Sugar Rush (12 page)
He opened the screen door and gently turned the doorknob, deciding entry without knocking was the only way to be certain he’d gain entrance at all. It was the one risk he had to take, but the only one he’d take. This time.
He quietly pushed the door open and was immediately assaulted with the sound of unidentifiable music—if you could call it that—crashing and cascading about the small interior of her kitchen.
He slipped inside, thinking with the music so loud, he’d wave, or do something to get her attention, so he didn’t scare her half to death like last time. When he finally spied her, he found himself pausing, the door still only half closed behind him.
She was wearing her Gateau chef coat again. Only that wasn’t why he paused. And was smiling.
She was dancing.
Her hair was up in a twisted, messy knot on the back of her head, a pastry bag in her hand, and more racks of cupcakes lining every table in front of her than anyone should ever have to face. At least all at once. Had he not been so entranced by the vision of her hips shimmying while she shook her shoulders to the beat at the same time, he’d have wasted at least a second or two wondering how on earth she could find even a sliver of creative satisfaction in mass producing such unexciting little bits of cake. But every last ounce of his attention was riveted on her.
He really should let her know he was standing there. It was a train wreck, really—or a cupcake wreck at best—simply waiting to happen, the moment she swiveled around and saw him. But ... who knew she could move like that? So sinuously, and ... and ... hip thrusty. And then, heaven help him, she actually started singing.
Had she been all off key and off pitch, it would have jerked him out of his momentary fascinated state. But no. No. She further slayed him by wholeheartedly belting out, in a gravelly voice worthy of the best girl rocker from any era, the refrain of whatever godforsaken tune was pulsing out of the small portable stereo perched on one of the shelves across the room.
While he thought the music quite atrocious ... her singing was not. In fact ... where on earth did that voice come from? Where did any of it come from? She was his quiet, calm, center-of-the-storm partner in chaos. Or she had been.
“Who are you?”
He hadn’t realized he’d spoken out loud until she spun around, halfway through miming a decidedly erotic air guitar riff on her pastry bag. Her accompanying growl shifted to a choked scream of surprise. Simultaneously, and—he hoped—inadvertently, her shock caused her to squeeze her pastry bag rather indelicately, resulting in him being the dead-on target for a steady stream of chocolate buttercream frosting, which hit him square in the chest. A chest not covered by a chef’s jacket, but by a rather expensive tailored linen shirt. White linen, in fact. Or it had been.
“What on earth are you—” She broke off and went over to slap, rather indelicately if you asked him, the button on the top of the stereo, mercifully silencing the small kitchen.
“Oh, thank God,” he murmured, before thinking better of it.
“I beg your pardon? In fact, I beg a lot of things. First of all, why do you keep doing that? Who do you think you are? You don’t just come into my place unannounced, especially through my back door.”
“Perhaps you should keep it locked,” he said, somewhat absently. He was still holding his arms slightly out to the side, looking at the glob of chocolate cream presently oozing down his chest.
“Perhaps you should leave. Looks like you need to go change shirts.”
“It was a good shirt.” He looked up to find her glaring, pastry bag still held at the ready. “Though I suppose I deserved it for startling you”—he smiled, just a little—“again.”
“You suppose?” She arched her eyebrow. His charm was clearly not working on her.
“You’re right, I should have announced myself, and I planned to. Just as soon as I let myself in.” He lifted a hand to stall her retort. “I own up to that, but I wasn’t certain you’d invite me in. I did take that one small liberty, then I was going to say hullo straight off, but there was loud music—if you can call it that—and you were—well, you were dancing.”
“I’m sorry, does that violate a health code I’m unaware of?”
“Of course not, it was just ... unexpected. You never once danced in my kitchen. Not so much as a hip wiggle. Much to my dismay, now that I’ve seen an example of it.”
She didn’t so much as crack the tiniest smile.
He lowered his arms and sighed. “I’ve managed to muck this all up again, haven’t I? I swear, that was not my intent.”
“Well, gosh, I should hope not. What was your intent?”
“To talk to you. Privately. Not in front of your customers this time.”
“About?”
“When did you get so—”
“Didn’t we have this conversation already once?”
“Yes. But I don’t understand it now any better than I did then. I—you were always calm, and kind, and ... well, cheerful. I’m really not trying to provoke you, but I’ve seen you under some exceedingly dire levels of stress, and your usual response was to simply get calmer, and more cheerful, which was always to me the oddest thing, but, for you, it worked. And it worked for me. Now you’re ... impatient. And short, and abrupt. It’s just ... so not at all like you. Is there something going on with the shop? Are you struggling?”
“When you came in, if you recall, I was happy. Upset, stressed out, angry people aren’t usually singing and dancing.”
“Fair point.” He looked down at his shirt again, swiped a dollop of buttercream onto his finger, and looked back at her. “So, it’s just me then? Who provokes this response from you?”
“Pretty much.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the only thing in my world at the moment that doesn’t make me feel like singing or dancing.”
He’d slid his buttercream covered finger into his mouth, but paused, his expression going slack. Along with his shoulders. Because, if he didn’t know any better, and he did, she was being quite sincere. He licked his finger clean, then quietly said, “I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“How else am I supposed to feel, Baxter? You come here, planning to turn my life into a small circus, without warning. I came here for the quiet, for the calm I don’t have to create myself. It just exists around me, naturally, all by itself. All I have to do is enjoy it, embody it, wallow in it. If I’d wanted to live with the circus, I’d have stayed in New York.”
“This is quite amazing, you know,” he said, taking another small lick from his shirt. “What’s in it?”
“Baxter—”
“I’m sorry. No,” he added, when he thought she might plaster him again. “I am. But it’s just ... I wasn’t expecting to taste something with such—”
“Complex flavors? Why? Because I’m just decorating cupcakes? After all, only peasants eat cupcakes and what would they know about a good flavor profile? Wow, that’s insulting on so many levels I don’t know where to begin. So I won’t. Get out.”
“Leilani—”
“Out. Of my shop. Of my life.”
He sighed again, with a little swearing under his breath thrown in for good measure. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Are you telling me that you looked at that table full of cupcakes and thought, ‘wow, what a delightful, inventive creative use of her talent?’ ”
“That you’re so defensive—without the slightest provocation on my part, I might add—is only proof that maybe you’re feeling they aren’t up to your usual brilliant standards. I didn’t say anything about your choice of product.”
“You didn’t have to. The look on your face just now when you tasted that frosting said it all for you. Which is another reason I don’t need you waltzing into my life on your whim, sniffing at my work, which is my livelihood now. I respect you, as a chef, more than anyone I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with, or whose work I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting. I thought I’d earned some measure of respect from you as well—”
“You know you have,” he said. “I wouldn’t have come all the way down here if I didn’t respect your work.”
“As long as I’m baking what you think I should bake. Right? I thought this wasn’t about my abilities. You said—”
“My respect for you as a chef and as a woman go hand in hand.”
“Ah. So my baking cupcakes ... well, I guess that would certainly have to stop then, if ... you know, that other part of what you said ... if that part happened. Because this woman? She bakes cupcakes now. And we can’t be having any of that if your respect is to be maintained.”
If he hadn’t have been so worked up, so ... well, flustered himself, he’d have seen how flustered she’d suddenly become trying to discuss his previously stated interest in her. In pursuing her. As a woman. Not as a chef. Because he saw his entire hopes and dreams sinking like a half baked soufflé right in front of his eyes, he blurted, “Are you sincerely happy baking cupcakes, Leilani? I mean, are you fulfilled here? Have you just given up on that amazing creative mind you have, and working your genius in ways that—” He broke off as he saw the shutters come down over her eyes. He thought back to what he’d just said, and her comment about disrespecting her chosen livelihood when she’d done nothing but respect his ... and wanted to grab the pastry bag from her hands and just shoot himself with it. In the head. “I’m such an idiot.”
“Don’t look for an argument from me.”
“I don’t disrespect you. As a chef, and as a woman, I have only the highest regard. I’m just ... I’m confused, that’s all. Sincerely confused. I’m not condemning your choice, I’m really not,” he assured her when she merely rolled her eyes. “I’m just trying to understand it.”
“Just because it’s not a choice you can fathom making for yourself, does not mean it’s not the right one for me.”
“I do understand that. I’m ... I’m simply trying to understand you. Who you are. I thought ... I guess I thought I knew. And now ...”
“I was a chef with you. Beginning, middle, and end. That’s who you knew, Baxter. Leilani Trusdale, pastry chef. You don’t know all the rest of what makes me who I am. I’m more than a pastry chef. I’m a woman with diverse interests, a wide range of moods, a brand-new set of goals and dreams I’m making come true. And, you know what? I honestly don’t think you’d be attracted to that woman. If you can’t even fathom what it is I’m doing here, or trying to do, much less why I’d want to do it, I can guarantee you I’m not the woman you think I am. Or want me to be. Nor will I ever be that woman.”
He was hearing what she was saying, every last word of it. But it wasn’t computing. Not because it didn’t ring true, but because it did. There was no doubt she was speaking the truth. Her truth.
“You’re saying I’m a snob, then.” He was stung by it, because it was the very last thing he’d felt he was. But, given his boorish behavior, and his private thoughts proving every last thing she’d accused him of thinking, there was a ring of truth to it.
“A people snob? No, not that. A food snob? Yes. You think in terms of educated palates, and you’d be right to assume most folks here wouldn’t know a panna cotta from a semifreddo. But what I’ve discovered is that food is just another form of art. The people on Sugarberry might not know why they like it, but they know when they do. I’m discovering that I don’t need to educate people, I just want to feed them and make them happy. And if in doing so, I get to play with new flavor profiles and complex combinations, even in something as rudimentary as a cupcake? That makes me happy. In fact, trying to maximize new flavors in a tiny cup of cake motivates me, challenges me. Seeing my customers lick their lips when they taste my creations is all the validation I’ll ever need. Win-win, Baxter. For me.”
“Okay, then,” he said, nodding.
“Okay then, what?”
“Don’t look so wary. I’m hardly a snake about to strike. If anything, I’ve been a bumbling moose in the china shop since my arrival. I’m certainly not capable of stealth, much less grace, at least where you’re concerned.”
She cocked that one wicked brow of hers. He shouldn’t find himself entranced by that little previously unseen quirk of hers, but he was finding it rather ... intoxicating.
“Where are you capable of it?”
“New York,” he said, quite sincerely. “Which is where I was when I concocted this entire scheme.”
“Scheme?”
“I told you I wanted to see you again, spend time with you, see what there might be between us. And put an end to my regrets where you’ve been concerned.”
“How ... tidy of you.”
“Come on, I’m trying here.”
She lifted her hand. “You’re right. You are. I don’t know why, at this point, you’re bothering, but you are. I have a lot to do before opening today. It’s softball Sunday, our last one of the season. I have streusel cakes along with Alva’s secret weapon cakes to complete before starting on my daily stock. I open in four hours and I have at least six hours of work to do. Closer to seven now,” she said, nodding toward him to note he was wearing at least a half a bag of her frosting.
“Secret weapon cakes?”
“Long story. I doubt you’d be interested.”
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