Sugar Rush Page 16

  No, she was certainly not. She’d missed him, yes, and had pined—somewhat pathetically for a time—but she’d gotten past that, too. Through many late night bake sessions, some with Charlotte via phone, some alone, she’d come to terms with what would never be, and had finally, mercifully, moved on. She’d pushed herself to hope there would be another special someone, who would fit into this new life of hers. Someday. She wanted that. She was healthy, whole, and looking forward to what came next. She had accepted that whoever the person might be, it wasn’t going to be Baxter Dunne. Would never be Baxter Dunne.

  It had been impossibly cruel for him to show up when she’d finally gotten over him.

  How could she be anything but incredibly relieved that, after dangling the dream she’d finally given up on right in front of her, sparking back to life all the feelings she’d finally boxed away, that he, too, had come to realize what she had already come to understand? They had no future. Not together.

  She hadn’t been secretly hoping he’d change her mind, show her there could be a way, some way, that it would work. Be that white knight on the charger, after all. No, of course not. She wasn’t that ridiculous.

  It meant they were both on the same page now. Win-win. All good.

  Yea, them.

  So, why was it, sitting next to him in the car, driving through the quiet island streets, with nightfall all around them ... relief was not at all what she was feeling?

  “I, um—” She had to clear her throat from the tightness that seemed to have formed there. “Thank you. For saying all of that. For telling me. I ... appreciate it. All of it.” Except for the part where it feels like my heart is shattering into a million pieces. She wanted to look at him, but she just ... couldn’t. She looked down at her hands in her lap instead and realized she’d twisted her fingers together in a tense knot. She forced herself to straighten them, and tried to get a grip on the silly surge of emotions that was swamping her as she smoothed the fabric of her pants over her thighs. It was just fatigue talking. It had been an incredible couple days for her, a veritable roller coaster of emotions. A little sleep, a little bitch-and-bake with Charlotte—oh, thank God, she’d come—and Lani knew she’d be good as new. It had always worked before.

  She straightened in her seat, and somehow managed to find a light tone. “So, with that all cleared up, why don’t we go find that cup of coffee and discuss the production schedule. I’m assuming you’ll have some kind of contract I’m going to need to sign, for the use of my shop, and, I guess, for the use of me, too.”

  She could feel him looking at her, but what he said was, “Right, yes, of course. You’re going to be well compensated for our shutting your shop down, and for your own contributions. I think you’ll approve of what we’ve drawn up, but if you want to have your lawyer look it over—”

  “I’m mostly concerned with my shop being protected from any damage that might occur, with all the lighting and camera equipment. I’ll want it in writing that you’ll fix or replace whatever needs fixing or replacing and that when you’re done, it will look exactly like it did when you started.”

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured her, “we’ll take the best care. And you’ll be there, so you’ll see how it’s all done, and how it will all be put back to rights.”

  That was the trick, she decided. Just keep her mind completely focused on business, on the production details, on tackling the project at hand, and her role in it, whatever the hell that was going to be. God, she didn’t even want to think about that, about being on camera. With Baxter.

  Well, she’d just do whatever they told her to do, stand where they told her to stand, say what they wanted her to say, bake what they wanted her to bake, then go home, hide in her cottage, and marathon bake with Charlotte until she had to be back on set. That would be the routine. Every day. For the next two weeks. She could do that. She had to do that.

  Maybe she should move her pantry stock from her shop kitchen to her home. She was going to need those supplies for the nightly therapy sessions. Let Baxter’s crew buy their own damn product.

  She was pulled her from her thoughts when he reached between them to the backseat, and came back with a big green thermos. She hadn’t even realized they’d parked.

  He used the thermos to point through the windshield at the sign posted by the side of the road. “Says there’s a picnic area over there. Full moon tonight, so the lighting should be okay.”

  She looked blankly at the sign, then at him, trying to corral her thoughts back on track. “You want to go for a walk?”

  He wiggled the thermos. “You remember Carlo, from Gateau?”

  She lifted her eyebrows. “You mean the Carlo you selfishly stole from Gateau where I really, really needed him, to be a prep chef on your cute little cooking show, where surely someone else could have done the same job. That Carlo?”

  He smiled at her mutinous scowl. “My restaurant, my show. I just ... reassigned him. You were much nicer about it at the time.”

  “You signed my paychecks back then. You don’t now. Carlo stealer.”

  He just laughed.

  She looked at the thermos and understanding dawned. She shivered in anticipation as she nodded toward the thermos. “Is that... Carlo’s coffee? Carlo is here? On Sugarberry? With his coffee?” She clasped her hands hopefully under her chin. “Really?”

  Baxter smiled, and nodded, and Lani sighed in abject appreciation.

  “I was going to bribe my way into your cottage with it, so we could talk about the show schedule. But, it occurred to me that anywhere we sit and talk in town would probably come with a lot of interruptions, and certainly very little privacy. I saw the sign there, and thought this might provide a good alternative.” He glanced toward the path leading away from the road, into the dunes. “Unless it’s not wise to go back there in the dark.”

  She laughed at that, and he looked back at her, pretending to be affronted. “I bring coffee from the gods and you mock my well-founded city boy fears?”

  “Well-founded how? Did a cat run across your path while you were walking in Central Park once or something? In fact, I can’t even imagine you walking in Central Park, much less anywhere truly uncivilized.”

  “I’ve heard plenty of unfortunate wildlife encounter stories, and I’m more than willing to learn from others’ mistakes. And I would stroll Central Park, if I had the time.” When she rolled her eyes, he smiled. “Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t. But that’s only because it’s never been part of my regimen.”

  “Right.” She popped open her door. “Come on, city boy. I’ll protect you from the beach beasties.”

  He climbed out his side and came around the back of the car, holding her door open as she untangled herself from the forgotten seat belt. He closed the door behind her and she offered to carry the thermos. “Unless you want me to carry a big stick instead, to beat away the sand snakes.”

  “Quite amusing.” He motioned for her to lead the way. “Ladies first.”

  “How gallant.” She was smiling as she struck off down the path ahead of him. He was just so ... British. And ridiculously charismatic. Honestly, Hugh Grant could take charm lessons from Baxter Dunne.

  “I’m assuming if there was truly anything to be concerned about, you’d have eighty-sixed this entire idea.” He jogged a few steps to catch up with her. “It goes without saying if you see anything that alarms you, I’ll carry you all the way back to the car.”

  “And knightly, too.”

  “Aye, well ... go with your strength, I always say.”

  Lani was laughing as they made their way down the trail path, which was paved for the most part, though the sand regularly blew over and buried long sections of it. The park rangers would shovel it clear periodically, to keep it from getting permanently socked in. The moon was rising and the stars were beginning to light up for their nightly show. It was a lovely, unseasonably warm night, even with the ocean breeze.

  She felt the tension in her muscles ease,
and the throb in her temples subside as the sound of the surf grew stronger. It was hard to be tense at the beach. It was too elemental, so rhythmic and soothing in its eternal ebb and flow. She started to think maybe that’s what she should do. Just go with the ebb and flow of ... well, all of it. The stress about the show, the worry about being hurt. Just let it roll off her shoulders like the tide going out, tackle the show as it came along, and simply enjoy his company along the way. Maybe that would be her new mantra for the duration of his stay. Sure, it was torture being around him, but only if she constantly put it in the “life is so unfair” perspective. The fact was, she was going to be around him whether it was unfair or not, whether she liked it or not.

  So ... why not allow herself to like it?

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many stars in my entire life. Collectively, I mean,” he said. “I’m fairly certain, in fact, that I wasn’t aware there even were that many stars in existence. The sky is literally choked with them.”

  Lani paused. Smiling to herself, she turned back to find him standing in the center of the path, face tipped heavenward like a young boy—a very tall, broad-shouldered boy—in awe as he took it all in. He was endearing and sexy as hell standing there, a bit of Cary Grant dash to go along with the Hugh Grant charm.

  “It’s always like that, you know,” she said. “Every time you see the stars out here, you think maybe your memory was playing tricks and you exaggerated how many of them there were.”

  “It’s positively awe-inspiring. Rather puts things in the grander perspective, doesn’t it?”

  She came to stand next to him. “I was thinking the same thing about the surf. No matter what happens in the world, the waves will always keep rolling in, for all eternity.”

  She followed his gaze upward, and marveled along with him. It truly was a spectacular sight. “You wanted to know my reasons for coming here, staying here. This is part of it. I can’t imagine ever getting tired of it.”

  “Yes.” There was a touch of reverence in his tone that she completely identified with.

  When she shifted her gaze forward again ... it was to find him looking at her.

  There was a moment, and then another, when their gazes remained locked, the rumble of the surf providing the only soundtrack.

  He broke the moment first, looking down the path in front of them, lifting the thermos in his hand. “Is that a picnic pavilion ahead?”

  Maybe it was the thrumming in her ears, but his voice sounded a bit gruff. She decided it wasn’t wise to think about that. Or how badly she’d wanted, in that expanded moment of silence between them, for him to kiss her again. So much so, she ached with it. “Ah, yes.” She forced the image, the idea, from her head, looking to where he was pointing. “That’s the place.”

  He walked a step ahead of her, leading the way, brushing the sand from the bench seat when they arrived under the open-sided, wood-beamed pavilion. Moving around to the other side, he took a seat for himself—putting the wide planked wood table neatly between them.

  He popped the lid off the thermos to reveal another smaller cup under it. He filled both, and she reached for the smaller one.

  She took a savoring sip, then groaned in bliss. “How is it better than I remember, when what I remember is nectar of the gods?”

  “I know,” Baxter agreed, after taking his own first sip. “If he wasn’t such a good pastry chef, I’d hire him as my own personal barista and have him follow me around all day and produce this on demand.”

  “You know, the perks of celebrity are starting to look better to me all the time,” she said, enjoying the heady scent as it filled the air.

  He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the moonlight. “I won’t deny, there are a few. Although I haven’t let it go so far to my head that I’ve taken to hiring personal personnel, if you know what I mean. Well, that’s not entirely true. I do retain a maid service for my home. Since I’m never in residence, I suspect I’m the easiest client they have.”

  “I’m ashamed to admit I’ve thought about it.” She laughed. “They’d probably charge me extra. Things tend to lie where dropped for far longer than I promise myself they will when I drop them.”

  “You keep saying you’re a bit of a sloth, but knowing your work methods, I find that hard to believe.”

  “You ran a tight ship.”

  “I’m motivated to never let the health department cite a single violation.”

  “I’m pretty sure they make some of them up, just out of spite.”

  “I’m not doubting you’re wrong. Which is why I take great personal pleasure thwarting even the most overactive imaginations amongst them.”

  She laughed, and took another sip. “And here I thought you were just a Felix.”

  “Felix?”

  “Unger. From The Odd Couple? Broadway play turned into iconic movie starring Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, then a television show in the seventies? Still in reruns, I’m sure.”

  “Sorry. Can’t say as I followed the cinema or telly growing up. Not that there was one, at any rate, even if I had.”

  “No television? The horror,” she teased, then saw that his brief smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was just kidding. Lots of kids grow up without television. Stunted emotionally and lacking all social reference, I’m sure, but nonetheless, I hear that it occurs all the time, and those poor, poor, deprived children do survive. Somehow.” She mock shuddered and finally drew a smile from him.

  “I take it your experience was somewhat different, then.” His eyes warmed as the conversation shifted to her.

  “My mother called me square-eyes because I spent so much time parked in front of it. In my defense, I was doing my homework at the same time.” She smiled when he merely lifted his eyebrows in question. “Okay, most of the time.” She propped her elbows on the table and cradled the warm plastic cup between her palms. “So, you probably had a childhood filled with culture and art and music and all things insufferably British, which I’m certain you cling to, mainly to make us Americans feel like the inadequate, uncultured heathens we are for deigning to vacate the royal soil and start up our own gig across the pond.”

  He laughed outright at that. “Nothing so grand, I assure you. But had I known about or even considered the potential global ramifications, I’d have worked extra hard to add at least one or two of those things to my regimen.”

  She was grinning as she finished her last sip. Baxter took the cup from her before she could refill it herself. His fingers brushed hers, briefly, casually, but tell that to her suddenly skittish pulse rate. You’d have thought he’d run his palms straight down her naked body, given the way her nipples had gone instantly hard and the more sensitive muscles of her inner thighs had twitched and quivered.

  She took the refilled cup back, and managed to get that shivery-all-over sensation when they came into contact again. For a whole fraction of a second. That did not bode well for her newly voted in relax-and-enjoy-the-ride edict. And the on-camera kitchen time she was about to spend with him was looking especially dicey.

  Yeah, she’d have to work on that. And fast.

  “So, no television, no museums and art,” she said, striving to get back to the conversation. She did fine with conversation. Just ... no more touching. Or staring deeply into each other’s eyes. No more of that. “You know, come to think of it, there’s never been much press about your childhood. I’m not asking about it, it’s none of my business, but when someone gets the kind of media attention you have through your show, I’m surprised there’s not more out there on you.”

  He smiled over his cup. “What, have you been Googling me?”

  “No,” she retorted, rolling her eyes, “but during the time I worked with you, I was aware of the content on Gateau’s website, and—don’t let this go to your head—I read the bio stuff on your network’s website after Hot Cakes started. It’s sort of thin. Just this long list of your accomplishments and awards, blah blah blah.” She grinned when
he raised his eyebrows. “There’s nothing fun and dishy.”

  “There’s not much of interest to report, I’m afraid. I spent most of my time accumulating the accolades on that list, I suppose. The only thing dishy in my world is the food I put on the dishies.”

  “Ha ha. I’m teasing, you know. That list is something to be ridiculously proud of. We all wish we had such a list.”

  “I didn’t work for the accolades. Or, only as much as they helped me to keep working.”

  “So ... what is the story of you? Siblings? Parents? What was your hometown? Did you grow up in London proper?”

  “I thought you weren’t going to ask.”

  She gave him a patented unrepentant-Charlotte-shrug. “You don’t have to answer.”

  He held her gaze, and, it was only because she knew him as well as she did, enough to read even the most subtle of nuances in his facial expressions—first rule of any kitchen, always learn to read the head chef as accurately and thoroughly as possible, because not all of them communicate well—that she realized he wasn’t as comfortable as he’d been a moment ago. “Never mind,” she said quickly. “I was only teasing. It really is none of my—”

  “London,” he said, easily enough. “East end. No siblings. I’d ask the same of you, but I already know you grew up in your nation’s capital city, as an only child.”

  “Yes, well, you had the advantage of reading my employment documentation when I was first hired to work with you.”

  He smiled. “Maybe I just paid attention. Or maybe I Googled you.”

  She laughed at that. “Right, because I’m such a rock star.”

  “You’ve been interviewed plenty of times, Ms. James Beard Nominee. Your list is growing. And, okay ... maybe I might have glanced at your employment forms. Once I tasted your ancho chile and cherry dark chocolate soufflé cake, with that incredible dulce de leche”—he drifted off, closed his eyes for a moment as he savored the memory—“you weren’t going to work for anybody else. Not if I had anything to say about it.” He opened his eyes, and grinned at her. “And I did.”