Just Desserts (16 page)

“Meaning…?”

“There are aprons folded on the shelf next to the lockers by the back door. Go get one.”

“Conversation over?”

“As if it never happened.”

JUSTIN FELT RIDICULOUSLY off center, although he’d rather take a beating than admit it. Layla had laid out her position with remarkable aplomb. She wanted to loosen up, and had chosen him to help her out. It was all very tidy and planned out and Layla-esque; pretty much the opposite of what she said she wanted.

He wasn’t biting.

The logical part of his brain told him that if she truly meant what she said, there would be no problem. A few dates, a few good times, then they’d move on to their separate lives. His gut, on the other hand, was sending out danger signals. This was Layla. Yeah, he could see having a fling with her, but he honestly didn’t know if he could walk away unscathed. And what if she, heaven forbid, started taking things seriously?

He didn’t want to hurt Layla and he probably would.

Robert had hurt her, and she was looking for something new, maybe to boost her ego, maybe for a touch of revenge…but she was also vulnerable. And he’d known her long enough to feel protective. So here he was, protecting both of them, because he wasn’t exactly in a good place himself, and Layla was anything but appreciative.

Her cheeks were faintly pink when she came back with the apron, but it was from anger, not self-consciousness. He recognized the spark in her eye—the same one he’d put there many times years ago with his pranks. However, she’d never fought back like this. She usually said something that was both lofty and cutting and then retreated. This time there was no retreat. It unnerved him.

“The recipes are here,” he said abruptly, opening a drawer and pulling out a stack of plastic coated cards strung on a loose-leaf binder ring. He flipped through them. “Cakes are on the yellow cards. Fillings, blue. Frostings and icings, pink.”

“Nice system.”

“I have my moments.” He handed her the cards. “We’re making lemon today. Come on, I’ll show you where we keep everything.”

He led her through the kitchen to the walk-in and the dry storage area, pointing out where everything was while he gathered eggs, butter, lemons. The dry ingredients he used frequently were stored in a cabinet in the pastry room. He opened the door once he’d deposited the items he’d picked up onto the counter next to the mixer.

“Get the flour, salt, sugar and baking powder.”

It took Layla a few minutes to find everything, but she did, making several trips. When Patty had started, she’d moved slowly, too, so he tamped down his impatience, which was probably more a result of circumstances. In the end, showing Layla what to do wouldn’t take much more time than doing it all himself.

“Okay, first you cream a pound of butter,” he said, unwrapping a one pound brick and chopping it into chunks before starting the mixer and dropping them in. “Let this run for about five minutes. We want a lot of air in the butter....”

Layla was, as he’d assumed, a quick study, but she still took notes in a small book she’d pulled from her rear jeans pocket. She’d probably been taking notes since she’d first learned to write.

Patty had taken notes, too.

In fact, Layla and Patty were quite similar in that regard, but Patty didn’t make him feel protective or defensive. Or, heaven help him, attracted to her.

How could he possibly be both defensive and lustful? Maybe because he’d never seen this side of Layla before?

After showing her how to prepare the cake pans and pour the batter, he started on the pastry dough for the mini tartlets to be served that afternoon at a late luncheon Eden and Reggie were catering.

“When will you frost the cake?” Layla asked. She was all business, but again, he saw the glint of battle in her eye.

“I’ll start tomorrow,” he said. He glanced up at her from where he rolled out dough. “Have you ever done any cake decorating?”

She shook her head. “How about I do that?” She pointed at the pastry dough.

“Sure,” he said. If she rolled crusts, then he could start the filling.

“How thick?”

“A sixteenth. No thicker.” Her eyes narrowed as she mentally estimated. “Like this,” he muttered, then tore off a corner of the dough and held it up for her to see. “Just take one of those balls of dough, flour that marble board and start rolling. If the dough sticks, flour the rolling pin. Don’t overwork it.”

“Got it,” Layla said. She took a handful of flour and masterfully tossed it onto the board, spreading it with a quick swipe of her palm. She seemed totally at home with the process.

“Do you bake much?” he asked.

“No,” she answered blandly. “But I got an A in home economics.”

AFTER JUSTIN DISAPPEARED out the door—leaving it propped open, perhaps to keep an eye on her—Layla rolled out the ball of dough into a perfect circle the same thickness as Justin’s sample. He gave the dough a critical once-over when he came back in carrying a tartlet pan, and apparently unable to find fault, demonstrated how he wanted the crust trimmed, and then placed into the pan and crimped for baking.

“Got it?” he asked seriously.

It’s not rocket science.

“Got it,” she said evenly, sending him a quick, cool glance before turning her attention back to the dough.

“I need fifty. How long will it take you?”

“An hour?” She hoped. That seemed reasonable. About a minute per roll-out.

“Great. We’ll bake sixteen at a time. Eight tartlet pans on one of these aluminum sheets.” There were two aluminum sheets.

Layla nodded, and then he went back into the kitchen without another word. If she leaned slightly to her left, though, she could see him through the open door, working at one of the counters, pouring cartons of berries into a stainless-steel bowl. He looked so stern, totally closed off. Unlike the laughing guy she’d known for most of her life.

He reminded her of herself.

She shook off the thought and unbuckled her oversize watch.

Okay. One hour. She set the watch on the counter where she could keep an eye on the time, and started rolling.

Layla was born to follow a production schedule. She finished five minutes early, with a feeling of deep satisfaction, then started to tidy up.

Justin had come into the pastry room periodically to take the large trays to the oven. And didn’t say a word.

Preoccupied or pissed off?

Once the tartlet shells were baked and filled, he went back to work frosting the cake, and Layla had nothing to do.

“What’s next?”

Justin glanced up at her with a slight frown. “Nothing. I work alone when I frost, and we don’t have another function until later this week.” He spoke in a distant, professional tone that made her want to take the bottom edge of his white stocking cap and tug it down over his eyes.

He was becoming her. She was becoming him.

And maybe he suddenly had the same realization, because he straightened up and set his spatula on the edge of the frosting bowl.

“Was today everything you hoped it would be?”

“And more,” Layla answered easily. “I enjoyed it.”

“Rolling dough.” He didn’t sound convinced.

She folded her arms over her chest and nodded. He mirrored her movement and was about to speak when they heard the office door open and close. Eden called Justin’s name.

“Yeah?” he called back.

She appeared in the doorway of the pastry room a second later, a stricken expression on her face. Justin instantly pushed away from the counter he’d been leaning against, and crossed over to her. “What?”

“I need you to take Reggie’s place at the function this afternoon.” She made a distracted gesture at the cake. “You can do that, right? That can wait?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Layla didn’t know what was happening, but it was obviously some kind of a family emergency. Eden was wide-eyed and pale.

“No. Um. It’s…” She looked back at her brother. “Reggie started bleeding. Tom took her to the hospital.”

“Oh, shit.” Justin pulled his cap off, wadding it in one hand.

“It may not be
too
early for the baby, if they can’t stop it. She’s almost seven months. They…uh…Tom…didn’t know.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry I’m babbling.” She met Layla’s eyes and swallowed again. “Reggie lost a baby before this one.”

“I’m so sorry,” Layla said automatically. And there she stood, odd man out. With no idea what to do.

“I can be ready in ten,” Justin said, moving past her toward the door.

“The coolers are all packed. The van is ready to go. I was just waiting for Reggie.” Eden followed him from the room. “Tom will text with updates.”

“Are you sure I can’t help?” Layla asked as Justin strode through the kitchen toward the lockers near the rear entrance.

Eden turned to her, unshed tears sparkling in her eyes. “Honestly, we’re good to go once Justin gets changed.” She pressed her lips together. “Sorry to involve you in family drama.”

“I only wish I could do something.”

“With Reggie out, I’ll have to hire a full-time temp, but…” She gulped and then pressed her fingertips beneath her eyes. “If you want to come back tomorrow, if Justin wasn’t a total butt today, then do.”

“Thanks,” Layla said, watching as Justin shrugged out of his shirt and slipped into a chef’s jacket. She felt ashamed that, despite the circumstances, she couldn’t help noticing he was all muscle. She quickly pushed the thought away and looked back at Eden. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.” Layla smiled slightly, reassuringly. “I’m very, very good at following directions.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JUSTIN AND EDEN SLOGGED through the longest, tensest late-afternoon luncheon he’d ever in his life attended. The event progressed smoothly—no minor emergencies, missing supplies, dropped trays, unexpected guests. Only two caterers, smiling frozen smiles, moving like automatons and waiting for a text message from their brother-in-law.

By the time the last guest had left and the cleanup began, Justin was ready to explode. And then the message came.

All’s well. Bed rest until end of pregnancy.

Justin felt his chest tighten as a couple big tears rolled down Eden’s cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

“I’m so glad,” she murmured as she gathered a tray of glasses, giving Justin the distinct feeling that if she talked louder, she’d choke up.

He felt the same.

THE VAN WAS ONCE AGAIN parked behind Tremont Catering and was almost entirely unloaded when Reggie’s husband, Tom, walked into the kitchen carrying his daughter, Rosemary. Text messages had been flying between Eden and Tom, and Justin had finally been able to relax, but he hadn’t expected to see Tom.

“I went to get Rosemary from the sitter’s,” Tom explained before either of them could ask why he was there. He rubbed his free hand over his dark hair, which was practically standing on end. “Reggie will want to see her when she wakes up.” He cradled the child against him as he spoke, his hand coming to rest protectively over the little girl’s head. “I saw the lights on in the kitchen and thought I’d stop and get Reggie’s laptop.” He attempted a smile. “Something to distract her.”

Eden reached out to stroke Rosemary’s back. “Can we do anything?”

“Just keep my wife out of the kitchen and I think it’s going to be all right. She needs to carry the baby for at least another four weeks, although eight would be optimal, and the doctor said with bed rest, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Good to hear,” Eden said. “Tell her I’m hiring a temp and that Layla worked out great. She’ll come back whenever we need her.”

Justin nodded. Resigned himself to working with Layla, and wished he could do something, say something that didn’t sound like a platitude. Tom was not a sentimental man, and it was rugged seeing him so obviously torn up.

“This
will
be our last baby.” Tom shifted Rosemary so that her head rested more comfortably on his shoulder. She slipped her thumb into her mouth, her eyes drooping as she tried to smile at her uncle Justin, who felt as if his guts were turning inside out. “I couldn’t handle losing another,” Tom said. “Not at this stage.” He cleared his throat. “Not at any stage.”

“Two kids are plenty,” Eden said. “And this will turn out fine.”

Her words sounded totally natural and helpful.

“One good thing,” Tom said, his voice still strained.

“What’s that?” Justin asked.

“The little guy shifted enough that they could finally get a glimpse at his private parts during the ultrasound. It’s a boy.”

JUSTIN GOT HOME at the unheard of hour of eight o’clock, although it felt much later. As soon as he arrived he kicked back and blindly pointed his face at a televised game, sans beer.

After an hour of that and another text from Tom, telling them that Reggie had woken up and was feeling much better, Justin went to bed, only to find that without being utterly exhausted, he was unable to sleep.

Tom and Reggie had lost one baby and had just survived a close call on a second.

Justin had let his kid go without a second thought and could still recall the exquisite relief he’d felt when Rachel had decided to put the child up for adoption. His life could get back to normal…except he’d only thought it had.

As an eighteen-year-old, he’d had no clue that later in life he might mourn the loss of a kid he’d never had the chance to know.

You didn’t have a choice.

He could have worn a condom.

Amazing how one careless moment could so utterly change a life. Or lives. His. Rachel’s. Her parents’. His child’s.

It had changed the adoptive parents’ lives, too. The only good that had come out of the situation—if they were worthy. That doubt lingered. What if they weren’t good people? Wanting a child didn’t make a person a responsible parent.

Was his son happy?

Was his son even still alive?

Finally, when he heard his neighbor who worked night shift come up the stairs, Justin got up, turned on his computer and typed “birth father support” into a search engine. To his surprise, several sites popped up.

He wasn’t alone.

He clicked the link to one of them and was taken to a page filled with letters from birth fathers describing their experiences. He’d meant to read only a couple, but an hour later he was still at it. Some of them described unexpected reunions and open adoptions. Some had discovered their children had been abused, which sent another burning arrow of guilt through Justin. Others had found out their children were blissfully happy.

Most of the guys were like him. Men—boys, really—who had been too young to make a decent decision, or without resources to pursue custody of their child. Some had felt loss and pain from the day they’d signed the papers. Some had felt nothing but relief, like him, only to find later, perhaps after the birth of a subsequent child, or in Justin’s case a niece, that perspective shifted and it was impossible to forget they had another child out in the world somewhere.

Some guys accepted that adoption was necessary, and others were bitter. Adoption had been Justin’s only avenue, because Rachel’s parents wouldn’t have it any other way and his own father wouldn’t stand up for him. Not that it would have mattered. Justin hadn’t had the skills to raise a baby.

He had a child no one knew about. Not even Reggie or Eden, who would have blamed themselves for leaving him alone while they both went off to school within a year of one another. Neither of his sisters had wanted to leave him, but technically, their father still lived with them when he wasn’t trucking, and hell, sometimes he even came home. Justin had sworn on his life that he would stay out of trouble. No parties. No drinking. Nothing.

And he’d kept his word. His only slipup was with Rachel, the rich girl looking for an opportunity to break free from her controlling parents. He’d had a house and little to no supervision. He and Rachel could spend their stolen time together any way they wanted. And they had wanted to spend it like any other normal redblooded teens.

That all ended when Rachel told him she was pregnant and she was giving up the baby for adoption. The decision had already been made—by her parents. Justin agreed with the decision. In fact, he’d welcomed it with such relief that it made him feel even more guilty.

Rachel had been whisked away to another city to live with a relative, because despite more relaxed social attitudes, her parents could not embrace the idea of their very perfect daughter becoming an unwed mother. So she became a secret unwed mother. And then she probably went off to the Ivy League education her parents had planned for her. Justin hadn’t heard from her since. He’d done the occasional internet search, but she must have married, because none of the Rachel Kellys—and there were hundreds—were the right one.

Now he wondered if she felt the same guilt he did. Did she wonder what their child looked like? She had to.

Unlike many of the birth fathers posting in the community threads, he hadn’t seen the baby. Hadn’t held it or said goodbye. He didn’t know, after reading the posts, if that was good or bad. But he did realize that he’d buried his feelings for way too long.

The popular consensus seemed to be that the guys walked off whistling, and the girls were left to deal with matters. He’d done exactly that.

And now he’d give almost anything to undo it…or at the very least, know that his son was all right.

Then maybe, even though he didn’t deserve it, he could get peace of mind.

LAYLA ARRIVED AT THE KITCHEN early Thursday morning after phoning Eden to make certain she was needed. Justin’s sister assured her they could use an extra pair of hands in addition to the temp who was scheduled to start the next day.

Justin pulled in right after Layla parked, still driving his small Honda, which made her wonder how badly his other car had been damaged in the accident. She should have asked yesterday, but the mood was not conducive to personal questions.

“Hey,” she said, keeping it casual.

“Hey back,” he said, in a tone that indicated he wasn’t interested in conversation. He started toward the entrance to the kitchen without another word.

“Justin?” He’d taken only a couple steps when she spoke, and she easily caught up with him. “Yesterday, after—” she made a circular gesture with her hand, trying to come up with a euphemism for you-shut-me-down “—our discussion, I stayed in the kitchen as a bit of payback, I guess.”

He didn’t say anything.

“That’s not how it is today. I’m just here to help if you need it. As a friend of the family.”

“I—we—appreciate that,” he said, even though he didn’t appear overjoyed. He started across the small parking lot again and she fell into step beside him.

“Although I do wonder why you think I’m incapable of having fun,” she couldn’t help but mutter.

“I didn’t say you were incapable of fun.”

“That was the first time I’d ever propositioned anyone,” she added. Saying it out loud took some of the sting of rejection away. Made the elephant in the room somehow smaller.

“You did a fine job,” Justin said as they reached the door. “I’m simply not in a good place right now.”

Why is that, Justin?

Here she’d found a guy who truly turned her on, more so than Robert or any of her boyfriends before him, a guy who’d been around for almost her entire life, and he didn’t want to start something.

And for once her shaky self-confidence in personal relationships wasn’t shouting,
It’s because you’re not good enough!
She was. Justin wouldn’t have kissed her the way he had—several times—if she wasn’t. He’d kissed her because she turned him on—then had planted his heels firmly in the ground and refused to move forward to the next logical step.

He was driving her crazy.

Again.

JUSTIN AND EDEN HAD a quick meeting as soon as he and Layla walked into the kitchen, in which it was decided that Layla would help Eden and Justin would finish his cake. Tomorrow they had a temp starting, coming in for six hours a day, so Eden could concentrate on the office matters associated with the business. There was a debate as to who would deal with prospective clients and meetings, and finally Eden agreed she would be better at that, given the flux in Justin’s schedule.

“I called the hotel,” he said. “Told them I couldn’t come in this week.”

“And the temp can give us more hours next week.” Eden pushed her hair back as she looked up at her brother. “Will this affect your budget?”

He shook his head. “I’ll deal with it.” Then, with a quick, unreadable glance in Layla’s direction, he went to his pastry room and shut the door. A few seconds later music came on. Metal from the nineties.

“One of
those
days,” Eden said when she headed for the walk-in cooler. She returned a few minutes later with a pan of vegetables. “When he plays that kind of music, he’s having a rough one.”

Layla was familiar with the feeling, but Justin had always seemed such a cocky, happy-go-lucky guy that until recently she’d never thought of him as having anything but good days. And if he had bad days, she assumed they’d roll off him. So what was all this?

“I hate that music,” Eden said. “But we will persevere as we prep. I want you to peel the carrots and onions, then dice them into quarter-inch cubes.”

“Sure.” The carrots were already washed, so Layla started peeling. Eden began working on celery. Layla had no idea what they were making, didn’t really care. She only wanted to help.

“This thing with Reggie and the baby is rough on Justin,” Eden said as she sliced the length of the celery stalks with quick, practiced movements. “He’s always been the protector for our family and this is something he can’t do anything about. It eats at him.”

“I’d never thought of Justin as a protector.”

“Oh, yeah. After the old man starting traveling again, he took over the patriarch role in the family.”

Layla had always admired the way the Tremont kids had taken care of each other, but she’d assumed that Justin, as the youngest, had been the protected, not the protector. Still, she could see that tendency in him. In fact, it was exactly what he was doing with her—protecting her from his inability to engage in a long-term commitment. As if she needed protection.

“How did Justin end up in the cooking field?” Layla asked. Something she’d vaguely wondered about. “He was such a skating fanatic when he was a kid.”