Traded for Love (15 page)

When I looked up, the handsome stranger had his hands braced on either side of me as I sat in the chair. The blue-haired girl was standing there looking frazzled. An older man with a self-help book tucked under his arm stood nearby. His eyes were glued to me.

“I'm okay,” I managed to say.

“We were just about to call an ambulance,” the blue-haired girl said.

“No. No ambulance, please.” I glanced down at
him
. “Are you okay?”

“Me?” He narrowed his eyes. “Seriously? You looked like you were about to pass out and you're worried about
me?
”

“Are you
sure
you don't want to go to a hospital or something? There's an urgent care right over the bridge,” the old man said, stepping forward.

“No, please. I'll be okay. Thank you.” I mustered up a smile. “My medicine helped.” I was recovering faster by the minute.

“I'll watch her. Thanks, Ingrid,” the handsome stranger said to the blue-haired girl.

After a minute or two, the old man wandered off, too, leaving us alone.

I groaned. “I'm sorry. You're soaked.”

“It was my fault. I should have looked where I was going,” he replied.

“If you get your clothes cleaned, I'll pay for it,” I volunteered.

A smile broke over his face. “I don't care about my clothes. I care about you.”

I chuckled drowsily. “Me? You don't even know me.”

“You don't have to know somebody to have compassion for them.” He lifted a napkin and wiped my chin, but quickly retracted his hand. “Sorry, here.” He handed it to me. “I might have kept your face dry while you were freaking out.”

“Thanks.” I rubbed my face with the napkin, and looked down at my own shirt. Every hope of looking cute was out the window now. “God, what a disaster,” I murmured.

“Don't worry. Spilling is just about all their coffee is good for.” He snickered.

“I'm just so pissed at myself,” I said, drying my wet eyes. “It would have been fine if I'd just ruined my own day, but I ruined yours, too.”

“Me?” He swatted his hand in the air. “I get dirty all the time. A little coffee is nothing.”

Equating the word
dirty
(and all its implications) with the man in front of me really didn't help get rid of my blush.

“I should get going,” I said, trying to stand up.

“Whoa. Whoa.” He took my hand. “Do you think that's a good idea?”

My knees wobbled when I tried to stand, sending me right back into the chair. “Maybe you're right.”

“You know, if you let me, I'll show you what
real
coffee tastes like—once you're better of course.” There was those pearly whites again. God damn it, he was hot!

“I'm sorry. I'm, uh,
married
.” I flashed the rock on my finger.

One of his brows lifted. “I'm not asking you to sleep with me, just drink coffee. But,” he held up halting hands, “I'm not going to force you.”

Wow … way to jump to conclusions
,
Emily,
I thought to myself. “Sorry.” I laughed nervously. “You're right. Coffee would be nice.”

“Are you sure?” He smirked. “I wouldn't want your husband thinking badly of you.”

“Ha! My husband? He doesn't think of me.” The impact of what I'd said hit me immediately. “Sorry, that didn't come out right.”

“I was about to say that that can't be right.”

“Why?”

“It's not my place to say. It's his.” He grinned and stood up.

When I saw the extent of the damage my coffee had done to his sweater, I winced.

“It's really fine,” he assured me.

“I'm serious about cleaning your clothes for you.” I sipped the water he'd brought me.

“If you insist, but I promise it's not a big deal.” He pulled the hem of his sweater out so he could see the splashes. “You should see me after a day's work.”

“What do you do for a living?” I asked.

“I'm a
patissier
.
”

I cocked an eyebrow. “A what?”

“It's a fancy French word for a pastry chef. Pastries are my specialty, but I bake everything.”

I smiled. “Oh, that sounds yummy.”

He returned my smile. “It is.”

The fire in his eyes, the passion, awakened the butterflies in my stomach. I couldn't believe what amazing luck I had to discover a guy who was hot
and
could cook.

Not that it matters, since you're taken
, I reminded myself.
Right
.
I'm taken
.

“So, do you work for a restaurant or something?” I took leisurely gulps of my water.

“I work for a bakery.
My own
bakery.
And
we serve some of the sensational coffee you've ever had.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“Ever had fresh ground Moloka'i Coffee that's been put through a French press?” He was beaming with excitement.

“No, but I can tell
you
have.” I laughed.

“I'm addicted to the stuff.” His face glowed with enthusiasm. “It'll knock your socks off. Want to try it?”

I narrowed my eyes. “But I'm still covered in coffee.”

“Then you'll fit right in. Come on. I'll drive you.”

“You know, I was always told not to get into cars with strangers.”
Oh shit
.
That sounded way too flirty
, I thought.

“Hm. You're right. Well, if you tell me your name and I tell you my name, we won't be strangers anymore. I'm Drake.”

“I'm Emily.”

“So, now we're not strangers,” he said happily.

“But we're still new friends.”

“Well, how about we share a cab? That way, if I'm a psycho, I can't drag you down some dark alley.” He held out his hand.

“It's not exactly reassuring to hear you say that.”

He chuckled. “It was the most sinister thing I could think of.”

“What if the address you give the driver is someplace rapey?” I gave him a mock look of suspicion.

“You tell him the name, then.” His hand was still out, but I was pretending like I wasn't going to take it. “Come
on
.
I'll give you a
cookie
,” he teased.

“Just one?” I tipped my chin.

“Two, then. I'll even bake them myself.” He wiggled his fingers.

“Okay.” I took his hand and allowed him to lift me to my feet. He did it without any effort. For a split second, our bodies brushed, and a shiver ran a marathon down my back.

Keep it together, Emily
.
Keep your shit together
.

I took a deep breath to steady myself.

“Are you sure you're ready to walk around? We can always go another day.” His voice was hedged with concern again.

“No. I'll be okay.” After he'd taken over when I freaked out, I couldn't help but feel safe with him. Despite my not knowing him long, there was something strong and sturdy about him. It could have been that I was stupid to trust him so soon, but his solution to our newness to each other seemed sound.

We answered all the questions of the staff as we left, reassuring them that I was okay.

Once outside in the cool air, I took out my phone and called a cab.

A few minutes later, a yellow car pulled up and we piled into the back.

“Where to, ma'am?” asked the cabby. I realized Drake had never told me.

“Where are we going?” I asked quietly.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Savage Sweets.”

Yeah, that shiver? It was back in full force. “Wh—what?” I stammered.

“Savage. Sweets,” he repeated.

His breath in my ear made it impossible to move. I cleared my throat. “Savage Sweets, please,” I told the driver.

“Yes, ma'am.” He programmed his GPS.

Jesus
.
Even the name of his bakery is sexy
.

“So,” I piped up, my voice cracking, “What made you think of that name?”

“My last name is Savage. The family name was
Sauvage
but my great-great-grandparents changed it when they emigrated from France to the U.S … ”

“And were they bakers, too?” I asked.

“No, my great-greats were cobblers. They made shoes. What do you do for a living?”

“I'm a housewife. Kind of. Not really a job,” I said, tapping my fingers on my knees.

“Hey, housewives have really important jobs. Without them, entire
households
would be chaotic. I'm sure your husband appreciates everything you do for him, all the cooking and cleaning.” He popped his forehead with his palm. “Sorry. That was a little presumptuous of me. I guess when I think of a housewife, I think of my mom. She did everything for me growing up. Without her, I wouldn't have found or followed my passion. Without her, I wouldn't be the person I am today. I have the
utmost
respect for housewives. They're the glue that holds families together.”

I chewed my lip. “I don't actually do any of that stuff. I have maids and a cook.”

“Oh.” He appeared to be recalculating where he should be taking the conversation. “Well, still. I'm sure the things you do make you irreplaceable.”

“That's generous. I'm sure anybody could do what I do, which isn't much.”

“Even a woman who never lifts a finger has an important job to do. Any woman in a relationship is a support system, a shoulder to cry on, someone to experience
life
with. You're a wife and that
definitely
makes you important. I'm sure your husband couldn't live without you.”

I stared in awe at the way he described what he thought my life must be like. How could he be so sure? “Can I just crawl into your brain and live there, where everything is perfect?”

“Gosh. I keep overstepping my bounds. I'm really sorry.” He ran his fingers through his golden hair. “I'm not good at small talk.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Shit gets intense with you, doesn't it?” I clasped my hands, bringing my suddenly sweaty palms together.

He let out a big belly laugh and leaned back against the cracked faux-leather seat. “I guess so.”

It wasn't long after that we rolled across the bridge and came to a standalone building. Its front window was done antique style. Inside, the patrons were sitting at carved wooden bistro tables enjoying all manner of decadent pastries.

“See? I told you you can trust me,” he said with a grin.

“Yeah, yeah,” I rolled my eyes and paid the driver.

Drake helped me out of the back seat onto my feet.

I inhaled deeply. “Oh man, I can smell the sugar from out here.”

“It gets even better inside.” A bell clinked against the door as he pulled it open for me.

I marveled at the warmth of my surroundings. With its dark wood floors, white-tiled counter, and antique, glass-front display case, it sported an old-world, country feel. I was in love. It was so inviting that I was sure I could
live
there.

“Drake! Thank goodness!” The flustered words came from a middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair, who stood at the counter with her hands on her hips. “You're half-an-hour late!”

“Sorry, Margot. I got held up.” He lifted the bar which separated the lounge from the staff area, and came up beside her.

“Christ! What happened to your shirt?” she asked.

“A little run in with this lady resulted in us both getting
coffeed
.
” He flashed me a grin.

Her face twisted up. “It doesn't
smell
like coffee.”

“That's because
you
didn't make it,” he sidled up to her and kissed her cheek. “This is Margot, my house manager. She does everything here. Margot, this is Emily.”

She didn't look happy to see me, but she spit out a “Pleased to meet you.”

“Don't mind the stink eye. That wears off,” Drake said.

She nudged him in the rib. “Unless it's for
you
.”

I laughed. “Glad to meet you, Margot.”

“There's a supply order waiting for me to sign, but Jerome is on his smoke break, so I had to run the register. Could you sign for it?” she asked Drake.

“Sure. Come on, Emily.” He motioned me behind the counter.

I warily followed his lead, past the barrier, and through the swinging door that read
Staff Only
.

Before I could take in my surroundings, he turned and held up a hand. “Not so fast. All chefs must wear an apron in the kitchen.”

To our right were hooks, and on them hung clean aprons. He took one off a peg and put the loop over my head. He did the same for himself.

“But I'm not a chef,” I protested.

He winked. “You are when you're in
my
kitchen.”

“What do I do with this?” I asked, holding up my purse.

“We'll put it in my office,” he said, taking my purse and leading me to a door just beyond the hooks. I slid my phone into my pants pocket and tied the apron around my waist.

He unlocked the office and went in. I watched as he went around behind a desk littered with papers and tucked my purse in a filing cabinet drawer, which he locked with another key. “There. Safe and sound,” he said.

Afterward, he backed out of the tiny cubicle and locked the door.

He stopped and patted his chest. “Now. I think I promised you a cookie, didn't I?”

“You promised me
two
,” I reminded.

“Well, we're making two-dozen, and you can have two of those,” he said with a smile.

“Is somebody gonna sign for these?” a man in uniform said from the back door.

“Oh, yeah! I got it,” Drake answered, rushing over.

As he tended to the signing, I got a good look at the kitchen. There were several people occupying it. A portly man with dabs of flour on his cheeks stood at the counters, which lined most of the walls, kneading dough by hand. A petite woman of advanced years stood at the center stainless-steel island rolling out some kind of white paste on its surface. An iced cake sat on a turntable in front of her, and a sheet of parchment was laid out beside it. On it were some of the most delicate, pretty sugar roses I'd ever seen.

I smiled at the quaint scene, all the busy bees at work. I watched Drake as he walked up beside the woman's worktable and swiped two sugar roses.

“Now, those are for the cake, boy!” the woman said, swatting him on the arm.

“I can't help it! They're so tasty!” He made exaggerated 'nomming' noises and laid a sugary kiss on her cheek.