Similar as their experiences had been, as adults they processed the reaction differently, and that was where she felt she could be the most help to him. Bonnie had craved the intimacy she’d been starved for during her childhood, surrounding herself with close friends and lovers. Seth had withdrawn into his music and let only a few trusted friends near him, but no one ever as close as she’d gotten during that blissful year they were together.
“Here you go.” She handed the flowers to Alex-
ahn
-dra with a warm smile, determined not to act the pathetic hanger-on ex-girlfriend.
“Thanks.” Alexandra buried her perfect nose in the bouquet and sent Seth a whitened smile under eyes glistening with gratitude. “Really, thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Sir Galahad’s voice oozed humble nobility.
Bonnie was ready to hurl into one of her buckets.
“Ready?” Seth put a hand to the spot on Alexandra’s back where the red corset met the sudden flare of black netting, and gestured toward the exit. They left together, Seth sending Bonnie an unreadable glance as they passed. She watched them go, unable to keep herself from hoping they’d turn left, head out of the building and into the city.
They turned right. Maybe to pay a visit to Jack’s photography studio down the hall? Or Demi’s physical therapy studio?
Bonnie came out from behind the counter and nonchalantly strolled toward a potted ficus, which she examined closely for yellowing leaves, keeping the couple in her peripheral vision through the line of windows across her storefront.
Her heart sank. No. They were waiting for the elevator. Going up to Seth’s apartment.
She turned and stalked back to her counter. That was it. Bonnie could not spend the rest of her life skulking around ficuses spying on a guy who broke her heart
five years
earlier and hadn’t shown any sign of any desire or even awareness that he had the power to change into someone looking for a serious, healthy relationship.
How many times had she told herself she had to let him go? Too many. This time she had to dig down really deep, face really hard truths and make damn well sure she meant it.
4
A
NGELA
SMILED
AT
the group of moms leaving her shop, laughing and chatting, pushing babies in strollers, holding sticky hands of cookie-finishing toddlers. Adorable. If she and Tom were still married, Angela would probably be pregnant by now. They’d wanted kids, boatloads of them, but had decided to wait a few years before trying—thank goodness. Maybe he’d have that boatload now with the Princess of Perfection.
The thought still managed to hurt.
It shouldn’t. Tom was not worthy. Angela would meet someone else, someone who wanted her for herself, not in order to rebel against his parents. She and Mr. Wonderful would have perfectly flawed children and a perfectly flawed marriage like real, perfectly flawed people were supposed to.
Of course to do that, she’d have find Mr. Wonderful, and to do that, she’d have to start dating. Yesterday when she told Bonnie she wasn’t ready, for the first time the response had felt more like reflex than truth. Angela had lain in bed last night and thought about how when the sexy bicycle guy came in for white cupcakes, she’d felt not just ready, she’d felt ex-
treme
-ly ready. Ready to drag him into the back and show him how hot her ovens could get. So maybe it was time to start? Maybe. She could always take refuge in delay if the reality proved even more terrifying than the thought. Just because Bike Guy happened to send her to the moon and back didn’t mean she was ready for a relationship. After such a spectacular failure with her marriage it would be hard to trust any man again.
The pack of moms cleared the entrance and Angela’s eyes snapped into focus on the devil himself. She did a cartoonish double take, her system burning with that exhausting and all-too-familiar combination of pain, anger and lingering tenderness.
Tom.
What was he doing here?
He looked good. He’d lost weight, had color, probably from a vacation with what’s-er-name in St. Thomas, his favorite destination. Had he made love to her out on the warm sand at sundown? Watched the stars come out, more than Angela had ever seen before? Had the cooling air washed over their naked bodies? Did he tell her she was and always would be the only woman for him?
Angela wanted to cry. And she wanted to find a large blunt object to brain him with.
Divorce was so peaceful.
“Hi, Ange.”
There was nothing she hated more than the sound of that nickname on his lips. “Hi, Tom. I’m surprised to see you.”
“Yeah, well.” He looked around, dark eyes taking in her shop, the tables and chairs she’d bought secondhand and painted black and burgundy herself, the counter and stools, the display cases of pastry, cakes and cookies, the racks of bread and rolls. Angela found herself holding her breath, awaiting his judgment, and told herself to grow a pair. What did she care what he thought?
Too much. Much too much. She could not wait for the day when he no longer mattered, when his opinion was so much blah-blah-blah fouling the air. Three years since they divorced. How much longer would she have to wait?
“Nice place.” He nodded, hands perching on his hips. “You’ve done well.”
Ah, there it was, the royal seal of approval. She hated herself for even the small swell of pleasure. “Thanks. Did you want something?”
“I came to talk to you. But while I’m here…” He stepped closer to the case, examining the neatly arranged goods, which Angela was satisfied to note had been healthily depleted by a solid Saturday morning of business.
She walked a few steps to her left and gestured proudly to the assortment of international pastries. Here was someone who’d definitely appreciate what she’d done. “Would you like to try an éclair? These are filled with chocolate lavender pastry cream. Those there with hazelnut coffee cream and cocoa nubs. Or I have black-pepper fruit tarts, passion-fruit—”
“I’ll try an éclair. Chocolate lavender. And a chocolate chunk cookie.” He reached for his wallet and she waved him off.
“My treat. You want a box?”
“I’ll eat them now.” He patted his stomach. “Annabel and I are training for a triathlon this summer. I can manage the calories.”
Triathlon. Of course. The Princess was in perfect shape, too. Angela would rather walk on live coals.
“You look great.” She picked out the prettiest éclair and put it on an extra round of waxed paper and a napkin before handing it to him. Tom had a horror of getting his hands sticky.
“Thanks. I don’t have you around to tempt me with bakery stuff anymore. It’s been easy keeping the weight down.”
Ah, there it was. His weight problem had been
her
fault. “Annabel isn’t a cook?”
“We go out most of the time.”
“Nice.” He loved going out. Some evenings Angela had practically begged him to stay in. What kind of married couple ignored life at home?
It was good he found someone who fit him better.
There. That was about as charitable as she could be right now. Someday she’d do better.
“Not bad.” He was chewing his first bite of éclair. “Interesting taste.”
Interesting. That wasn’t quite the rapturous response she’d hoped for. “Did you come for something other than calories?”
“Yeah.” He wiped his fingers on the napkin. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”
“We’re not talking now?” They were alone in the shop. Scott wasn’t due for another half hour. Alice was back in the kitchen finishing a batch of baguette dough. Angela didn’t want Tom in the tiny intimacy of her office.
“Okay.” He took another huge bite of éclair. When he ate like that, as if he’d been starving for weeks, it meant he was nervous. Whatever Tom had to say, he didn’t think she’d like hearing it. She didn’t, either.
“You know Annabel and I have been dating for a while…”
“You’re getting married.” Pain shot through her. She-succeeded-where-I-failed pain, which was infuriatingly irrational. Not like Angela would
ever
want Tom back.
“Yes.” He wolfed the rest of the éclair, wiped his fingers again and picked up the cookie while he was still chewing. “We’re having a fall wedding.”
“Congratulations, Tom. I’m happy for you.” She was happy for him. And also still wanted that blunt object.
“I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. But I wanted you to hear it from me.”
She nodded, managing to keep her gaze calm and steady. “That was nice of you, Tom.”
It was nice. And nice to be reminded that there was a good person inside somewhere, and that she hadn’t been a total idiot marrying him.
Only three-quarters of one.
“Good. Well…” He bit into the cookie. She could feel his relief having gotten through that errand of mercy without having to endure a scene, and could feel his need to flee as soon as possible, having gotten through it. Fine by her.
“Thanks for coming by, Tom. I really—”
“Mmm.”
He held up the cookie, nearly halved by the size of the bite he’d taken. “
This
is where you should be focusing. This is your business’s future. Leave the fancy stuff to someone who can really manage it, someone who really lives there. That’s not you.”
Somehow she kept the smile that had invited itself onto her features during his praise of the cookie. “I don’t think—”
“Are you doing sales calls? Lots of them? Every day?”
Immediately she felt defensive. She hated sales calls, and while she knew they were important for growing her business, she tended to avoid them. Which he’d know, because he knew her, and because she wasn’t answering his question right away. “I’ve done enough for me. I have a few restaur—”
“With these?” He held up the cookie.
“Right now I’m concentrating on the international pastry side of the bus—”
“Mistake. You’re all-American and should stay in this country. Don’t reach beyond yourself, Angie. You’ve always done that. You’re doing it with this bakery, you did it by…” He stopped, looking trapped.
“Marrying you?”
“No. No, of course not.” He shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth, chewed furiously. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know what you meant.”
“No.” He swallowed and sighed. “I don’t think you do. We never could communicate. That was our problem.”
Yeah, they had trouble communicating. He told her what she should be like, and if she protested, he’d roll his eyes as if he’d been saddled with defective merchandise. When she did try to change, he’d cut down her every effort, exactly as he’d just done, with the result that she felt hopelessly inadequate through their relationship and short marriage. And was
still
working to get out from under the weight of his disapproval, damn him. And her.
“Well, I guess it’s better we’re not together anymore.” She spoke flatly, struggling with anger and regret. “I hope Annabel will make you happy.”
“Thanks, Ange.” His features softened, he took a few steps toward her.
No, no hugging.
Go away.
“’Bye Tom! Have a great wedding!”
He took the hint, gave an awkward wave and left the shop.
Relief. More than relief—sudden satisfaction—because as she stared at his retreating figure, Angela noticed a hairless circle on the back of his head, perfectly natural, but something Tom had dreaded with near terror. Imagine that! Something in the world not obeying Tom Hulfish’s wishes.
Angela managed a giggle and the giggle lightened her mood some. This was good. Recovery this soon after seeing him was a big step forward. Last time she’d bawled like a baby the minute his back was turned. This time she was only slightly shaky.
Progress.
She bent to pick up a dropped napkin; her doorbell sang out. A group of college kids, probably just awake, looking for breakfast at lunchtime. She served them, happy for further distraction. By the time they left, she was practically herself again—until she glanced out her door into the hallway beyond and for the second time that morning, did a double take.
The bike guy.
Back. Striding into her shop. Looking severe.
Uh-oh.
Was he going to yell at her about the chocolate cupcake? Tell her she’d ruined the perfect surprise he’d planned for a special lady?
That would suck.
She put on her usual welcoming smile, nerves making her mouth stretch with the effort, while the rest of her noted that he was still the hottest man she’d seen in a long, long time.
The hottest man she’d seen in a long, long time did something completely unexpected then. He smiled back.
Oh. My. The lingering emotions over the encounter with Tom were gone. Smashed. Obliterated.
In fact…Tom who?
The grin turned Bike Guy into a different person. Friendly. Boyish. Vital. And so sexy she practically had to grab for the counter to stay upright. Wind-tousled hair, light blue eyes, sexy indentations at the corners of his mouth, good strong chin with just the barest hint of a cleft…
“Hi, Angela.”
“Hello…” She trailed pointedly, cuing him for his name.
“I got my cupcakes home last night. But…” He looked comically perplexed. “Apparently there was a mistake. I ordered six white-on-white and I got seven.”
“Seven!?” She was all sweet innocence. Well, no, not all innocence. Just the parts he could see. “That is terrible.”
“It gets worse. The seventh cupcake was chocolate.”
“Chocolate.”
She faked astonishment, then frowned. “That’s not like me, to get an order wrong. I’m pretty sure you’re mistaken.”
“No, mistake. Six white, one chocolate.”
“I really don’t think…” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, what proof do you have? Pictures? A notarized statement? Crumbs?”
He put his hands to his hips, drawing attention—her attention anyway—to his broad chest. “The evidence has been tampered with. Destroyed. In fact, eaten.”
“No evidence, case dismissed.” She mimicked a gavel banging, then tipped her head to one side and realized with a thrill that he was fun as well as hot, and that she was flirting with him, which felt really, really good. “Did you enjoy it?”
“I did.”
“Well, good.” She gave a nod of satisfaction. “That’s what you were supposed to do.”
“Aha.” He took a step toward the counter, blue eyes fixed on her. “You admit it.”
She made herself look sweetly blank. “Admit what?”
Oh, it had been way, way too long since she’d done this. Her flirt muscles were unfurling, stretching, shaking off the dust. This was totally fun. Now she had to get Bonnie out flirting with her. Someone other than Seth.
“I came back to thank you.” He pulled restlessly at the zipper on his bike shirt. “You were right. I’m a chocolate guy.”
“I knew it.” She smiled, wishing rather carnally that he’d yank the zipper all the way down, contenting herself instead with taking in the lean physique, displayed so beautifully in skin-tight, black, red and blue material. Tom might have lost weight, but next to this graceful Titan, his stocky build looked stunted.
“So how did the birthday boy, or—” she mixed a meaningful pause with a sidelong glance “—
girl,
like the white cupcakes?”