Just Desserts (17 page)

“Once again we can thank our father. We took turns cooking at home while he was gone. Dad made sure we had a decent food budget and we enjoyed experimenting with food.” Eden smiled. “Unsupervised experimentation. Justin always liked baking. I think he got a lot of women, using the bread- and pie-making gimmick.” Eden sent Layla a knowing look. “Women are suckers for guys who can make a pie, it seems.”

Layla gave a soft snort. Yes, she could see where that might work. Especially coming from a guy who looked more at home in a skate park than in a kitchen. The element of surprise.

“Then he got a job helping with a catering firm right after high school, because he happened to be good with the public and made a decent piecrust.”

“He got a job because of piecrust?”

“Never underestimate the value of a good crust,” Eden said, focused on the garlic. “Anyone can follow a recipe, but there’s a knack to having the crusts come out light and flaky every single time. Justin has it.”

“Trust me, after yesterday, I’ll never look at piecrust the same.”

“Reggie and I went to culinary school on loans and grants while Justin was in high school, then he followed us two years later and we started our business.”

“And the rest is history.”

“So what happened with you two?” Eden asked point-blank.

“I…” Layla cut her a sidelong glance.

“Tactless, I know.” Eden started peeling a large head of garlic. “But I had hoped he might find something with you that he hasn’t found anywhere else.”

Uh…
“We didn’t even get close to that point,” Layla said.

“Well.” Eden smashed a garlic clove with the side of her knife. “I figured, given your background, you could skip a few steps.”

“Like sharing life stories?”

Eden shrugged. “For one.”

She did feel as if they’d skipped some critical steps—the entire middle ones. They’d gone from a fun and promising beginning straight to “it’s over.”

“I’m sorry,” Eden said abruptly, setting her knife down. “None of my business, and Justin would fillet me if he knew I was talking about him, but…this protective thing goes two ways. Actually, three. I guess when you grow up watching out for each other, it’s a damned hard habit to break.”

WHEN JUSTIN EMERGED from the pastry room to make a phone call around ten o’clock, Layla and Eden were working side by side, prepping vegetables and talking. They glanced up at the same time and both looked first guilty and then coolly indifferent. Oh, yeah. If Guns n’ Roses hadn’t been so loud, his ears would have been ringing for a different reason.

He ignored them, went back into his lair after the call and once again closed the door. He stayed there until after two, and when he came out again, Layla was gone.

Good. He had a question for his sister, who was pouring batter into mini-quiche pans.

“Were you talking about me with Layla?”

“Maybe.” Eden finished one pan and moved on to the next.

“I don’t want to seem like a jerk,” he said mildly, “but back off.” Eden flashed him a startled look as his tone went deadly. “I’m serious. Layla isn’t someone I want to play around with.”

And why is that?
The question was clearly written on his sister’s face.

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said, saving Eden the trouble of asking.

“How on earth do you know that you’ll hurt her?”

“Maybe that was egotistical,” he conceded, “but I—”

Eden set down the batter bowl. “Don’t do serious. I’m aware. I’ve watched the pattern develop. Why don’t you do serious?”

Justin took a breath, wishing now that he hadn’t opened this can of worms. He searched for some easy answer, which didn’t appear out of the blue as he’d hoped, and then Eden asked, “Is it because of Dad? Our bizarre childhood? Abandonment issues? What?”

Why couldn’t people just understand this one simple fact about him?

“It’s me, Eden. Just plain me. No fancy explanations. I like to be single. I only like to let a relationship go so far. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone’s happiness.”

Because I’ll surely screw up.

She didn’t believe him. He could see it in her face.

Nothing he could do about that.

CHAPTER TWELVE

JUSTIN MADE HIS FIRST post to the birth fathers’ group that night. Two simple sentences. How can I find out if my kid’s all right? It was a closed adoption. It was a huge move on his part and he couldn’t say why, after all these years, he’d finally made it. Maybe the gnawing anxiety had worn him down.

When he pushed Send, his throat went dry. His first actual move to discover something, anything, about his son. Part of him said it was wrong. His son was now someone else’s child. Prospective parents were well screened; many waited for years and spent thousands of dollars to get a child. His kid was fine.

Another part of him wanted proof.

A few responses trickled in as the evening passed. Do you have a name? In what state was the adoption made? Have you signed up with an adoption reunion registry?

What he discovered was that without a name and without a state, a search was practically impossible. He had to at least find out where the adoption had occurred. He didn’t even know that. All he knew was that Rachel had gone back east.

He’d have to try and contact her parents, find out if they’d mellowed over the years. Not much chance of that. The Kellys had been quite the pair of arrogant social climbers, but he had to try.

They no longer lived in Reno, but he found them in Sausalito, and managed to get an email address of the company Mr. Kelly owned. Justin stopped there. For now. It was going to take some thought to word this message the right way, and even then he knew the chances of getting a response, much less cooperation, were slim.

He finally went to bed—and slept—with no idea if he was going to follow through with any kind of a search, or whether he would continue in birth father limbo.

LAYLA WAS GETTING TIRED of irony smacking her in the face. She’d lived so many long, irony-free years. What was the deal now?

Here she was, attracted to the one guy she’d wanted nothing to do with for over a decade, and he wanted nothing to do with her. Then she’d won an educational merit award—the second in two years—only a matter of weeks after being fired from her teaching job. And now, in a final blow, after pouring two nights into formatting, so that she could put her lesson plans up for sale on The Lesson Store, an online teacher site, she’d received an official, certified letter. Had made a special trip to the post office to get it.

Her heartbeat had gone double time when she saw the name of a law firm as the return address. Skinner, McCullen and Arthur. The lawyers Manzanita Prep used. She knew, because they solicited business once a year at a staff meeting.

If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need legal advice…

Not that teachers were offered a special rate or anything. Layla had often wondered if Manzanita Prep got a cut rate for allowing them to solicit the staff.

With shaking fingers, she tore the envelope open, telling herself this was nothing. Just a formality involved with her nonrenewal/firing/whatever. Nothing to do with breaking and entering. A police officer would be involved if that were the case.

People walked past her on their way out of the post office, and Layla suddenly realized she was standing in the path of a cranky-looking businesswoman, and stepped aside.

Dear heavens…she was being sued for the return of intellectual property to Manzanita Prep. The letter almost slid from her fingers.

Things like this didn’t happen to people like her.

Her heart kept beating, somehow, and she read the letter again.

Sued. Or rather, given an ultimatum. Return the lessons or prepare to defend herself.

Layla swallowed drily, then carefully folded the letter and placed it back into what was left of the envelope. Sued. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

Irony at its finest.

REGGIE WAS ON THE MEND. She was allowed to go home from the hospital with the understanding that she was to stay off her feet until the baby was born. Justin had rarely seen his sister off her feet for two hours, much less two months. But Tom was the guy to keep her there.

He spent most of his waking hours at his restaurant, aptly named Rosemary, but had hired a manager that he thought he could trust. Tom was a hands-on kind of guy, and this two months was going to be as difficult for him as it was for Reggie. But he was gladly making the sacrifice. For his wife. And his unborn child.

Layla came in late that day. She’d been there like clockwork at 7:00 a.m. for the past three days, and as promised, she was there to work. Mainly with Eden or the new temp, Charlene, but his sister had client meetings that day, so Justin was holding down the fort and Layla was helping him. Charlene was up to her elbows in manicotti and ravioli prep, and he had a small anniversary cake due the next day and also had to make tiramisu.

“Sorry about this,” Layla said as she put her purse into a locker at the back of the kitchen then.

“Are you okay?” he asked automatically, seeing as soon as she turned toward him that she was pale-looking, stressed. The same way she’d looked during finals week every year they’d been in school together.

“Fine,” she said in a brittle voice, forcing a smile that did not do her beautiful lips justice. “Just overslept, which I never like to do.”

Justin continued to study her for a moment with a slight frown. Something was definitely off. He waited a couple seconds, hoping she’d blurt out whatever the problem was. But she didn’t, and he wondered why he wanted to get involved.

He didn’t. Of course not. But she was helping them out for very minimal pay—in fact, she’d suggested that she work for free, but neither he nor Eden was having any of that nonsense.

“Where’s Eden?” she said, looking around. Charlene, whom she’d worked with yesterday, was rolling out pasta on the other side of the kitchen and the office light was off.

“Client meetings.”

“Reggie’s all right, then?”

“It’s looking good. Every day she lasts is one more day that little Tyler gets to develop.”

Layla smiled then, transforming her face from taut and drawn to gorgeous. When had she become so damned beautiful? “They named him?”

“They succumbed,” Justin said seriously. Layla’s smile lingered for a few more seconds, then slipped away, as if she was recalling something unpleasant.

Which bugged him.

None of his business.

JUSTIN KEPT SHOOTING looks at her. Why? Layla knew she was doing everything right, because she was taking extra care to remain focused. He didn’t need to keep checking on her. But he was.

Right now she didn’t want to think about Justin—she wanted to obsess over the letter in her purse.

What on earth was her next step?

Why couldn’t one of her brothers have become a lawyer? How much of her educational nest egg would she have to spend to defend herself? What if she couldn’t afford to go to school?

And how would she ever find a job in education, the only field she was trained for, when she’d been both fired and sued?

Her stomach was in such a tight knot she didn’t know if she’d be able to eat. Ever.

“What’s wrong?”

Layla jumped at Justin’s sudden question, which came from a lot closer than she’d expected. Somehow he was right in front of her, when moments ago he’d been over by his mixer, which was still running. That explained why she hadn’t heard him move.

“Nothing.” She shook her head to emphasize the point, but wasn’t so stupid as to try to smile.

“Right.” He reached out to take the spatula she’d been using to scrape batter out of a bowl for cupcakes, which was now dripping onto her shoe. Their eyes met just as Charlene poked her head into the room.

“Hey,” she said cheerfully. “I’m done with Eden’s prep list. You got anything else?”

“Maybe you could take over here for Layla,” Justin said, his eyes fixed on Layla’s face.

“I’ll finish,” Layla said, reaching to take the spatula from him.

He handed it to the temp. “No. Charlene will finish.” He smiled at the woman. “We just need to get these cupcakes in the oven. Layla and I have to—”

With a muttered curse, a word she rarely used, Layla stalked past him, taking her apron off as she went.

This was her last day. She’d come to work at Tremont as a lark, to see if she could gain some kind of insight into her relationship with Justin. And she’d gained instant insight that first day, when he’d explained his position to her. After that, she’d stayed only to help the family she’d grown up with.

They didn’t need her now, and she needed to get away from Justin because it was too damned hard being so close to him.

“Layla!”

“Back off,” she said without turning around. She dropped her apron on the nearest workstation.

He caught her arm and stopped her. “What in the hell is going on?”

“I’m here helping, but you aren’t my boss, Justin. You are not going to call meetings with me or anything like that.”

She shook his hand off, opened her locker, grabbed her purse and slammed the door shut again. A few seconds later, she stalked out of the kitchen into the bright light of an early April day. Justin did not follow, and she was so damned glad.

As soon as she got home, she settled at the computer and continued researching intellectual property and copyright. The overall consensus was that she could well be screwed. And if she didn’t win the suit, she’d have to pay court costs. Plus she had to pay a lawyer.

She picked up the letter. She had thirty days to answer. Thirty days to either give back the property or have action brought against her.

Would the school honestly go through with it?

Probably.

JUSTIN HAD EVERY INTENTION of driving straight home, but he was worried about Layla, and that concern sent him to the other side of town. He parked in front of her house, thinking that it looked friendlier than it had the first time he’d been there, steering Layla up the slushy sidewalk.

She opened the door before he got to the porch, her expression telling him he’d better stop moving now.

“Why are you here?” she asked coldly from her superior height.

“Surely you can figure that one out,” he said, lifting his chin so he could meet her eyes. “Something was bothering you—to the point that you stormed out of the kitchen without your sweater.” He held it up for her to see.

Layla rolled her eyes. “That’s your sister’s sweater.”

Justin took a long look at the pale pink garment. “It is?”

“Yeah. It is.” She folded her arms over her chest.

The hand with the sweater dropped to his side and Justin went with the facts instead of a ploy. “I wanted to see you, so I didn’t really care whose sweater it was, but I did think it was yours. I thought I saw you wearing one like this.”

“Mine is darker.”

“Right.” He glanced down briefly, then back up at her. “I’ve been a jerk. I’m sorry and I’m worried about you.” Then he shifted his weight. Apologizing had never come easy for him, but he’d done it and he meant it. Now all he wanted was for her to tell him what the problem was, because it was driving him crazy.

LAYLA DEBATED for all of two seconds, then said, “I’m being sued.”

The words just came blurting out. Not because she wanted a shoulder to cry on or anything, but because it seemed counterproductive to alienate one of the few people who might actually understand what was going on—the guy who’d been involved in taking the materials from the school in the first place.

“Sued?”

“Manzanita Prep wants the lesson plans back. They’re calling them intellectual property.”

“I thought they were yours. That you created them.”

“They
are
mine,” Layla said adamantly. “But I have to prove I made them on my own time, and that’s going to cost money I could use for grad school.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” She wrapped her arms tightly around her stomach and refused to meet his eyes. “It’s killing me. I have this problem with authority. I kowtow too much.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“Authority is safe,” she said, still not looking at him, although she heard the creak of him mounting the first step. “I can tell myself that logically I’m in the right, but Justin…people like me aren’t supposed to get sued.”

“What do you mean, people like you?” he asked, the next two steps creaking under his weight. He stopped on the last one so their heads were level, and when she turned, she could look into his remarkable green eyes.

“People who follow rules. Bend over backward to follow rules. Follow rules even when they’re stupid and counterproductive.”

“You do that?” he asked in mock surprise.

She smiled. “Not anymore.” Their eyes held, and then she leaned forward so that their foreheads touched.

But she didn’t kiss him. Because she knew from past experience exactly what would happen—he would kiss her back and then retreat, for her own blinking protection—and it frustrated the hell out of her.