Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (15 page)

POLLY FINISHED ICING A TRAY
of éclairs and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Of all the Wild Child products, her mother’s éclairs were still the bakery’s top seller—not that that was saying much these days.

But at least they were the one pastry Polly still held to Jessie’s standards with fresh vanilla cream,
pâte à choux
pastry made with real butter, and dark chocolate ganache. Every time she made the éclairs, she knew she was being true to her mother’s legacy.

She started setting them into little fluted cups when the wind chimes over the door jingled. Polly glanced at the mirror behind the counter, her heart crashing against her ribs as the glass reflected a tall, dark-haired man.

“Hello, Polly.”

Luke Stone’s deep, resonant voice flowed right into her blood, eliciting a rush of happy warmth that intensified when she turned to face him. He looked striking and incredibly masculine in a tailored suit and tie, his dark hair brushed back from his strong features, but Polly’s mind filled with a memory of him wearing only his drawstring pants, his gorgeous chest bare for both her visual and tactile pleasure.

But at the moment, he was all powerful CEO. As he approached the counter, Polly’s whole body tingled with an awareness that was both sweet and spicy, like chocolate truffles spiked with cayenne pepper.

“What can I get for you, Mr. Stone?” she asked primly, hoping he would respond by leaning across the counter, planting a nice, hot kiss against her lips, and growling,
“This.”

“Your van is outside,” he said instead, handing her the keys and the macramé supply bag she’d left at his house. “New starter, fan belt, and fluid check. The bill is on me.”

He held up his hand when she opened her mouth to protest.

“I’m paying,” he said. “Don’t argue.”

Despite his imperious, no-nonsense tone of voice, gratitude welled up inside Polly with unexpected force. She needed the van and she didn’t have the money for repairs. So the fact that Luke was insisting on taking care of it . . .

It was the first time in a long time that a man had taken care of something for her. Or just taken care of
her.

“Thank you.” She stowed her bag and keys underneath the counter. “That’s generous of you, and I’m very grateful.”

Luke gave a short nod and folded his arms across his chest. He looked cross. Polly hoped his attitude didn’t have anything to do with their sexy encounter two nights ago.

“I have to go now,” he said, like it was somehow her fault.

“Okay. Would you like a pastry to take with you?”

He glanced at the displays. “Which is your favorite?”

“Oh, the éclairs, definitely.” She took a fresh one off the tray and put it on the plate for him. “I’ve had to . . . um, revamp some of the recipes, but this one has always stayed the same. I still use Valrhona’s cocoa powder, Madagascar vanilla, and the best quality organic milk and farm-fresh eggs. I also make some with liqueurs or chocolate cream.”

“Looks delicious.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet.

“It’s on the house,” Polly said.

Luke gave her a frown of mild disapproval and put a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Only give food away if it’s a sample or a donation.”

He picked up the glossy éclair to take a bite, his eyebrows lifting slightly. A drop of cream clung to his lower lip, and the urge to reach up and lick it off seized Polly.

He took another bite. A sudden anxiety tightened her belly. Did he like it? Then she told herself not to care. She knew the éclairs were incredible.

“All of the bakery items are my mother’s original recipes,” she said.

He studied the éclair as if he were examining it under a microscope. “She must have been quite the baker.”

“She was.”

Polly turned away and started making a fresh pot of coffee. Her mother had invented all the Wild Child recipes in the kitchen of the little two-bedroom apartment where she, Hannah, and Polly had moved after they left Twelve Oaks. Every day when Polly and Hannah came home from school, their mother had glasses of milk and a new kind of fresh-baked cookie or cupcake waiting at the table.

And the treats were always mouth-wateringly delicious, baked with hand-chopped bittersweet chocolate, real, organic butter, and an immense amount of maternal love. At the time, Polly needed nothing else in life.

“This might be the best éclair I’ve ever had.” Luke took another bite.

Warm pleasure flowed through her. “Thank you. My mother was very proud of them.”

“So why is it that you sell so many other breads and pastries?”

“Because this is a bakery?”

“I mean, how many products do you sell?” He indicated the display cases, which had baskets and signs for dozens of baked goods—cakes, muffins, doughnuts, croissants, tarts, cupcakes, danishes, and more. Jessie Lockhart had been a master of experimenting with recipes, and if something came out good, it ended up on the bakery shelves.

“A lot,” Polly admitted. “I mean, I can’t afford to bake them all every day, but I freeze most of the dough and bring it out on a rotating basis. So on Mondays, we have doughnuts, muffins, and danishes, and on Tuesdays we have croissants and brioche, and so on and so forth.”

“And the éclairs?”

“Oh, we always have the éclairs.”

“Polly, I need to leave early tomorrow.” Clementine came in from the kitchen, pulling on her sweater. “Dentist appointment at three. Will you be back from class by then?”

“Yes, I’ll be here around one thirty. Thanks.”

Clementine tugged her long, gray ponytail out of the collar of her sweater, her gaze going to Luke and his fish-out-of-water corporate appearance in the middle of Wild Child.

Luke extended his hand to her. “Luke Stone.”

“Oh!” A curious sparkle appeared in Clementine’s eyes as she shook his hand. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Stone. Polly is doing great things here.”

Not quite true, but Polly appreciated the props.

“It’s a nice place.” Luke’s gaze tracked over the dusty mandala tapestries.

Clementine squeezed Polly’s arm and gave her a “well done, girl” look before taking her keys out of her purse.

“Must get home to feed the cat.” She headed toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Polly. Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stone.”

“Likewise.”

After Clementine had gone, Luke focused on Polly again. He had a tense set to his shoulders that intensified the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Not only was he all knotted up again, he was being reserved and distant, as if maybe he regretted taking up with her. Whereas she’d been floating two feet above the ground for the past forty-eight hours. Until now.

He did warn you
.
He was honest. Nothing long-lasting. No promises. And you were fine with all of that, remember? In fact, it’s what you wanted from the very start.

“How long have you owned this place?” he asked.

“My mother opened it when I was ten.” Polly deflected a stab of pain as she added, “She passed away last year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was sick for a long time, so . . .” She waved a hand, not wanting to get into it. “Anyway, I’ve been running Wild Child ever since.”

“Do you have brothers or sisters?”

“I have a sister. She’s a few years older than me. She travels a lot.”

“For work?”

“She writes a travel blog,” Polly explained. “She left home right after high school, so after that, it was just me and my mother.”

He was quiet for a minute. “So you’re alone.”

The word
alone
actually hurt, like the accidental prick of a knife point. Even after Hannah left, Polly hadn’t felt alone before her mother got sick because they still had each other, and Wild Child was always filled with people and lively activity.

But when the leukemia took hold of Jessie Lockhart, their lives were overrun with treatments, medical bills, and struggles with the bakery. In the months that followed the diagnosis, Polly hadn’t been able to stop the
alone
feeling that crept over her like a shadow. Even Hannah’s visits hadn’t assuaged the loneliness because her sister had come and gone so quickly.

“I’m not alone.” She scrubbed at a smudge on the glass counter. “I have Clementine and plenty of good friends.”

He studied her, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “You’re running this place and going to school.”

“I’ve had Clementine’s help with Wild Child, so it hasn’t been that big a deal.”

A skeptical look flashed across his face, even if she’d told the truth. Her mother’s suffering through countless rounds of chemo and then a bone-marrow transplant had been a
big deal
. Working hard was just . . . working hard.

Of course, things would change yet again when Clementine moved this summer. Polly must find a replacement by September, but she couldn’t do that until the bakery started turning a profit. She wouldn’t be able to return to Hartford Community in the fall if she didn’t have someone to staff the bakery while she went to class.

She pushed aside the fear and discouragement that hovered like smoke at the edges of her mind. She would find a way. Eventually.

“Did you want anything else?” She gestured to the display cases.

“After the éclairs, what’s the next bestseller?”

“Doughnuts.” Polly took a chocolate-glazed doughnut from the case and put it on the plate. “I don’t do a lot of varieties just because they’re too time-consuming, so it’s a basic recipe with different glazes.”

Luke took a few bites, nodding with appreciation.

“And what happens to the unsold inventory?” he asked.

“I donate it to a food kitchen at the end of the day.”

“Then you start over in the morning?”

She nodded. Why was he asking so many questions with that pensive look on his face, as if he were doing calculations in his head? He took another walk around the bakery, studying the art prints on the “consignment gallery” wall and the three flyers pinned to the community bulletin board.

Polly refused to be ashamed of Wild Child, but seeing Luke Stone—shimmering with the aura of his accomplishments and success—standing in the middle of the old, faded hippie décor made her sharply aware of their differences.

He turned away from a sparkly pink lava lamp and approached her again. His brown eyes glittered, as if he were waiting for the answer to a question that hadn’t been asked out loud.

But they both knew what it was.

“Polly Peach,” he said.

Oh, damn. The endearing nickname made her go all soft and mushy inside. Not to mention how her blood warmed at the sound of his deep voice, which was like chocolate-caramel sauce melting over a butter cake.

“You’re in trouble,” he said.

That was the truth, though for once she wasn’t thinking about overdue rent and unpaid bills.

Since she couldn’t very well deny it, she just nodded. “I’ve been trying to save Wild Child ever since my mother died, but I’m failing. And I don’t know why.”

“For one thing, the location is lousy. Not to mention potentially dangerous.”

Polly didn’t bother agreeing with that because then she’d have to tell him she’d had two break-ins and an incident of vandalism in the months since the bakery’s alarm system had broken.

“We’ve been at this location since the beginning,” she said, a hollow ache forming in her chest. “And Wild Child was successful before my mother got sick.”

“Did she do something differently?”

“She always found ways to encourage people to congregate here,” Polly said. “She hosted guitar concerts, art collectives and shows, writers’ groups. I tried to keep all that going after she died, but no one seemed interested anymore. That’s partly why the bakery ended up in a hole.”

“What kind of profits did your mother have?”

“Enough to stay on top of bills and rent.” Polly didn’t want to admit that her mother’s bookkeeping and accounting skills had been awful. Wild Child’s success had been in the customers and atmosphere, not in their profits. Still, the bakery had been solvent.

Until Polly took over.

“Have you applied for business loans?” Luke asked.

“Yes, but I always get turned down because of bad credit. And honestly, even if I did get a loan, I wouldn’t know how to use the money correctly. I’ve never learned how to properly run a business, much less save one from going under. That’s just one of the reasons I’m taking classes.”

“It’s tough to salvage a business when the location is so bad,” Luke said. “And this part of town is getting worse. You should consider closing down, maybe starting somewhere else.”

“No way. This bakery was my mother’s dream. I’m not going to let it die.”

“You might not have a choice,” he said. “People can’t even get here without navigating that dead-end detour. The parking is lousy, and there are very few other businesses in the near vicinity to help draw customers. Not to mention that abandoned warehouse across the street looks condemned, and the whole area isn’t safe. You’d better not work here alone.”

Polly ignored that remark.

“Look,” she said. “When I get my culinary certificate, I’ll have more leverage with suppliers. I’m also taking business and tax preparation classes so I can improve the accounting practices. I’m going to get it together if it kills me.”