Union Street Bakery (9781101619292) (30 page)

The darkening in Gordon's gaze told me he recognized my familiar retreat tactic. “I'm not sure I want to change this subject.”

“Why not? I've got a ton of other things I can talk about.”

“Not me. This is the first time I even halfway understand how things got screwed up between us. I want to understand.”

“Hey, it's troubled waters under the bridge.”

“You know, I thought you'd met another guy.”

Now that threw me for a loop. “There was no other guy. Did someone tell you that?”

“It was the abruptness of the breakup. One day you were there and the next you were gone.”

“No other guy. Just me snapping.”

He cocked his head. “You left because I was gone all the time?”

I pressed fingertips to my temple. “Basically, yeah. Frankly, you left me long before I moved out.”

“I was trying to save billions of dollars.” Frustration rattled around the words.

“My adult brain gets that. But the kid in my soul is an immature shit. I have a history of impulsive actions that just dig me into holes. Frankly, Gordon, I did you a favor by leaving. I'm not designed for the long haul.”

Blue eyes narrowed. “When did you decide that?”

Frustration, anger, and fear bubbled up like a perfect storm. I almost shouted,
When she left me.
“I don't know. I just know.”

He came around the counter and moved within inches of me. Heat radiated from his body. “I always thought we had a real shot at the long haul.”

I swallowed, wondering how this can of worms had gotten wedged open. “I never knew.”

“Liar.”

“I don't lie. I run, but I don't lie.”

“You knew I wanted more.” The words were softly spoken but still felt like a right hook.

“You never said so.”

He shoved long fingers through his hair. “I tried to show it. I mentioned kids, a topic you always skidded around. And I did propose.”

“It felt a little like desperation when you asked.”

“Maybe I was desperate. You did all that at first, but then you stopped trying.”

“I could say the same.”

Unshed tears clogged my throat. “I've told you there's a layer between me and the world. And like it or not, it will always be there.”

He placed his hands on my shoulders and the warmth from his fingertips moved through my body like a soothing balm. “Have you called her?”

I nodded. “On Sunday night.”

“And?”

“I haven't heard a word from her. Which is driving me insane, because I am finally ready to get a few answers and now she is MIA. I keep compulsively checking my voice mail and the mailbox and every time the stupid front door to the bakery opens, I jump.”

“Call her again.” An edge of anger sharpened the words.

“I am not calling her again. God. It took me four weeks to get up the nerve to call her the first time. A second call requires at least two months of second-guessing and worrying.”

My lame attempt at humor did not sway him. “I'll call her.”

“No!”

He opened his phone. “I'm not going to spend the next two months watching you suffer.”

“Fine. I'll do it in silence.”

He shook his head. “I'm perfect for this. I have no dog in the fight. Besides, what if she didn't get the message or was on vacation?”

“Or space aliens abducted her?”

He glared at me. “I think there are a lot of regular reasons. Let me call her.”

My heart thumped one, two, three times. What did I have to lose? I could say everything but I'd lost that already when she left the first time, so what did it matter if I lost it again? Before I could think, I fished my phone out of my back pocket and handed it to Gordon. “Her number is in my directory. Davis, Terry. But I've already left her a message.”

“Now it's my turn.” He pushed a couple of buttons and then held the phone to his ear. “It's ringing.”

I tried to back away but he grabbed my hand. His skin was rough, calloused, and warm. This close, I could hear a masculine voice on the other end say, “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Gordon Singletary and I'm calling for Terry Davis.” There was no hint of apology in Gordon's voice. In fact, his tone hinted that he had every right to speak to anyone he chose. He tilted the phone toward me.

“Terry is out of town. She forgot her cell phone. Can I take a message?”

“I'm a tour guide in Alexandria, Virginia, and she'd arranged for a bike tour. I just wanted to confirm the details.”

God, he was so smooth. I squeezed his fingers, and he winked at me. “Terry didn't say anything about a bike tour but she flew out this morning for D.C.”

I thought my knees would give way.

“Then I'll bet she catches up with me when she lands. Just didn't want to hold the four road bikes past today until I confirmed. Tell you what, if she calls in could you have her call me?”

“Sure.”

Gordon rattled off his number, said his good-byes, and hung up. “She's headed this way.”

I smoothed sweaty palms down my jeans. “Do you think she's coming to see me?”

Gordon brushed a lock of hair from my eyes. “That's a safe bet.”

“Yeah, but why would she forget her cell phone? If she wants to call me she won't have a phone.”

“Hotels still have phones, Daisy.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“Stop analyzing. You'll see her soon enough.”

•   •   •

When the bakery door buzzed, Rachel was icing a cake for a birthday party that the girls were attending. Money was tight, and Rachel didn't have the thirty bucks to drop on the kid's present, so when the mom had mentioned ordering the girl's birthday cake, Rachel had offered to make the cake as the girl's present. The mother had jumped at the idea.

The afternoon was slow so she'd called up to her mother and told her to bring the girls downstairs. She knew they'd be excited about the party and wired. She thought (foolishly) that they could play in the bakery while she piped the finishing touches on the princess cake. When the bakery closed at three, the trio, cake in hand, would head out to the party. The perfect plan.

Neither Anna nor Ellie seemed to care about helping, however. Both had found long wooden spoons, decided they were pirates, and that a sword fight was in order. When the noise reached ear-shattering levels Rachel ordered silence, directed them into the kitchen, and gave the girls paper and pencil. Their assignment was to draw a birthday card for their friend.

Rachel set down her piping bag and glanced through the oval window into the kitchen door. The girls lay on the floor, coloring and giggling. When the twins were like this, she had to concede that they were more angel than devil and that she was so lucky to have them. Losing Mike had nearly killed her, and if not for the girls she wondered where she'd be now.

She understood adoption and surrendering your child to the loving arms of another, but to just leave a child? For her own selfish reasons, she hoped Daisy did get to meet Terry. She wanted to hear the woman's explanation directly.

The bell rang again. She did not want to deal with this new customer and found the interruption more than annoying. But she forced a smile and turned. Her smile froze. Her jaw dropped before she snapped it closed.

Simon Davenport stood at the door.

She crossed and opened the door. “Can I help you?”

Simon Davenport wore a crisp dark suit, white linen shirt, red tie, and polished wingtips. Sunlight danced on his gold cuff links.

“I need a cake.” The deep voice sharpened each word.

In his office, he'd looked like the captain of his ship, tall, intimidating, and ready to bark orders and send heads rolling. But here he looked just a little lost. Daisy said he'd brokered billion-dollar deals but she doubted he had ever handled daily mundane tasks such as dry cleaning, paying a parking ticket, or buying a cake.

She was oddly pleased that the man who had ruffled her just days ago and made her feel like a babbling idiot, was now on her turf. “We can do just about any cake you'd like. Can you tell me what the occasion is?”

He took a step forward into the bakery, drawing confidence with each breath. He was the type who adapted quickly. “Birthday. Fiftieth.”

She wiped the remnants of pink icing from her hands. “A milestone. So something special.”

“Yes.”

“What kind of cake?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

From the kitchen, childish peals of laughter drifted into the front shop. “My girls,” Rachel said.

When he didn't show the least bit of interest, the snap of irritation returned. She cleared her throat. “Chocolate or vanilla or something denser, like a carrot cake.”

“Do you have a specialty?”

“Two. Chocolate espresso and carrot. Both are to die for.”

An eyebrow arched. “No lack of confidence there.”

In most things in life, she worried, fretted, and second-guessed. But in the kitchen, she was at home and blissfully sure of herself. “This is what I do. And I am good at it.”

The thread of confidence seemed to intrigue him. “I'll leave the decision up to you.”

She brushed long bangs out of her eyes. “The cake is not about me. Who is it for?”

“My secretary.”

“The cake should reflect her tastes. What does she like?”

“I don't know.”

It didn't shock her that Davenport didn't know much about his secretary. Mike, God bless him, could have listed her favorite books or movies without prompting. “How long has she worked for you?”

“Ten years.”

“Does she put sugar in her coffee?”

He frowned and thought for a moment. “No.”

“Cream?”

“No. She drinks it black.”

“When she orders food for a meeting, does she choose donuts or bagels?”

“Bagels. Fruit.” He hesitated. “She keeps chocolate in her desk drawer. I saw it the other day when I was searching for a pencil.”

“Dark or milk?”

“Dark.”

“Okay, she likes a touch of sweet but leans toward savory. We'll do the chocolate espresso.” She made a note on her order pad. “How many people?”

“One hundred.”

She blinked. “One hundred.”

“I want all the employees to have a slice.”

He didn't strike her as a giving man. “We can do that. When do you need it?”

“Two days.”

To her credit, her jaw didn't drop. “That's a quick turnaround.” Normally she allowed three days for a big cake. Day one, bake; day two, crumb coat; day three, ice. To make this schedule work she'd have to bake the cakes tonight before she went to bed.

He didn't look concerned. “Can you fill the order or not?”

Immediately she thought through tomorrow's baking schedule. “It'll take all hands on deck.”

“I'm willing to pay expedited charges.”

She dropped her gaze to the pad. What the hell did that mean? Twenty? Fifty percent? A hundred? God, where was Daisy?

Quickly she calculated the cost of the cake and manpower, and then, channeling Daisy, added a 30—no, 60—percent rush charge fee.

She wrote down the final cost, circled it, and tore off the page. She handed it to Mr. Davenport, ready to apologize for the extra charge and backpedal.

He glanced at the sheet and then back at her. Amusement sparked behind gray eyes. “Pricy.”

Ellie laughed and Anna's voice grew louder. Pots clanged and dropped. Any second, they'd bust through the door and start running around the café like wild animals.

Apologies danced on the tip of her tongue but she swallowed them all. “It'll be the best cake you'll ever eat.” And she knew it would, but saying it out loud sounded so brash.

“All right.”

All right. Crap. If she could pull this off, the bakery just might stay in the black another week. “Just initial the order, give me a 20 percent down payment, and we're good to go.”

He handed her a credit card. She rang it up, half expecting him to change his mind. But when she put the slip in front of him and handed him the pen, he signed a quick efficient signature.

“Give it back,” Anna shouted.

“I hate you!” Ellie said.

There was a loud crash, and Rachel guessed the girls had just fallen into the stacks of metal mixing bowls on the counter. The bowls she'd just washed.

Rachel smiled, wondering how she could love her children so much and still have fantasies about selling them to the gypsies. “Thank you for your order, Mr. Davenport. What time would you like this delivered?”

Another crash pulled his attention to the window into the kitchen. “Is there a problem back in the kitchen?”

Rachel didn't bother a glance back. What kind of disaster was she going to discover? “Nothing out of the ordinary.” In the next instant, the swinging door between the front and back swung open. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed two five-year-olds standing in the doorway, each covered in white flour. When each blinked, white flecks fell from their eyelashes.

Davenport stared at the children as if they were space aliens. “You're sure you can fill this order?”

She thought about the charge she'd just run on his card. It would pay the electric bill, which she knew Daisy had been holding. “Your cake will be on time and perfect.”

“Mom,” Anna said.

Rachel kept her gaze on Davenport, but her hand shot up in warning to her child. “What time did you need the cake?”

“Eleven. Monday.”

“Mom,” Ellie said.

Rachel's pulse throbbed in her neck as her smile widened. Executive pastry chefs in D.C., New York, or Paris did not deal with children tearing apart their kitchens. They had staff that helped them and told them that they were wonderful. “We'll have it there. Thank you for your order.”