Wounded Wings (Cupid Chronicles) (3 page)

Chapter 4

A week after Delaney’s accident, Naomi stared off into space as the Hobart Industrial mixer did its work on the vanilla bean cake batter. The whir of the beaters melded with the fat raindrops spattering against the windows to lull her as Frank Sinatra crooned from the radio in the corner. Vi had won their last rock, paper, scissors battle for control over the stereo, and this morning, even though she was alone, Naomi didn’t have the heart to change it. The melody suited the weather.

It also explained Vi’s achy knees this morning. So Naomi had plied her with an Aleve and told her to take it easy today. It wasn’t easy getting Vi to relax, and if she was honest, it broke Naomi’s heart a little that the only mother she’d ever known was growing old. She sometimes wondered if Vi and Paul regretted not being able to have biological children, only taking in her, the troubled, abused foster child that she was. If so, they never said it.

She frowned and shoved those thoughts aside as she got back to work and mentally went over the day’s orders, including the diner’s. Especially the diner’s. It was a particularly small order; nothing really. Come to think of it, Sharla’s orders had been steadily dwindling this past week. Vi had been taking the basket of goods over the past few days and hadn’t said anything. Had something changed? Naomi mulled over that as she got the cake in the oven and prepared turtle brownies and banana nut muffins for the rest of the day. By the time she was individually wrapping them for the miniscule diner order, she had half a head of steam going.

Anxiety, irritation, and fear for Vi’s business churned in her gut like a roiling ocean with a nasty storm brewing overhead. How could Sharla do this to them? Was her business suffering? It was sure packed everyday just as always.

Well, only one way to find out.

Naomi packed up her baked goods, bundled her hair back into a ponytail, and made a beeline for the diner to find out what the heck was going on.

The minute she yanked open the diner’s glass door, the thought hit her that something was amiss. She stood in the doorway and peered around trying to figure out what was different.

All the regulars sat at their normal seats. Sam Fuller smiled at her over his cup of coffee, wearing his usual baby blue plumber’s shirt that he’d worn for the last twenty-something years he’d owned his business.

Dr. Gage Arrington was tucked into a corner booth trying to eat a quiet breakfast of fruit and oatmeal, but was obviously being barraged by an elderly patient with her ailments—and taking it with a tolerant smile. He glanced over at her and gave a small wave.

Maura zipped by with a tray full of divine-looking Belgian waffles topped with whipped cream and strawberries. Definitely not New Destiny Diner’s usual fare. Even the coffee had a different scent, more expensive and definitely not Folgers. And she liked the Folgers.

But, overriding it all, her baker’s nose caught something else. A delicate blend of sugar, cream, vanilla . . . She inhaled appreciatively.

And then the full bakery case caught her eye.

Oh, hell no.

She hastily shoved her basket onto the front counter as she rushed to the case and pressed her fingers to the glass, taking in the admittedly fine display. The arrangement was like something out of a magazine. Fine French pastries filled the shelves. Fruit tarts, croissants, something decadently chocolate . . . and were those crème puffs?

Where had all this come from? Was there was a new bakery in town?

Her heart sank as she realized she and Vi couldn’t possibly compete with this. How dare they? Whoever
they
were? Was this who Beau had mentioned the other day? Surely not. Vi’s Sweet Spot had been supplying the New Destiny Diner with their baked goods for the better part of the past quarter century. Just because some hoity-toity French schmuck wanted to blow into town and wow everyone with their fancy pastries didn’t mean they’d go down without a fight.

She tugged her sleeves back down and lifted her basket again. She had a bakery to keep going and a magazine article to think about. Nobody, certainly no fly-by-night, frou-frou baker, was going to take that from them.

She was just about to go find Sharla when Beau came strolling in wearing street clothes instead of his Sheriff’s uniform. “Hey, beautiful.” He chucked her under the chin and hefted the basket from her. “Kinda light today?”

She frowned. “Don’t remind me.”

He glanced at the display case that had quickly become the bane of her existence and laughed. “Eli putting you out of business?”

“Eli?”

He tipped his chin toward the kitchen. “The new cook I told you about? You telling me you haven’t been by to check it out yet? His food is the talk of the town. He’s awesome.”

Her eyes tracked Maura as she removed a strawberry tart from the case and served it to one of the corner tables.

She ignored whatever Beau was saying as she waited for the most important part . . .
wait for it
. . .
wait for it
. . . the customer finally picked up her fork and took that first bite.

And her face said it all. It was heavenly. Damn it.

Vi’s was doomed.

She turned to Beau. “He’s gotta go.”

“What?”

She spun on her heel before the adrenalin stopped spurting through her veins and marched to the kitchen. Rational thought raced to catch up to her instinctual reaction to protect what was hers. When it finally got there, she tamped it down viciously. She had nothing to lose.

Screw it.

Well, technically, this Eli person had screwed it for her.

She slammed open the swinging kitchen door, satisfied when it hit the wall with a resounding thud. The usual odors of old grease and raw meat no longer permeated the place. Instead, it smelled freshly washed. Chopped strawberries lay on a board near the sink and sizzling bacon was popping under a heat lamp.

At the large industrial stove, a man—must be
Eli,
she thought with a smirk—turned to her, not seeming all that surprised by her thunderous entrance.

Great. Eli was hot. Tall, longish, cinnamon brown hair—very ‘I’m-sexy-and-I-don’t-know-it’ in an understated, Henry Cavill-esque way. Damn. Well, that didn’t matter when he was threatening every plan she had for the success of the bakery.

“Hello,” he said simply. But his chocolate-brown eyes were wary, as if he was waiting to be found guilty of a crime.

Which, she reminded herself as she wanted to soften just looking at him, he was. Guilty. She let the door swing closed behind her, the air whooshing against her back rustling her ponytail. “You Eli?”

He nodded.

“Great,” she mumbled to herself. “Well, I’m Naomi. I run the bakery next door with Vi?”

He ignored that. At least the introductions were out of the way.

She glanced over as a timer dinged and saw the neatly lined up
petit fours
behind him. Renewed emotion surged through her, ending with tears springing to her eyes, which she flippin’ hated. She wiped them away with a vicious hand. “You’re the one filling the bakery case out there?” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder.

“Yes.” Again he nodded as he slid a divine-looking quiche from the oven. “Sharla hired me to cook.” He glanced up at her briefly. “So I cook.”

She rolled her eyes. “You cook.” She paced. “
You cook?”
she repeated as she began to get more agitated. No. Irate was more like it.

“Yes.” He moved back to stir something at the stove, oblivious to her turmoil.

She wanted to throttle him.

“Do you have any idea . . .?” She stopped pacing as emotion choked her. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

He continued with what he was doing without turning around.

Had he even heard her?

Finally, he tilted his head and spoke. “I don’t believe I’ve committed a wrong.”

Committed a wrong? He sounded like
he
needed to just plain be committed. She took a breath. “Look. I realize you’re new to town. Maybe you don’t understand how it’s always been done here. But, Vi and I have always provided the baked goods for the diner. The cook here does the
cooking
, we do the
baking
. That’s how it goes.”
Comprende
, bucko?

He pivoted and started slicing his quiche, exposing melting cheese and tons of finely chopped mushrooms and spinach. It was enough to make her mouth water.
Jerk
. “Well . . . I think, for now at least, that’s not how things will be. The people like my desserts and Sharla has asked me to make them.” His words had a ring of finality to them that made her heart clench.

Silence thundered through the room as she tried to fathom what he was saying.

She got nothing.

Then, without a thought, she picked up the closest thing she could find—which just so happened to be a plastic bowl full of chocolate batter—and hurled it with as much force as she could muster. Right at his head.

The rational part of her brain kicked in to filter the thought, telling her that was probably a bad idea. Too late.

The bowl grazed his temple then clattered into the industrial-sized steel fridge behind him and fell to the floor, sluicing him with thick, chocolate batter. The entire left side of his head and face was covered as it dripped down his neck in an oozing brown river like lava. And, she had to admit, it smelled fantastically rich. What she wouldn’t give for a taste. Damn.

Neither one of them spoke as he blinked at her in stunned disbelief.

A moment later, Sharla rushed in, obviously having heard the commotion. She stopped short when she spotted the chocolate-coated Eli. “Oh, my. What in the world . . .?”

Naomi winced as Sharla turned wide eyes to her. She had no idea what to say. She’d been overcome. But, really . . .

Eli reached for a towel and started wiping his cheek.

Sharla poked her head out the door and called for someone then whirled back to them. “So, are you two going to tell me what all this is about?”

Eli bent down and picked up the offending bowl, placing it on the counter with an accusatory glare, but he didn’t say a word.

Naomi’s anger dissipated as she realized she may have just effectively killed all business with the diner for good in a childish tantrum. Her dreams withered a bit more in her chest. She faced Sharla with what she hoped were repentant eyes. “I’m sorry. Totally my fault.”

Sharla’s eyes flicked over to Eli momentarily as he dropped the towel to the counter. “Oh, I’d love to hear this. Lemme guess. The bowl
slipped
from your hand?”

“Uh . . .”
Halfway across the room and onto his head? Right.
“Not exactly.” Naomi cringed. Her voice actually squeaked.

Sharla waited patiently, her hip cocked to one side, her face growing more impatient with each passing millisecond.

Maura swung in, her usual hustle invading the uncomfortable silence. “Hey, Eli, the good doctor
loved
your new tarts, he said . . .” She stopped mid-thought and took in the three of them, her expression growing more and more curious, until she got to Eli. She stifled a gasp, which morphed into a giggle, then quickly grabbed the extra plate she’d obviously come for and spun around without muttering a word, the door swinging closed behind her like an accusation.

Time to bite the bullet and get this over with. Naomi faced Sharla head-on and sucked in a breath, her chest feeling like it was full of lead. “I let my temper get the best of me. I’m sorry. I’ll clean up the mess.”

“How could you lose your temper with Eli? He’s so quiet and helpful, and he’s just about the best chef and baker I’ve ever met.” Sharla smiled as she spoke and gazed at Eli like he hung the moon.

Naomi sighed. “That’s just the problem, Miss Sharla.”

“What problem?”

The
petit fours
on the counter caught her eye again and she’d swear they mocked her. “Those.” she pointed. “All of it. We can’t compete with that,” she finally admitted at Sharla’s look of bewilderment. “I guess I got a little protective of all that Vi has worked for all these years and her relationship with the diner, and
he
didn’t seem to understand it.” She hung her head in shame. “My actions were unprofessional and uncalled for. I’m sorry.” She peeked up. “To both of you.” She hoped she looked like she meant it.

“Oh, darlin’,” Sharla crooned as she moved to wrap her arms around her. “I had no idea. I never thought of that. I just got so excited when Eli started cranking out those little bits of Heaven that I didn’t give a thought to what that’d do to Vi’s business or our agreement to buy our sweets from y’all. Now I feel like a heel.” She peered over at Eli who still stood silent with batter now drying and caking in his hair. “But why didn’t you just come to me, honey? Why toss all that perfectly good dark chocolate on my chef?”

Naomi shrugged. “I guess I’d hoped we could work out an arrangement if he understood how things have always been around here.” She sniffled. Darn it, she hadn’t meant to start crying. “But he’s obviously got a better product and I understand that business is business.” And, man, she hated to admit that someone was a better baker. Vi’s recipes had always been the crème de la crème, pun intended, around these parts.

“Oh, sugar—”

They were interrupted as one of the biggest men Naomi had ever seen came in lugging a large tub full of dirty dishes. Nearly as tall as the doorway and about as wide, he was as intimidating a man as she’d ever seen. If he hadn’t been smiling like he’d just won the lottery and he wanted to share it with her, she’d probably have mistaken him for some kind of hit man muscle or motorcycle gang member and run screaming in the other direction.

The big man set the tub down and grinned at Eli. “What happened to you?”

“She did,” he answered, staring directly at Naomi.

The new guy just laughed like it was the greatest joke he’d ever heard. Finally, his mirth subsided and he extended a meaty hand to her. “Name’s Michael. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”