Isabel Sharpe – Just One Kiss (страница 2)

Bonnie gave a shout of laughter, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers lifted to let the words out. “It’s not funny, except that it is.”

“I know. It’s funny now. Sort of. Sometimes.” Angela wrinkled her nose. “I just don’t know how you ever trust that love-feeling again once you’ve been busted up like this.”

“You want to know what I think?” Bonnie’s walnut-chunk was fast disappearing. “I think someday you’ll meet a guy who makes you realize how effed-up Tom was. You didn’t have anyone to compare him to since he was your first love.”

Angela stared at her, wondering if she had any idea how that advice could be applied to herself about Seth. Probably not. Every time Angela gently broached the subject of Mr. Can’t-Commit, Bonnie turned bristly with denial and stopped listening. “You may be right. But forgive me if I am not holding my breath.”

“Understandable. We all have to go through our bitter stage.” She started backing out, hand raised in a wave worthy of royalty. “I’ve gotta get back to the store. Thanks for the cookies.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the bouquet.” Angela watched her scoot over to her shop, worrying that there hadn’t been enough flower-selling going on lately if Bonnie’s frequent drop-ins to the bakery were any indication. It wasn’t easy starting your own business; the five of them had some pretty rough times just getting the building bought and renovated. Close friendship was the miracle that helped them survive, but none were taking long-term success for granted.

They’d passed the one-year anniversary of the building’s grand opening three months earlier, in January. They’d named the collection of businesses Come to Your Senses after one of them—Bonnie, Angela thought—realized that their five fields represented the five senses: taste—Angela’s bakery; sound—Seth’s music; smell—Bonnie’s flowers; sight—Jack’s photography; and touch—Caroline’s physical therapy studio, bought by a woman named Demi Anderson after their beloved friend got married and moved out of state. The building’s sign, painted in whimsical, colorful letters by Bonnie, hung over the front entrance to the ornate brick building on the corner of Broadway and Olive, a great location surrounded by other businesses, with Seattle Central Community College and Cal Anderson Park a few blocks down the street, and with nearby neighborhoods housing a population that wholeheartedly embraced the concept of anything goes.

The door chimed—another customer, or in this case, a slew of them, teenagers ready for a pre-dinner appetite spoiler. Angela called Scott, her black-haired multipierced part-time student helper, out of the back where he was sweeping the kitchen, and together they got the crowd taken care of. Two tangerine scones, three pumpkin muffins, eight assorted cookies and four cupcakes. Nothing from France: millefeuilles, croissants. Nothing from Greece: baklava, kouram-biedes. Nothing from Italia: pignoli cookies, spumenti, each recipe made with her own special twist.

Scott returned to his sweeping and Angela glared around the now-empty shop, the last coffee-drinker having vacated his table. She was not going to give up her dream of having a bakery like the ones she and Tom saw on their European honeymoon. Especially because Tom’s voice was still echoing in her head—stick with what you can manage—as if he’d never expected her to rise above a chocolate chip cookie. As if she’d always be plain old unsophisticated Angie …

Stalking out into the store, armed with a rag and cleaner, she wiped down the four small and rather rickety tables. Someday her bakery would be the talk of the town. Not for bran and bland, but for elegant and exotic. She’d be—

“Excuse me.”

Angela turned abruptly. Customer. She hadn’t heard the chime? It meant a lot to her when people first entered the shop to be waiting attentively, welcoming smile in place. “Hi, there. May I help you?”

Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness. Had they opened the gates to Olympus and shooed a demigod into her shop?

Clear blue eyes. Strong chin. Sandy hair, kept short. Golden skin. Mouth with clean lines, slightly fuller lower lip—she must be staring like a crazy person to notice all that.

And he was staring back. Expectantly. Had he answered her offer of help? Had she missed that, too? Had she gone suddenly deaf?

She scooted to safety behind the counter to stash the cleaner and regain her composure, then tried again. “May I help you find something?”

“Oh. Sorry. Yeah.” He laughed awkwardly, a surprising contrast to the masculine-warrior aura he gave off. “I guess I was in another world.”

Whew. So she wasn’t the one who had taken that trip. “I understand. Sometimes this world is hard to take.”

He looked wary, as if he thought she were about to recommend a specific alternative. “Very true.”

Silence.

She could not ask him again what he wanted. So she’d stand here gazing her fill while he scanned the cases until he figured it out. Now that she looked past the initial impression of “hot damn,” she saw his eyes were haunted, dark circles under them; a vertical line bisected his brows; the stunning lips were set tightly. Not a happy man.

As usual, when she encountered someone in pain, Angela wanted to help. Stuffing a person with baked goods wasn’t always a healthy way to deal with grief, but sometimes short-term sweetness went a long way toward curing what ailed a person.

“If you have any questions …”

“I am here to buy something, not just to stand gawking.” He tore his eyes away from her bread shelf, mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but softened his features enough that Angela’s heart skipped a beat. Not so much the wounded warrior when he smiled. More like a man she’d like to get to know. As a friend. A very sexy friend …

“All gawkers welcome.” She returned his smile, feeling as if some internal light fixture, which had been dark for ages, was sparking signs of life. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Bread?” She gestured to the loaves he’d been ogling. “All made daily on the premises.”

“No, actually.” His voice broke. “I’m here for cupcakes.”

Cupcakes. So much emotion in that word. What was the significance? She was dying to ask, but gestured instead to the case on her right, where rows of them, somewhat depleted by the day’s purchases, were displayed. Angela decided impulsively that this particular demigod was a chocolate guy. Not devil’s food or German sweet, but dense, moist, bittersweet. Possibly with coffee frosting, or caramel, but more likely chocolate sour cream. “Flavor?”

“White with white frosting.”

No. No way. She was so sure, she found herself having to stop from shaking her head at him. White-on-white? He didn’t get that lean, muscular body by inhaling sugar. That lean muscular body, which she had noticed keenly, was displayed to advantage in a tight athletic shirt. Below the counter she could glimpse black biking shorts hugging powerful thighs. In large, strong-looking hands he held a biking helmet.

Times like these she was very glad her cases were see-through.

“White-on-white?” She put her hands on her hips, regarded him doubtfully. “I would have said chocolate.”

“Yes, usually.” He glanced at the chocolate flavors, then back to her, causing a renewed buzz in her internal circuitry. “Today white.”

“A gift?”

“Sort of.”

“Special occasion?”

“Birthday.” His words became clipped, lips thinning.

Angela nodded, wanting nothing more than to continue her interrogation, but recognizing the signal to back off. “How many would you like?”

“Six.”

“Six white-on-white coming up.” She grabbed a flat box and pulled it into shape. “Is it your birthday?”

“No.” He spoke as if he were strangling on the word.

Hmm. She glanced at him after the first cupcake, feather-light under clouds of sweet icing, had gone into the box. She wasn’t going to pry if it made him uncomfortable, but she wished there was something she could do or say to help. Tom’s very sensible voice spoke again in her brain—Why are you always wasting energy taking on problems that aren’t yours? Yes, yes, he was right. But …

“Would you like a chocolate cupcake for yourself right now? On the house?”

“I’d …” He frowned, seeming to deliberate. “No. No, thanks.”

As if he were tempted, but shouldn’t. Diabetic maybe? With a bod like that he certainly couldn’t be concerned about losing weight. Whomever’s birthday he was celebrating with cupcakes he didn’t care for must have power over him. Though he didn’t look like the kind of man a woman could dominate.

Listen to her. She knew nothing about this guy and was already inventing an overbearing girlfriend and hating her. It could just as easily be true that his woman was a total sweetheart and he was a rat bastard who’d done her wrong. Cupcakes could be his way of trying to squirm back into her good graces.

“I’m Angela by the way.” She put the fourth cupcake in the box.

“Oh.” He looked confused. Then wary again. “Uh, hi.”

Not going to tell her his name apparently. Angela put cupcakes five and six in the box, slighted by the rejection. “You live around here?”