Better Than Chocolate (Sweet Somethings Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter 6

Conversations Over Dinner

Without knowing what to expect when I get to St. Croix, I only packed one cocktail dress snazzy enough for any high-end festivities leading up to Sadie’s wedding. The jersey dress, a bright cerulean blue, isn’t in my normal fashion plate, but Tess talked me into buying it for a fancy tasting event last year. After some consideration between the cocktail dress and a sundress patterned with white and red orchids, I decide on the blue. Strappy silver high-heeled sandals, intended for the wedding, and a thin white-gold chain clasped around my neck complete the outfit. Pressed for time, I give up on styling my unruly brown hair and let it fall free as it may.

Ryan knocks on the door just as I finish getting dressed. He looks like he’s grabbed a shower and shaved as well, trading in his shorts and ratty baseball hat for dress pants and a maroon button-down shirt.

“I’ll just be another second.” I hold the door open for him. “And I’m giving you fair warning, I’ll need to prop myself up on your arm if I have to navigate any stairs in these heels.”

He doesn’t say anything while I squeeze my cell phone and key card into the tiny silver clutch purse that matches my shoes. I catch him staring at me, eyebrows raised as he props against the open door, hands in his pockets.

There’s a strong possibility I missed a few cat hairs in my lint-brush attack prior to packing. “What?” I do a quick turn in front of the mirror. “Is there still a slight essence of Moxley?”

“No.” He steps away from the door, then leans one shoulder into it as it starts to swing shut. He blinks, shaking his head. “No, it’s fine.”

I glance down. The sweetheart neckline fits pretty tight across the bust, and the clingy fabric leaves little to the imagination. “I have a different dress.”

Ryan holds his hand out, almost tripping himself in an effort to keep the door open with one foot. “Really, no, you look great—fine. Great.”

My face relaxes into an easy smile. “Well, which is it?”

He shakes his head, gesturing me into the hallway with a grin. “You look fantastic, Carmella. You’re bound to break some hearts in St. Croix if you wear that dress.”

“Pfft.” I wave off the comment as we start toward the elevator. “You’re just trying to save face after that comment about my hips this afternoon.”

“
You
made the comment about your hips,” he reminds me. “
I
tried to compliment them.”

I jab one finger into his ribs. “You shouldn’t have replied at all. Have you learned nothing, young grasshopper?”

“I can hardly believe Sadie hasn’t picked out someone to set you up with,” he says as he presses the call button for the elevator.

His nonchalant tone surprises me, as it has for most of the past day and a half. I can’t figure it out. If I were in his shoes, I would be a blubbering mess of mascara and chocolate smears, surrounded by empty Snickers wrappers and Coke cans. What’s more, he keeps bringing the conversation back around to Sadie’s elopement, like he’s actually curious or something. For a while on the flight, I thought he might be seconds away from showing some anger, which would have said a lot about the breakup. Ryan is level-headed to the point of aggravation. Something really has to get under his skin for him to show any negative emotion.

Maybe the key to getting the full story out of him is riling him up. He must be pissed about Sadie running off to the Caribbean the way she did, even if he claims the breakup was mutual. They’ve known each other for almost nine years, six of those spent as a romantic couple.

Part of me wants to keep him talking, to get him complaining, and maybe opening up at last about what happened. Another part would rather leave it alone for now. But whether it’s for my sake or his, I can’t quite tell. Either way, I need to be careful and not try pushing his buttons too soon. Otherwise, he’ll completely clam up about everything.

With a ding, the elevator doors slide open to reveal the empty car, and Ryan follows me inside. “She has someone in mind for you, doesn’t she?”

His question pierces my musings, and I want to shake my head no. “What makes you think that?”

“Because she always does.” He hits the button for the lower lobby, then turns to effectively cut off my protest. “Every time you come to Atlanta for a visit, she sets you up with somebody. That guy from her work at Christmas, for example. Or the guy from my office in April. And don’t forget the string of jackasses she tried out during the two years you roomed with her after college.”

“She means well.” I can’t deny the blind dates and matchmaking attempts Sadie has made over the years. “She’s just not good at picking out guys who’d be a good fit for me.”

His silence is almost tangible as the elevator slows. “She doesn’t want you to be alone.”

I shrug and give him a grin. “She never got that I don’t mind being alone. I’m not lonely. I have Tess and work, and I have you guys.” With a mental slap, I shake my head. “
Had
you guys, I guess, is a better way to phrase it.”

“You still have both of us, Carmella.”

His fingertips brush the back of my arm, reassuring, and my eyes burn. Fortunately, we reach the hostess station at the restaurant entrance before I start crying. By the time the hostess shows us to our table, I regain my composure. Ryan pulls a chair out for me, and I ease onto the seat as smoothly as I can in my clingy dress and high heels.

“Anyway, you’re right. I think she’s planning to set me up with the best man.” I can’t say future brother-in-law out loud. If I’m going to get under his skin, it needs to be subtle. “But I have no intention of following through.”

“Not mildly curious?”

“Not mildly stupid.” I wait for him to sit down before perusing the menu. “I’m gonna take Tess’s advice to stand up for myself, and not let Sadie push me around on this trip.”

His frown puzzles me. “Isn’t the fact that you’re going a little contrary to that vow?”

I scan the list of salads before answering. “So you think I’m a pushover, too.”

He says nothing, and the implication bugs me. Ryan, of all people, understands why Sadie and I are friends. He’s the only person I never had to explain it to; the only one who never asked. Despite all her air-headed ideas and emphasis on appearance over substance, she’s always been there for me when it counted.

She picked me out of a crowd on registration day and showed me the ropes of our Georgia college town. When my grandfather died and I was stuck hundreds of miles from home, with no way to get back in time for the funeral services, she arranged for her dad to get me as far as the Newark airport when he was traveling to Manhattan on business. After college, with nothing in the landscape resembling a paying career for a newly-minted historian, she convinced her grandmother to let me cook and clean for her. And then, after she moved to Atlanta, she found me a temp job at her marketing office and let me rent her extra bedroom for far less than it was worth.

Ryan knows all this, and knows how she cried and pleaded with me to stay in Atlanta, instead of moving to Savannah to work for Tess and chase opportunities as a museum curator. He was the one who convinced me to do it, knew I needed to do it. They both promised to save space for me whenever I wanted to visit. I couldn’t see myself ever going home to New York, but Sadie and Ryan had my back in Georgia. I would be okay on my own in Savannah.

He reaches across the table and covers my hand. “You’re not a pushover. Sadie’s damn lucky to have a friend like you.”

My smile wobbles a bit, and the waiter’s appearance to take our drink order provides a much needed shift in focus. Once the waiter moves on, Ryan closes his menu and rests one elbow on the table, propping his chin in his palm.

“So, how’s Tess these days?”

“Oh, Tess is Tess. Assertive and driven as ever. She’s had some good luck the past couple months with weddings and other events around the Historic District.” I give him a quick rundown of the highlights, capping it off with the Telfair Academy shindig we catered a couple weeks ago. I can’t help sneaking in the tidbit about my lemon squares.

The waiter returns with our drinks and disappears with our dinner order.

“Sounds like you’re getting some experience under your belt for when you start your own business,” Ryan says.

Instead of answering, I take a tentative sip of my white Zinfandel.

He leans back, studying me. “Okay, you’ve talked about opening a bakery before. What’s with the avoidance?”

The stemware clinks against the edge of my bread plate as I set it down. “Yeah, I’ve talked about it. Just like people talk about climbing Mount Everest when there’s no possibility of it ever happening. I love baking, but the business end of the idea doesn’t appeal to me at all.”

“You never mentioned that part.”

I shrug, dipping one fingertip into my water goblet and running it around the rim of my wine glass. “Nobody ever asks, honestly. I keep making comments about not having startup money or the right marketing savvy, and everyone just assumes I’m being modest or timid.”

“Ever thought about going into business with Tess, as her partner? Hasn’t she wanted to expand the bakery for a while now?”

The wine glass sings as my fingertip makes one final orbit. “Yeah. She’d like to offer breakfast and lunch during the week, maybe brunch on the weekends. It would mean either finding a bigger retail space or renovating her current location, hiring more staff . . .” I wipe my finger on my linen napkin. “I don’t know if she’s got the resources to make that happen.”

“So, what do you want to do? I mean, long term plans. Working for Tess pays the bills. But what do you really want to do with your life?”

“Really?” I lower my voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “I want to get a Master’s degree in history and land a job with the Georgia Historical Society.” I spread my hands on the pristine white tablecloth. “Something that will let me research and educate. With time to work at Tess’s bakery on the side. That’s what I really want to do.”

He lets out a short whistle. “Well, then. Why don’t you do it?”

I select a warm roll from the basket in the center of the table and sit back. “Again, money is the biggest issue. Graduate school carries a higher price tag than undergraduate work. You know that, you already have a master’s degree.” A glob of butter clings to my knife as I point it at him. “Which you do nothing with, by the way.”

Our salads arrive and Ryan twirls his salad fork between his fingers for a moment. “My firm doesn’t get much call for historic preservation. The conference I’m here for is the first chance in, oh, three years to work that angle. But I guess you could say civil engineering pays the bills, so I don’t worry about the historic preservation so much.”

Something in his tone tips me off. Have I sniffed out the edge of the breakup iceberg? “And we need to pay the bills.”

It’s not time to play super sleuth, so I get him talking about his conference over the main course. Ryan’s eyes light up, his gestures growing animated, as he talks about the lessons in urban management when historic districts are at play. We get into the nitty-gritty details of some of the sites the conference attendees have to deal with, and while the civil engineering aspect is beyond me, I revel in sharing the history as we dig two spoons into a chocolate-free dessert. We’re both a little euphoric when the waiter brings the bill, and we argue over whether to charge the meal to my room or put it on his corporate card.

“Let me,” he says, actually plucking my key card out of my hand. “I asked you to dinner, it’s my treat. Well, the firm’s treat. You get the idea.”

“You paid for lunch and the forbidden chocolate ice cream,” I protest.

“Which we’ll work off with a walk on the beach.” The waiter returns with Ryan’s credit card. He signs the bill and stands, holding one hand out to me. “There might be steps. I’m ready to prop you up.”

Chapter 7

One Side of the Story, Sort Of

I manage to navigate the pool deck and terrace in my high heels, but before heading out onto the beach, we stash our shoes, Ryan’s socks, and my clutch purse in one of the complimentary lockers near the changing rooms. After we acquire our reentry armbands, Ryan rolls his pant legs up to his knees and his sleeves to his elbows, then we venture out.

Though almost two hours have passed since sundown, the sand still radiates heat from the day onto the soles of our feet. We turn left and meander between the resort fences and the surf, lights from the hotels shifting in the water and providing just enough illumination to show our path. I twist my hair and hold it over one shoulder in an attempt to keep it subdued in the land breeze, and Ryan shoves his hands deep in his pockets. We plod along in silence for a while.

“Will you be okay flying by yourself tomorrow?” he finally asks. The hotel lights cast fleeting highlights on his cheekbones. His eyebrows are lowered again, and his jaw looks stiff, like he’s clenching his teeth.

I slide my bare feet through the sand. “Yeah. It’s only like a thirty-minute flight.”

“But it’s a puddle jumper. Turboprop.”

Great. “I guess I’ll have to introduce myself to my seatmate and apologize in advance.”

He steers me around a gelatinous mass on the tideline that looks a little like a jellyfish. “I don’t have any meetings until one tomorrow. I can go with you to the airport.”

Frowning, I gaze out at the stars winking above the ocean as clouds dissipate. A full moon hangs in the sky, halfway between the horizon and its zenith, its silver light washing over the beach. “You don’t need to.”

His hand trails down my arm, brushing my fingers before he lets go. There’s been a lot of lingering contact the past couple days, as if he’s trying to reassure himself, and me, that we still have a connection. He’s always been a little touchy-feely with me, less so since he and Sadie got serious and hardly at all after they got engaged. Sadie’s not the touchy-feely sort.

“Maybe I want to.” He sounds lost. “Maybe I’d rather ask you to stay here.”

I grab his sleeve and pull him to a stop. “Stay here?”

“Maybe I don’t want you to go to St. Croix. Wouldn’t it be better if, I don’t know, you stayed here for the next week? We can go sightseeing, drink rum on the beach, just hang out.” He shrugs. “You know. Like we used to. Before.”

Before he and Sadie became an item. Even after they got together, there was never any question over Ryan and me hanging out. Best friends don’t put those conditions on each other. Still, it wasn’t quite the same.

But he’s asking me to choose between him and Sadie now, and I can’t do it. “I’m committed to going. Sadie’s expecting me, I can’t let her down.”

He rubs one hand over his face, heaving a breath. “I know. Maid of honor. That’s you in a nutshell.” He shakes his head. “No, you’re right. You should go.”

I press my palm against his shoulder for a second. “She didn’t have to ask me. She could have asked her sister—and I’m not sure why she didn’t.”

“Because she wants you there. Haven’t you two been planning your weddings since, like, the minute you met each other? She’s always wanted you to stand up with her. Even when―” He breaks off, an odd sound catching in his throat. The rest of his sentence hangs in the air, unspoken but heard.

Even when Sadie planned to marry him.

If anything is going to be said, it needs to happen now. He’s cracking.

“Ryan,” I venture. “I know you said it was a long-time coming, and it was mutual. But what happened?”

His stillness, the way his eyes glitter in the moonlight, unnerves me. “I wish her the best, I really do. I tried to make Sadie happy, but it was never going to work. Our relationship got to be a habit.”

I could ask why, could prompt him for more, but I summon all my patience and wait for him to continue.

“We wanted different things, had different expectations in the end. I wanted to renovate our house. She wanted to move back into downtown Atlanta. She doesn’t want to have kids. Well, that’s not quite it. She’d consider adopting, but not babies. I’m not against adoption, but I’d like kids of my own, too. She came right out and said she never wants to get pregnant.”

He pauses, his throat working. My palm itches to touch him again, but I busy my fingers in the hair hanging over my shoulder instead. I didn’t know all this, and I should have.

“I couldn’t give Sadie the life she wants. I make good money. But she doesn’t want to work if she doesn’t have to. Her marketing degree is for show. She’d quit her job in a heartbeat if I made enough money.”

“Hold on.” I have to stop him here. “Sadie’s not that shallow. She wouldn’t leave you for something that superficial.”

“She wants the lifestyle her parents had before they got divorced. Exotic vacations, expensive furniture, a certain social standing.”

“Just because her parents have money―”

He holds up one hand, cutting me off. “Sadie’s
mother
has money. The Berkley side of the family is rooted in old Georgia wealth. Sadie wants cotillions and country clubs, not backyard barbecues and trivia night at the local pub.” He shoves his hands into his pockets again, his voice tinged with hurt and a little resentment. “You know what her grandma Berkley called me? An upstart Yankee interloper.”

Grandma Berkley’s the one whose house I once cleaned. “She always seemed to like me.”

“Well, you weren’t engaged to Sadie.” He digs his heel into the sand, building a sort of redoubt between us. “It was worse after her parents got divorced. That’s part of why she and her sister aren’t really on speaking terms right now, by the way. Kate sided with their dad, and she’s pissed at Sadie. Called her a few names at the Berkley family reunion.”

At least now I know why Kate Miller wasn’t invited to the wedding. “But you and Sadie have known each other for almost a decade. I know she’s not the worldliest person, but she’s not that elitist. She wouldn’t leave you just because you didn’t measure up to her family’s old money expectations.”

“I told you it wasn’t simple.” He turns slightly away from me, away from the moon, his face falling into shadow again. “We were fighting a lot. Not shouting matches, not that kind of fighting. Just nagging at each other, stupid things getting blown out of proportion.”

I let go of my hair at last, not caring if the wind whips it into snarls. “But when I visited in April, everything seemed so normal.”

“That’s because it’s what we wanted you to see.” He takes a few steps toward the ocean. “I didn’t have a project at work that week. I stayed away on purpose when I could. I didn’t want you to notice―”

“You didn’t want me to notice how bad things had gotten,” I interrupt, finishing his thought. I shake my head, hugging my arms around myself. “But when you proposed at Christmas, didn’t you . . . Was it already falling apart?”

He turns back to me. There isn’t enough light from the hotels to see his face anymore. “It was pretty much broken by then.”

“And you still asked her to marry you?”

He glances down the beach, back the way we came, and his profile stands in silhouette against the moonlit waves. “It was a last ditch effort to prove I was willing, that I was in it for the long haul. The only reason she said yes was because I proposed in front of everybody. You were more excited than she was. She didn’t even like the ring.”

“I thought it was beautiful,” I murmur.

“I know you did.”

For a moment, only the surf foaming on the sand behind him breaks the silence, along with the distant rhythms of a band from a hotel a half-mile down the beach, the rustle of palm trees along the resort properties, and the chirps of hidden coquí tree frogs.

I tighten my hands on my upper arms. “But . . . You loved each other.”

“Not the right way. We were never together for the right reasons.” The finality of his words signals that there’s more to the story, but I won’t get anything else out of him.

A hard, horrible pain wells up to choke me. I cover my face with my hands and turn away, taking a few stumbling steps. This can’t be right. I thought if Ryan explained what happened, it would make sense. But it doesn’t. I understand every word he’s said—I comprehend it all—but it’s just wrong.

His hands close over my shoulders, then his arms wrap around me, pulling me close. Without thinking, I wind my arms around his waist and bury my face in his chest. I’m not exactly crying yet, but my body shakes.

“Carmel-cakes.”

“I’m going to lose you.”

He takes a handful of my hair, tugging gently until my cheek, instead of my forehead, is against his chest. “Say that again?”

I swallow, willing my voice to steady before I repeat myself. “I’m going to lose both of you.”

“No.” His arms tighten. “No, you won’t.”

“Ryan, be logical. Sadie’s moving to St. Croix and has this whole new life, and―”

“You be logical,” he orders. Echoes of the Marines. “Sadie isn’t going to drop you from her life. You underestimate how much she loves you.”

“And what about you?”

He’s silent for a second or two. “Maybe I’ll put the house up for sale and move to Savannah. I’d be closer to you if I did that.”

“Oh, come off it,” I scoff, but my voice quivers with tears.

“I can deliver cakes for Tess.”

He’s trying to joke about this? “Your career, your whole life is in Atlanta.”

“Maybe that’s not important enough to me anymore.”

I should protest, should tell him he’d be stupid to uproot himself because of all that’s happened. But my voice stops working, and I don’t know why. In the end, he wouldn’t really do it, even though he’s always professed a certain adoration for my adopted hometown. Ultimately, he would suck it up, maybe sell the house, but continue on as usual without complaining.

After a few minutes, the urge to wail like a thwarted baby passes, and I relax against him. He rests his chin on the top of my head, swaying to the unpredictable ebb and flow of the foaming breakers. The movement calms me, and I close my eyes with a grateful sigh. He gathers my hair and lifts the whole, tangled mass of it, resting his hand at the nape of my neck. His fingers caress, a touch so fleeting I barely notice it.

“Carmella.”

There’s a note in his voice I don’t understand, and my defenses flare. With a deep breath to steel myself, I push away from him, thankful the shadows hide both our faces.

“We should head back. I want to get to the airport early tomorrow, give myself enough time to prepare for the Turboprop.”

He nods and puts a good two feet between us as we start back to the hotel. We don’t say anything after we gather our shoes and my purse from the locker and rinse the sand from our feet in the spigot by the beach gate. To my relief, his face is calm in the soft light around the pool deck. No traces of the hurt we’ve dredged up, or that weird tone in the way he said my name a little while ago. By the time we get on the elevator, everything seems to be back to normal.

We stop at the main lobby and Ryan steps out.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

He glances around, leaning against the doors to keep them from sliding shut. “I’m gonna head down to the lounge, have a beer before I hit the hay.”

“Do you want company?” The words come out of my mouth automatically.

With an apologetic smile, he shakes his head. “No, that’s okay. I’ll meet you down here for breakfast at seven and take you to the airport.”

“You don’t need to, really.”

“I want to. Really.” He reaches out, slinging his arm around my neck, almost a head-lock, and leaves a smacking kiss on the top of my head. “Sleep tight, Carmel-cakes.”

My mouth hangs open as he steps back, letting the doors slide between us. I barely have time to say goodnight before they shut completely.

Last night’s weirdness is gone when Ryan meets me for breakfast in the hotel lobby in the morning. I attribute my share in its absence to my exhausted, half-zombie state. Between attempting to order Sadie’s wedding gift and nervousness over flying alone in a Turboprop plane, I didn’t get much sleep. Worst of all, that stupid platter she wanted was already purchased by the time I got my phone’s web browser to connect. I hate going empty-handed to events where gifts are expected.

Before I know it, the checkout process is complete, and Ryan bundles me, my luggage, and a small travel cup of coffee into a cab. He’d also grabbed a couple pre-packaged bagels and pastries from the a la carte breakfast bar, and now he shoves a paper bag with these goodies into my hand as the taxi pulls up to the airport.

“Don’t buy anything from the terminal restaurants,” he advises. “It’s over-priced.”

I nod, draining the last caffeine-laden, life-giving swig of coffee from my cup. Tucking the snacks into my messenger bag, I wheel my way to the ticketing counter. Ryan is still waiting for me when I finish checking my luggage, and I wave my boarding pass at him like a flag of triumph.

“See, I’ll be fine.”

He grins, hands shoved into the pockets of his khaki shorts as usual, and accompanies me to the security area. He stops, putting one hand on my arm. “Hey, listen. I don’t know if it’ll come up or not, but . . . Tell Sadie I said best wishes.”

“Then I’ll have to explain how we ran into each other, and how you told me the whole story . . .” Well, most of it.

“It might not even come up.” He lifts his baseball hat and scratches the back of his head. “The wedding’s on Saturday night?”

“On the private-est private beach, owned by the swankiest of swanky hotels in St. Croix.”

He smirks, settling his hat again. “You’ll be fine.”

After a brief hesitation, he scoops me up in the patented Wutkowski Bear Hug, lifting me off my feet and squeezing the air out of my lungs. But instead of putting me right back down, he holds me for a moment, my toes almost eight inches off the floor. I have no choice but to cling to his shoulders.

“Email me when you get back to Georgia, okay? I’ll come down to Savannah some weekend, and you can give me an insider’s tour of Fort Pulaski.” He’s asked before, and I’ve offered before, but Sadie always squelched the idea.