that. That's why I thought this might work out. I'm the king of Cartorama—”

Whoa.
I'd just had that thought a few minutes ago, before things had gotten weird between us.

“—and you can be its queen,” Tomasz finished.
“Forever.”

“Well, I'm fresh out of tiaras, so I guess the answer's no.” I stepped deliberately toward him. As I expected, he moved slightly to make room, allowing me behind the bar. It was a no-no to advance toward an attacker, but Tomasz wasn't dangerous to me. I hoped. “But you're already as rich as a king, right?”

If I'd hoped to set him off-guard . . . I failed.

He only smiled. “You knew about me. You guessed.”

“Takes one to know one.” I nodded at his clothes, uninterested now in making nice. “Your Arnys suit was a dead giveaway. That's not something that winds up in thrift stores.”

Tomasz looked chagrined. “That suit is what I wear to funerals. I didn't even think twice. I just grabbed it.” He glanced at me. “I was surprised you recognized it. You don't look like the type of person who appreciates the finer things.”