Sweet Dreams on Center Street (19 page)

“Those drinks you inhaled,” he told her.

She managed to crawl up on the table but was now stuck on all
fours, glaring at him through a curtain of red hair. This was hardly the moment
to be turned on, but Blake was.

She tried to blow her hair out of her face, then scowled at
him. “You keep pretending you want to help me. Well, help me up on this
table.”

“I don't think that would be a good idea,” he said. Bad enough
that he couldn't stop her from making a fool of herself. He didn't want her
falling and knocking herself unconscious on top of that.

“Fine, if you won't help I'll do it myself. I don't need anyone
to help me, anyway.” She struggled to get up, leaving him no choice but to
assist her.

Oh, boy, this would be one more thing she'd blame him for once
she was sober.

“Oh, it's high up here. I can see everyone. Go, Mr. Dreamy!”
She pumped the air with one hand and immediately lost her balance, toppling from
the table. He caught her before she could bang her head.

“I think it's time to go home,” he said, setting her on her
feet.

Now Charlene was at the table. “Samantha, how many of those
have you had?”

Samantha's brow furrowed. “How many what?”

“Never mind.” Charlene thrust out one hand, palm up. “Give me
your car keys.”

“Don't worry. I'm taking her home,” Blake said.

“To
her
home,” Charlene said.

What did she think he was? He didn't bother to dignify that
remark with a response. Instead, he got out a bill and laid it on the table.
“Come on, party girl,” he said to Samantha. “You've had enough fun for one
night.”

He put an arm around her and started moving her out of the bar.
No one noticed. They were all too busy cheering on the Mr. Dreamy wannabes as
the men paraded through the maze of tables accompanied by the Weather Girls
singing “It's Raining Men.”

They passed the now-empty restaurant. Patrons had either fled
the noise or gone to the bar to add to it.

“Is my head still connected to my neck?” Samantha asked as he
opened the door for her. “It feels like a balloon.”

“Yes, it's still connected but not enough for you to be
driving.”

“I don't want to go home with you,” she said petulantly. “And
I'm not going to run around the bank in my underwear or let you drown me in a
vat of chocolate, either.”

He blinked. “What?”

She blinked. “Uh, never mind.”

They were at his car now, a classic red Camaro in which he took
great pride. He opened the door and she fell onto the black leather seat, giving
him a view of leg and beyond that sent the blood rushing from his head to an
area slightly farther south.

Alcohol and a gorgeous female he was attracted to—that was all
it took to make him want to do what men were designed to do. There were only a
couple of drawbacks. Three actually. One, she was drunk. Two, she despised him.
Three, he pretty much despised himself.

His parents had raised him to be a gentleman and that was
exactly what he was going to be. But his fingers itched to touch her.

He got behind the wheel and started the engine, and the car
roared to life like a giant beast. That made two beasts on the road. She leaned
her head back against the cushions and closed her eyes, unaware of how sexy she
looked with that long neck exposed, just waiting for someone to nibble on
it.

“I'm tired,” she sighed.

That comment had nothing to do with the time. He slanted a look
her way. Now she was staring at him with those big hazel eyes.

A tear slipped from one and rolled down her cheek. “I'm trying
so hard.”

Oh, no. Don't cry. Please don't
cry.
“Samantha,” he began.

She held back a sob and turned her face to the window. “I've
drained my savings, I've had to beg all our suppliers to keep—” She pressed her
lips firmly together to stop any more secrets from leaking out and wiped at a
corner of her eye.

He pulled off the street. Now they were by the park. The giant
fir tree that the town made great ceremony of lighting every Christmas loomed,
creating the illusion of privacy. “Come here,” Blake said, and drew her close to
him, not an easy task considering the fact that this damned car had bucket
seats.

She looked up at him, her head on his shoulder. Her hair
brushed his cheek like a caress. “So many families in this town depend on us.
What would Icicle Falls be without Sweet Dreams? Without chocolate? What would
the world be without chocolate?”

This probably wasn't the time to tell her he was allergic to
the stuff.

“Nothing in this world is better than chocolate,” she
murmured.

“Oh, there are some things,” he said, staring at her lips.
Don't do it.

“Ha! Like what?” He knew the second she recognized the glint in
his eye. Her eyes widened, then her gaze dropped, showing him a flutter of long
lashes. She looked at his lips and wet hers.

Okay, gentleman or no, he knew an invitation when he saw one.
He leaned over and kissed her. She whimpered and he deepened the kiss, threading
his fingers through her hair. He could feel her melting, all that female
softness surrendering to him. Oh, yeah, there was something in this world a
lot
better than chocolate.

He had just gotten her into his lap and had a hand sliding
along her thigh when her fingers froze in the middle of taking a trip up his
neck. She pulled back and gaped at him in horror. “You…you…”

Beast.
She was right. He was taking
unfair advantage and they needed to stop. But not this way, not with her wearing
that look of betrayal. “Samantha,” he protested. “I'm not your enemy.”

“Yes, you are and I almost slept with you!” she cried.

A few hot kisses on a cold night did not equal sleeping with
the enemy.

She didn't give him a chance to tell her that, though. She was
already scrambling off his lap. Now she had her hand on the door handle.
“Samantha, wait,” he begged.

She didn't. She got out of the car, pulling her purse after
her, and slammed the door. Then she was off, marching a crooked path down the
street.

He fumbled the keys in the ignition and started the car, then
rolled down the window. “Where are you going?” he called.

“Home!”

He cruised alongside her. “I'll take you.”

“You've taken me far enough for one night,” she snapped. “I'll
walk.”

“You can't walk,” he protested. But of course she could. It was
perfectly safe in Icicle Falls. Really, the only danger to her had been the wolf
behind the wheel, he thought glumly as he watched her lurch away.

He swore and smacked the steering wheel. This whole situation
sucked.

He needed to reconsider his career choice.

Chapter Sixteen

Helping your family is the equivalent of helping your family's
business.

—Muriel Sterling,
Mixing Business with
Pleasure: How to Successfully Balance Business and Love

A
fter two days in bed feeling like Death
had put out the welcome mat, Cecily awoke on Saturday morning to the realization
that she was going to live, after all. She called Charley to let her know she'd
be able to work that night. Then she enjoyed a long, hot shower followed by a
breakfast of fruit and her mother's homemade white-chocolate-lavender scones.
That, along with two cups of tea, left her feeling ready to get back to work. It
was now almost ten in the morning. Samantha should be awake. She'd check to see
how the kickoff for the Mr. Dreamy competition had gone.

It took several rings for Samantha to answer with a weak
hello.

“Were you still asleep?” Cecily asked. Samantha probably got in
late. She should have waited to call.

“No.”

Then why did she sound so funny? “Are you okay?”

“I have the mother of all headaches,” Samantha said. “I think I
had one too many chocolate kisses.”

There had been an inspired idea. Not that Cecily was fishing
for compliments or anything, but… “How did those turn out?” Okay, so she was
fishing for compliments.

“Fabulous. They're also death in a glass. My head feels like
somebody stomped on it.”

“How many did you have?” Her sister had never been a big
drinker. It wouldn't take much to put her under the table.

“I can't remember.”

“You know, most of us get this drinking thing sorted out by the
end of college.”

“Well, I'm a late bloomer.”

“Can you remember anything about last night?”

The only answer Cecily got was silence.

“Oh, no,” she groaned. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Samantha said irritably. “The kickoff was a smashing
success with shirtless men and girls going wild. We'll probably have a
population explosion nine months from now. And yes, I made sure to put in a plug
for Sweet Dreams.”

“That's all good.”

“Yes, it's all good. Everything's good.”

“Okay,” Cecily said dubiously. “Do you still want to work this
afternoon?”

“Not particularly,” Samantha said, “but we need to. Let's meet
at the office around one. Maybe by then these rhinos stomping around in my head
will have settled down for a nap.”

They ended the call and Cecily sat at the kitchen table, idly
twirling a lock of hair and wondering what had happened the night before that
her sister hadn't told her.

Mom came into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of tea. “Did
everything go well last night?”

“It sounds like it.” Why didn't it feel like it?

Mom sat down at the table and studied Cecily. “Is something
wrong?”

“No, I guess not.” Mom looked worried, so Cecily added, “I'm
sure everything's fine.”

Mom didn't say anything to that. She just kissed the top of
Cecily's head and disappeared into her bedroom.

Cecily remained alone in the kitchen. When she'd first offered
to come home and help with the festival, she'd had a vague feeling that her
family needed her, that destiny was waiting for her in Icicle Falls.

So far her destiny seemed to consist of irritating her sister
and running unimportant errands. As for Mom, well, all she really needed was
time and that obviously wasn't something Cecily was in a position to give.

“Why am I here?” she muttered.

The cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall struck the hour and the
little cuckoo popped out the door to tell her just what he thought of her. She
left before he could finish.

* * *

Blake had several errands to run this morning, but a
visit to his grandmother topped the list. Janice Lind was one of the town's
old-timers. She'd been a young woman when Icicle Falls pulled itself from the
brink of extinction by transforming a collection of boarded-up storefronts and
empty streets into an alpine village. Blake's maternal grandfather, Tom, whom
everybody called Swede, had been the town's only mechanic for years. He'd owned
the gas station where Blake's dad worked as a teenager before he married Blake's
mother and went into car sales. Even Blake had worked at the station a summer or
two. Since he was the only boy in the family, both his dad and his granddad had
plans for him. Gramps had wanted him to run the garage after he graduated. Dad
had wanted Blake to come and work with him selling cars in Seattle. If he'd done
either, he could've connected with Samantha under different circumstances. Maybe
they'd have been an item by now. He frowned as he made his way up the front walk
to his grandparents' cozy log home.

She must have seen him coming because he was halfway up the
walk when she opened the door, a slim modern granny with a flour-dusted apron
over her slacks and tiger-print bifocals dangling from a chain around her neck.
“This is a nice surprise,” she greeted him.

A surprise? Rather like learning he'd been entered in the Mr.
Dreamy contest.

“I'm making oatmeal cookies.”

“My favorite. You must've known I was coming.”

“Well, they're almost your favorite. I'm trying out a new
recipe,” she said, leading him into the kitchen. “This one uses Sweet Dreams
chocolates. I figure it can't hurt to try and impress the judges.”

He wished all Samantha Sterling needed to be impressed with him
was home-baked cookies. He took a seat at the old red Formica table. Gram's
kitchen always smelled great. This morning the aroma of the day was spices mixed
with coffee. Not only did the place smell good, it looked like a stage for some
cooking show. Everything was state-of-the-art, from the stainless-steel fridge
to the ceramic-top stove. Copper pans polished to a high sheen hung from a rack
over her counter, and two baking racks were stacked with man-size cookies.

She poured him a mug of coffee and set it in front of him,
along with a plate of cookies. “If they've got chocolate, I'll pass.”

“Silly,” she said, tapping his shoulder playfully. “I made a
special batch just for you. No chocolate, only raisins and nuts.”

“In that case.” He took one and stuffed half in his mouth.

“How is it?”

“Good,” he said around a mouthful of fabulous. “Where's
Gramps?”

“At the garage, doing some paperwork. And making sure the new
mechanic really knows what he's doing.” She shook her head. “Your grandpa just
can't stay away from there. So much for semiretirement.”

Blake had known all along that his grandfather wouldn't ease
up, no matter how many mechanics he hired. Running that garage and filling
station was his passion. Lucky guy. He'd found something he loved to do and been
able to do it his whole life.

Once Blake had believed that banking was what he wanted, but
life in the real world hadn't matched his vision, especially lately.

“Did the people from Sweet Dreams contact you?” his grandmother
asked, bringing up the very reason he'd come. She was smiling like she'd done a
wonderful thing.

“That's why I came by.”

The smiling stopped. “Oh. I can see you're not pleased.”

“I don't want to be in a male beauty pageant.”

“Oh,” she said again, sounding downright disappointed. “I saw
all those wonderful prizes and…well, you truly are the handsomest young man in
Icicle Falls.”

He had to smile at that. “I think you might be prejudiced.”

“I most certainly am not,” she said stoutly.

“I appreciate the thought.” Not really, but she'd meant well
and he didn't want to hurt her feelings. “But it wouldn't look right. Not
fitting the position of a bank manager.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Your mother and I just felt it would be fun
for you.”

So his mother had been in on this, too. Why was he not
surprised? He supposed he could be thankful that only one of the women in his
life was currently living in town. He shuddered to imagine the mischief his
mother and grandmother would dream up if they were both here. Factor in his
sister, and he'd have had a triple threat.

“We hoped maybe it would loosen you up a little,” Gram
continued.

“Loosen me up?”

She reached across the table and laid a hand on his arm. “You
used to be such a happy young man. You seem so serious these days.”

“I'm happy,” he insisted. But as he did, he realized that he
hadn't laughed once since he'd moved back. Taking over the management of a
troubled bank and feeling like some sort of cartoon villain whenever he saw
Samantha Sterling was sucking his soul dry.

“Are you?” Gram said, and observed him over the rim of her
coffee mug.

“For the most part. I have a lot of responsibility at the
bank.”

“Your grandfather has a lot of responsibility at the station
and your father has a lot of responsibility at the dealership. They still enjoy
themselves.”

“That's different. They don't have people's lives depending on
them.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh? No families to support? No families
working for them?”

She had a point there.

“Everyone has responsibilities, dear.”

“I guess you're right,” he conceded. “But I still don't want to
be Icicle Falls' first Mr. Dreamy.”

Not that he would have been. These days he was anything but
Samantha Sterling's idea of a dream man. Somehow, someway, he had to do
something to change that.

* * *

Grief was a heavy burden to carry but guilt was even
worse and Muriel didn't think she could bear the load any longer. Her poor
daughters were working so hard to clean up the mess she'd created. She had to do
her part.

But how? She knew nothing about business. Yes, she'd worked at
Sweet Dreams off and on over the years but she'd never been involved in any
aspect of running the company. Her most important business had been her family.
It still was and now she needed to help them put Sweet Dreams back in the red.
Or the black. Or whatever it was. She might not know business, she told herself,
but she knew people. She had friends in this town, people who'd want to help if
she just asked.

Cecily had gone over to Samantha's—Muriel wasn't sure for what,
but it most likely had something to do with the festival. So the house was
hers.

A couple of weeks ago she'd have taken advantage of that time
alone to look through photo albums or sleep or simply cry. She'd cried enough
tears in the past few weeks to make the Wenatchee River flood. Nights were the
worst. She felt her loss acutely when she climbed into bed and no strong arms
reached out to hold her. Trying to fill up that big bed all by herself reminded
her how utterly adrift she was.

But with the daylight hours, more pressing concerns took
precedence. If they couldn't save the company she wouldn't have to worry about
being alone in her big bed or this house. The house would be gone, like the
company her grandmother had founded.

There was no time for moping. She grabbed the phone. She
couldn't run a business, but she knew how to get donations. She'd made these
kinds of calls raising money for the food bank when she and a couple of friends
at Icicle Falls Community Church first started it years ago. It was time to make
some calls again, this time for some personal loans.

She'd begin with Del Stone. If he was as interested in her
sober as he was drunk, then maybe he'd like to put his money where his mouth was
and help her out.