Love Blooms on Main Street (14 page)

“What about dessert?” Sophie cut in. “I want those cookies!”

Ivy caught Henry's eye. “I'm stuffed. You guys go on.”

Brett laid the magazine to the side and turned to her. “You're not going to have any of Kara's cookies?”

She shook her head and said to Henry, “She made some for the Annex, and the customers were raving about them.”

Jane took a bite of one as she set the plate on the center of the table. “Wow, you weren't lying. These are amazing. Henry, try one. Brett?”

Ivy wondered if Brett found it odd that neither her brother nor Jane pressed Ivy to try the dessert, but if he did, he said nothing and happily sipped his coffee and helped the rest of them finish off the cookies.

“I feel guilty,” Jane whispered in Ivy's ear as they walked to the front hall, full and tired.

Ivy looked at her quizzically. “Why? Don't.” She gave her friend a reassuring hug. “Don't think twice about it. And thanks for dinner.”

“That was nice,” Brett said as they pulled out of the driveway. It was dark and quiet, and Ivy wished she could flick the radio on for distraction, but it wasn't her car, and that felt like taking liberties.

She kept the focus of conversation neutral as they wound their way through the empty streets and back into town, keeping things light, chattering about the fundraiser and everything planned for it.

Finally, they were back at Petals on Main. The night was over, and that deflated her more than it should. It had been a nice night, pleasant, just as she'd hoped. Full of good friends, family, and laughter. It was a shame it wouldn't be repeated.

“Well, thanks for the ride,” she said, managing a smile.

He nodded, his expression unreadable, his features half shadowed in the dark.

She waited, wondering if he was going to say something, if she should hold out for a second before sliding out of the car. Instead, he reached over, his body leaning over the armrest that divided their bodies, his face coming to within inches of her own.

Sweet mother. He was going to kiss her. Her heart sped up as time slowed down and she watched as, for the second time, Brett's face inched closer to hers, and that beautiful mouth was so close to her lips that her body could only tighten and sizzle at the anticipation of his kiss.

Her mind was racing. Should she let him kiss her?

She was still frantically wrestling with this as his arm reached out, and she held her breath, panic now officially setting in.

She watched, in sobering realization, as he pulled the door latch. Cool summer-night air took the heat from her cheeks, all at once clearing her head.

“Well, good night,” she said through a tight smile, suddenly more eager to be on her way and out of this car than ever before. She needed space. She needed to be in her world. In her tiny apartment with all her favorite things and no reminders of Brett or his ridiculously handsome face. She wanted to forget the way her body reacted whenever he was near. The way she could lust for something she knew she couldn't have and shouldn't want.

“Wait.” His voice as soft as the hand on her leg. She looked down to see it sitting there, just above her knee, gentle and strong, warm on her skin. If he moved so much as a centimeter, she wasn't sure she would be able to control herself. Already, her nerves were on high alert, and a ripple of pleasure was stirring between her thighs.

She clenched her teeth.
He is not going to kiss you. So just stop thinking about it.

“Yes?” Damn, her voice was weak. She was barely controlling the strain of her body and the easy way it gave in to the slightest graze of his touch.

“Your car.” He cocked an eyebrow, and in the shadows of the darkness, his deep-set eyes looked devilish and inviting, like he was suggesting she do something she knew she shouldn't.

“My car.” She nodded, as if she followed, but all she could think about was that hand on her leg and how badly she wanted him to shift his thumb a little higher.

“Why don't I take a look at it tomorrow?” He pulled his hand back and leaned on the armrest.

Ivy frowned, trying to understand what he was saying. But one thing was glaringly clear. He was suggesting they see each other tomorrow. And as much as her body wanted to scream,
Yes, yes, yes,
her mind was saying,
No, no, no
.

“Tomorrow's my day off—”

“Perfect.”

Quickly, she said, “And I usually go to the flower market to get my inventory for the first half of the week.”

“What time do you go to the market?” His eyes seemed to dance in the glow of the lamppost.

Damn him. He wasn't making this easy on her.

She hesitated, and then thought,
To hell with it
. “Midnight.”

His chin dipped. “Midnight?”

She nodded miserably and chewed on her thumbnail. His roar of laughter filled the car, and no doubt half the quiet street through the half-open door.

“Then I sure as hell don't want you breaking down or being stuck unable to start the thing at midnight.” He shook his head. “How does noon sound?”

It sounded like a far cry from a dinner invitation, but Ivy refused to show her disappointment.

“That should work.” She started to slide out of the car and then stopped herself. “Thanks. I didn't know you knew anything about cars.”

He flashed her a wicked smile and set his hand on the gearshift. “I'm full of surprises.”

Ivy smiled weakly and closed the door behind her, wishing that Brett hadn't been so nice and that he wasn't sitting there, waiting for her to find her key and let herself into the building.

It would be so much easier if he could just stay the jerk she knew him to do be. Some of the time…

She struggled with the old lock that led to the dark, narrow staircase to her second-floor apartment, feeling his eyes on her back the entire time. When she finally heard it click, she turned and gave him one last wave, expecting him to use that opportunity to just peel off. It wasn't until she walked into her empty apartment and crossed to the swing-arm lamp near the big bay window that she realized he was still sitting there, waiting for her to flick on a light.

She did, and then watched as his car slowly pulled out of the parking space and made its way down Main Street, until it was so hidden by the eaves of the giant maple trees that she could no longer make out its taillights but only the soft purr of its engine.

Brett was right about thing. He certainly was full of surprises.

K
ara hung up the phone and squealed. She didn't even care that her windows were cracked open and that the neighbors could most certainly hear her over the soft morning drizzle that collected in her flower boxes. She did a happy dance around her apartment in beat with the pitter-patter of the rain she loved so much, knowing a big sloppy grin was plastered on her face and that there was very little that could wipe it off now. Her heart soared, and somehow, even the thought of going into that dreary little windowless office off the kitchen at Rosemary and Thyme seemed a little more palatable now that she had something to look forward to on her time off.

Gone were the days of baking just for fun or pleasure or to give her something to do on yet another dateless Friday night. She had a real goal now. Some might even call it a gig. Her cookies were going to be used as the party favors for the Forest Ridge Hospital fundraiser and she was… officially freaking out.

She tripped over her bright pink rain boots that she'd propped in her small entranceway and jerked herself upright. There was so much to do, so much to think about, so much to plan. She wasn't prepared, not for this. Brett said on their call that she should plan on making enough cookies for five hundred people. That made… She was so overwhelmed that she couldn't even do the math in her head. She grabbed a pen from the top drawer in her kitchen and did the division on a sheet of paper towel.

Her hand froze at the sum. Roughly forty-two dozen cookies. In her simple gas oven, with only two racks.

She glanced at her freezer. She supposed she could make them ahead and freeze them, but that wasn't exactly putting her best foot forward, and it certainly wasn't something Anna would ever do. No, she'd have to make them fresh. The night before the event. And if they baked for fifteen minutes each, that would be—she picked up the pen again—ten and a half hours.

So she just wouldn't sleep. Or she'd get up early.

Oh, who was she kidding? There was no way she was going to get a wink of sleep with this kind of anticipation.

Brett had raved about the cookies he'd sampled, so much so that she started wondering if Ivy had let on that they were hers all along. Brett was kind like that. But then he got off track, started talking about how the success of this event was so important, not just to the hospital but to him. She didn't really connect why, other than because he was always conscientious, always a perfectionist, really, because by then her mind was spinning and her heart was thumping, and she was trying to imagine her cookies, wrapped up all pretty, in a big basket…

The packaging would have to impress, she decided. She knew that her sister-in-law Grace always tsked when Kara reached for the prettiest cover on the display table at Main Street Books, but presentation was crucial. The only trouble was, what should her presentation be? A simple cookie wrapped in a cellophane bag and tied with twine was forgettable at best and did nothing for developing her brand.

Her brand. Was she really going to move forward with this? After all these months of experimenting in her kitchen, licking the bowls and taste-testing her creations, was she really ready to turn her hobby into something bigger? Something legitimate?

She thought of her days sitting at that little desk at the restaurant, while the sounds and smells of the kitchen wafted through the space under the door, and decided with certainty that yes, she most certainly was.

It was exciting. But it was also scary.

She picked up her tote and swung it over her shoulder. She was ten minutes late for coffee with the girls. Somehow, some way, she'd have to hold this information in for herself. But maybe, afterward, she'd get a few minutes to pick Ivy's brilliant brain.

The skip in Kara's step faded the moment she saw her mother's distinct figure through the paned glass window of Main Street Books. Kara hid under the shield of her umbrella, even though the morning rain had faded to a few random drops. She'd studiously dodged her mother for a week—a record, truly—and now she'd no doubt be peppered with questions about where she'd been, and what she'd been up to, and who had been keeping her so busy.

The dread that was forming a tight knot in her stomach only increased when she pushed open the door to the shop and spotted three of her mother's book club cohorts huddled around a table.

Kara propped her umbrella in the stand with the others and wiped her boots on the mat before venturing into the store. One of the girls Grace had hired to help cover a few shifts each week was standing behind the counter, deep in discussion about trends in children's literature as she rang up a few items. Soft classical music played in the background, fading in and out over the din from the adjacent café, and Kara closed her eyes for exactly three seconds to steady her nerves.

It's your mother
, she chastised herself firmly.
The woman who raised you.
The way she was acting, she was about to come face-to-face with her worst enemy. Really, she was building up the entire thing to be so much more than it was.

“Kara?”

Kara's eyes popped open. Managing a smile she no longer quite felt, she ducked her head around a stack of books and came face-to-face with four middle-aged women, who were staring at her with far too much interest.

“I thought that was you. Who else in town wears those hot pink rain boots?” Rosemary pinched her lips.

Kara glanced down at the knee-high Wellies. She wasn't sure whether to take the remark as an insult or a simple observation.

You like the boots, Kara. That's all that matters.

“How are you this morning, Mom?” She leaned over to give her mother a peck on the cheek. In return, Rosemary air kissed her, lest, Kara knew, her lipstick get smudged. Already the ceramic mug bearing the bookstore's logo was branded with her telltale color: Crazy for Crimson. The same shade she'd worn since Kara was old enough to pluck it from her handbag and try it out for herself. She'd used the entire tube on her face, her dolls' faces, her sister Molly's face… Luckily for her mother, Rosemary kept several gleaming silver tubes on hand. She was never, ever without Crazy for Crimson.

Once, Kara had asked what would happen if they discontinued the color, and that very day, Rosemary had made a pit stop on the way back from ballet class to buy the department store's entire inventory of her beloved color.

Kara felt her heart begin to soften. Honestly, she was being silly avoiding her mother like this.

“Your mother was just telling us how worried she was about you!” remarked Mrs. Nealon, Kara's old music teacher who, now retired, played live piano for the dance studio's advanced ballet classes, as well as every recital and performance.

Kara frowned at her mother. “Worried?”

“Well, I hadn't heard from you in at least a week. Maybe more like eight days. I started wondering if you may have gotten sick, but then someone mentioned they saw you at the gym, so there went that theory.”

“I—”

“I know, I know. You're twenty-eight years old and a grown woman. Whatever—or perhaps
whom
ever—has you so busy that you can't even call your own mother is your own
private
business.” Her eyebrows waggled as a slow smile formed at the corners of her ruby-red stained lips.

Kara felt her eyelids droop.
Yes, Mother, I didn't call you because I was having hot, passionate, mind-blowing sex and this is the first time I've been out of bed in a week.

She fought the urge to say just that, to quiet her mother once and for all, but instead shrugged and said, “I've been busy. I'm sorry.”

“Too busy for your
mother
?” The women exchanged disappointed looks.

Why was she always apologizing? She couldn't stop, no matter how much she tried. And really, while she hadn't called her mother in eight days, her mother hadn't picked up the phone either, so how was this all her fault?

“Well, maybe we can have coffee this week,” she suggested.

Her mother patted her hand. Her lips gave a little curl of satisfaction. “I'd like that.”

Kara looked to the back of the room, happy to spot Anna's unmistakable blond ponytail, and inched away. “Good. I'm looking forward to it,” she said. Even though she wasn't sure she was doing any such thing.

Brett sidled up to the counter and turned over his mug, grinning at the Hastings logo stamped on its side. He had been coming here since he was a kid, before his mom took over, before she'd even started putting in shifts under the original ownership to cover the stack of bills their dad had left behind.

“What will it be?” his mother asked.

“Coffee,” he said, watching as she filled the mug to the rim. He took it black, always did, and his mother always used the best beans. Smooth and rich. He took a long smell of the brew before taking his first sip.

On the days he worked, he stayed away from the stuff. Didn't need his hands shaking, even if it helped his mind stay sharp.

The best way to keep his mind clear was to stay present, in the moment, on the crisis at hand. Not one in the background, out of his control.

He eyed his mother. She was looking healthy. But still, the anxiety wouldn't go away. He'd already lost one parent. He couldn't lose two.

Mark came up from behind and thumped him on the shoulder before sliding onto the stool next to his. He turned over his mug and grinned at their mother.

“He doesn't even need to ask.” Sharon grinned. “What a sight. My two boys. Sitting here together, having breakfast. It doesn't happen often enough.”

Brett swallowed hard, but his pulse began to race. “Hey, Mark's the one pulling crazy hours at the restaurant.” But it was no use. Mark had stuck around, stayed in Briar Creek, been there for breakfasts and dinners and… the hard times. He knew it. They knew it. Even if they'd chosen not to make him feel bad about it, he did. “Why don't you join us?” Brett suggested, but their mother shook her head.

“Sunday mornings are the busiest time of the week. Now, let me guess. A Denver omelet for Mark and…” She paused slightly, and Brett shifted on his chair. It was subtle, and maybe he was reading too much into it, but her hesitation served as a reminder of how much he'd been away, how little his mother knew his present-day self.

“Chocolate chip pancakes for Brett.” She beamed, and Brett felt something in his chest crack open. Chocolate chip pancakes had been his favorite—once. But he was thirty years old now and his breakfasts usually consisted of some scrambled eggs on rye toast with a cup of coffee.

He picked up his mug and stared into the contents. She got the coffee right. As for the pancakes… He just couldn't correct her.

“Chocolate chip pancakes sound perfect, Mom.” He smiled against the knot in his stomach and she slid the order ticket under the service window.

“So, to what do I owe the invitation?” Mark asked, leaning into his elbows.

Brett bristled. “What, I can't invite my brother for breakfast?”

Mark looked at him like he was half crazy. “Relax, will you? It was a joke.”

“Sorry.” Brett rubbed a hand against his jaw and took another sip of his coffee. Good thing he wasn't on call today. “I'm just… on edge.”

“Forest Ridge's ER is keeping you that busy?” Mark cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Some days,” Brett said. But not enough days. He wasn't used to having most weekends off for starters. Two days with nothing to do was two days too many. “But I do have a favor to ask you.”

“Ha-ha! I knew it.” Mark grinned triumphantly.

“They've put me on the planning committee for the hospital fundraiser,” Brett started to explain, but Mark's guffaw silenced him.

“Wait,” Mark said when his laughter had died down. He covered his mouth, his eyes wide in wonder. “You're actually serious. I thought you were some hotshot doctor, not a party planner.” He began to laugh again.

“Very funny.” Brett scowled. “They like to have a physician head the event, make the introductions, talk about the silent auction and where this year's proceeds are going.”

“Sounds like an honor,” Mark admitted.

Brett hadn't thought of it quite that way. Burden, yes. Pain in the ass, certainly. One more thing in his life he didn't need? Absolutely. “I suppose it is an honor,” he said.

“Where's the money going this year?” Mark asked.

Brett tensed. He knew his brother was just being conversational, but he didn't want to get into the specifics of the event or the reasons behind his participation in it. He just wanted to ask Mark to cater. Scratch that item off the list.

“It's going to the new cancer research wing,” he said casually.

Silence stretched as both men reached for their mugs. It was a sore subject, one he knew Mark wrestled with just as much as he did, and as close as they were, they never talked about that time in their life directly. Some things were just too painful. Some things didn't need to be explained. But for Brett it ran deeper. He owed his brother. A lot. For being there when he couldn't. For postponing culinary school and putting off his plans of opening his own restaurant. All so Brett could pursue his dreams.

It hadn't been for nothing
, he told himself. Not entirely.

“Well, I can see why you'd want to roll up your sleeves,” Mark said, and Brett thought he detected an edge of bitterness in his tone. Though he'd never come out and said it, Brett couldn't help wondering if his brother resented staying back in town, sitting by their mother's side and taking over Hastings for so many years.

“How about a refill?” Their mother's smile was warm and generous as she finished up with another customer, and Brett felt the uneasy stir of guilt resurfacing.

You're here now
, he told himself. But for how long?