The Bride Wore Chocolate (Sweet and Savory Romances) Page 15
“You call two hundred penis baskets a little thing?”
“Hey, it was hilarious. How often does that happen to us? If we tack one of those on our display board, we'll be a hit at the gift baskets convention next year.”
Candace's jaw dropped to her chest. “We can't do that!”
“Live a little. Stop being so damn good.”
They were the exact same words Michael Vogler had been saying to her over the past week. What no one seemed to understand was that order gave Candace comfort, like a warm blanket on a cold winter night. She needed it like an addict craved the next high. Her satisfaction came from neat little rows and checked boxes.
Although, if she thought about it hard, it sounded sick. An organizational sickness. God, who got something like that?
Someone terrified of chaos, that's who.
The clock on the wall chimed the noon hour. “That reminds me; I'm supposed to be at my shift at the shelter in half an hour.” Candace slipped off the stool and tucked her planner into her tote bag. “I'd better get going. I'll be back in a couple of hours.”
“See, that's what I mean.” Maria pointed a finger at her. “You're like Mother Theresa, except you're not marrying God. You're marrying Dilbert.”
“Maria!”
Her friend drew her into a hug. “Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's not nice to poke fun at dead saints.”
Candace gave her a jab, then drew back. “Hold down the fort.”
“I will.” Maria smirked. “But if the Calvin Klein underwear model comes in wanting a special treat, I'm hanging up the CLOSED sign.”
Candace shook her head. “I really think we got switched at birth. You and Grandma Woodrow could be twins.”
“You may have more of Grandma in you than you realize, girlfriend. Unleash the dog and see where he leads you.”
“I know exactly where. To a big pile of crap.” Candace grabbed her tote bag and headed for the door.
On Thursday night, Rachel had bummed twenty bucks before leaving. Michael had given her fifty, figuring her advice would have cost him at least that in a shrink's office.
How could a seventeen-year-old get so smart—and he be so dumb?
On Saturday afternoon, he found himself heading across Boston to Gift Baskets. He should be going into the office to get caught up on the work he'd missed the past few days, but this time he was going to take Rachel's advice. He wasn't going to get a damn thing done until he saw Candace again anyway. She'd invaded his thoughts and wasn't leaving anytime soon.
Especially after that kiss. Their first kiss had been a sweet, spicy taste. But when she'd taken the lead...
Hell, he might as well get out a fire hose and give himself a bracing cold shower. Because if she did that again, he wasn't sure he'd be able to walk away. Hobble maybe, but certainly not walk.
And, he was beginning to realize, he wasn't so sure he'd want to.
Yet seeing her again only complicated things on her end. And on his. He was treading in water he'd vowed never to swim in. What kind of game was he playing?
Before he could answer that for himself, Candace exited the shop, wearing a simple yellow sundress and short-heeled sandals. Summery and buttery.
Yummy.
Michael parked the Lexus and hopped out. “Hi.”
She paused, giving him a curious look. “In the neighborhood? Again?”
He leaned against the car. “No. This time I came by because I wanted to see you.”
“Michael, I—”
“I know what you're going to say. You've said it a hundred times already.” He pushed off from the car and stepped in front of her. “There are two weeks until you marry another man.” He reached up and trailed a finger along her jaw. “Forever is a really long time, Candy.”
She swallowed. “I know that.”
“Then why not be a hundred percent sure?”
“I already am.”
He tipped her chin with his finger and lowered his mouth within kissing distance. Holding himself back from her lips was like stopping a tidal wave from crashing over a beach. But he wouldn't kiss her. Not yet. Not until she wanted it as much as he did. “Oh, yeah? Then why do you tremble when I get close? Why did you kiss me that morning in my apartment? And yesterday? What was that about?”
And why hadn't he been able to get her out of his mind?
Seconds stretched between them, their gazes locked, the tension simmering. “I was curious,” she said after a long moment, in a quiet whisper.
“So was I. Is that a bad thing?”
“It could be. It could be very bad.”
“And it could not be, too.” He stroked her jaw with his thumb. Such soft, delicate skin. Like silk beneath his fingers. Made for touching. Caressing. Tasting. “I'm not asking you to call off your wedding or to break up with Barry or to hightail it to Vegas with me. I just want to spend some time with you.”
“You mean, date?”
If Rachel were here, she'd punch him if he didn't admit the truth. “Yeah, that's exactly what I mean.”
“I shouldn't date someone else when I'm engaged to another man. It's—”
“It's called being sure before you make the biggest step of your life,” he interrupted. “You're a woman who plans everything, who doesn't make a decision without making a pro-and-con list. Why are you not being smart about this?”
And then he saw the answer in her eyes. Because it scared the hell out of her. She didn't want to know that her choice was wrong. That she shouldn't marry Barry. For whatever reason, Candace Woodrow was dead-set on marrying the most boring man on the planet.
He couldn't let her do that. There was so much of her simmering under the surface, and marriage to a man like Barry would push that other side away. Michael knew he should walk away. But something in him—the same something that had been brought to life when he'd seen her sleeping in his bed—kept him rooted to the spot.
He picked up her hand. “Let's start with today. Cross the rest of the bridges later,” he said. “Just deal with now.”
“I can't.” She pulled her hand out of his and gestured down the sidewalk. “I'm on my way someplace.”
Don't leave yet. Don't walk away from me.
“Then I'll go with you,” Michael said.
“I doubt you'd want to go where I'm going. It's not exactly exciting.”
“Hey, I went dress shopping with you. I can handle whatever you throw my way.”
She smirked, as if she was in on a joke he didn't know. “Are you sure?”
“I'm game if you are.” He didn't care if she was on her way to get her nails painted pink and purple. As long as it meant being with her, he would go along for the ride.
She was such a contradiction, this woman who said she wanted one thing and so clearly wanted another. He could see the other side of her lurking under that teasing smile, itching to get out.
“You asked for it.” She started walking, her heels making little clicks against the concrete.
He pointed to the Lexus. “Don't you want to take my car?”
“Nope.” She grinned again. “It's not far.”
He fell into step beside her. “What isn't?”
“It's a surprise.”
“I like surprises. And I like how you are right now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way you're smiling. Having fun. It's like the first day of spring.” When she turned to look at him, he touched the dimple in her cheek. “And I like it.”
“Plenty of women smile. Laugh. Have fun.”
The lunchtime crowd skirted them, parting like a school of fish around an anchor. He stared into her hazel eyes. “You're not plenty of other women. You're smart yet vulnerable. Sassy”—he touched the tip of her nose— “but genuine. You're a jigsaw puzzle waiting for someone to align the pieces right.”
“And you think you are that person?”
His hand trailed down to toy with her fingers. “I'd like the chance to find out.”
He fingered the buttons on his shirt, grinning. “Do you want a show-and-tell?”
“Just the tell will be fine, thank you very much.”
“Pity.”
A teenager with an orange Mohawk came striding down the sidewalk in combat boots. His head jiggled along with the MP3 player in his ears, little silver hoops shaking in his brows and nose. “Dude,” he said, then brushed right between them.
“Is that teen for 'Excuse me'?” Candace asked.
“Not where I grew up.”
“And where was that, Mr. Strong-and-Silent type?”
“I thought women liked that. You know, men who don't talk much, but listen well to shopping woes.”
“Maybe other women, but not me. I'm a fan of two-way conversations.”
“That's refreshing,” he said. “Okay, my resume's short and sweet. I grew up in the Berkshires. I'm the older of two children. My parents are wealthy and bored unless they're buying something. My kid sister is seventeen, smart as hell, and a rebel with too many causes to keep straight. Me, I've owned my advertising agency for nine years and have built it from a one-man firm to a company with about seventy employees.”
“A rich kid, huh?”
“Believe me, in the ways that count, I'm not rich.” He ran a hand through his hair.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, I see. You can analyze my life, but when it comes to yours, it's another story.”
“There's not much to analyze. I live alone with a dog for company. No kids, no wife, no mortgage. I have a few fine things, but not the closets-full my parents have. To me, it doesn't matter how many Mercedes you can park in the garage.”
She paused and glanced at him. “Then why are you a confirmed bachelor?”
“Ah, there's the conflict.” He grinned. “Gotta have one; everybody does.”
“That doesn't answer the question.”
He let out a gust. “I want what I'm not good at.”
“You should meet my mother. Although she's the opposite—a serial marrier.”
“You make it sound like a crime.”
“In her case, I think it should be.”
He chuckled. “Maybe she hasn't found Mr. Right yet.”
“And maybe you haven't found Ms. Right.” She circumvented a mother with a baby carriage. “What makes you think you're so bad at commitment and relationships?”
“I've been there. And I'm good for a while, then I start to get this ... penned-in feeling, like I'm stuck in a coffin. And I undermine my own good thing.”
“Well, that's pretty stupid.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Why don't you try to tough it out? Stick with a woman long enough to see if that feeling goes away? Or is there more to your fear than you realize?”
She'd hit close to the mark. It was exactly what he'd been asking himself lately. He didn't have any answers for himself, either. “How much Dr. Phil are you watching?”
She laughed. “I'm a girl. We love to analyze guys.”
“Well, guys just like to watch girls.”
Maybe it was the sunshine, or the conversation, but suddenly Candace didn't feel like playing it safe anymore. He'd opened up a little to her and she felt a little more open, too, as if a door between them had been unlocked.
“Then watch this.” She sashayed in front of him, hips swinging, exaggerating the movement. She whirled around, her hair swinging around her face. The surprise in his eyes was worth every step. “Get a good enough view?”
“Almost. Could you do that again?”
“Not on your life.” She fell into step beside him again. “That's a once-in-a-lifetime view.” And probably a big mistake, but it had felt very, very good. Like something a whole other Candace would do.
Something Candy would do.
He reached over and took her hand in his, the touch coming as a surprise, and yet feeling as comfortable as a warm shower at the end of a long day. “What are you doing?”
“Holding your hand.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to. And because I'm afraid you might run off on me.”
“I'm not going anywhere.”
“Because you've decided to try this dating thing with me?”
She laughed. “No, because we're here.” She gestured to a small steel door on the narrow, shadowed side street. Above it was a sign that read LINCOLN HOMELESS SHELTER. Beneath that was another sign categorizing the building as a residence shelter. A tacked-on paper sign noted a free lunch several afternoons a week. Candace reached for the handle and twisted the knob.
His hand covered hers. “You want to go in here?”
She turned a sweet smile on him. “Oh yes, very much.”
“With me?” Michael surveyed their surroundings. A dumpster sat a few feet from the door, trash bags spilling past the lid. The odor of garbage and molding concrete hung heavy in the air. Twenty feet away, a man slept on the sidewalk, balled up against the brickwork, missing a shoe but clutching an empty wine bottle. “Are you sure you have the right place?”
Candace smiled and put her hand on the small of his back, pulling him closer to the battered door. “This is exactly where I want to be with you right now.”
“But... what are we doing here?”
“Working. You said you wanted to be with me, and this is where I was going. I didn't think you'd mind volunteering some of your time to help me.”
He reached past her, putting a hand on the door, preventing her from opening it yet. “Let's get one thing clear,” he said, grinning. “I don't mind helping you and I don't mind being here. What I do mind ...” He leaned down, closing the gap between them. “What I do mind,” he repeated, “is being tempted and then not finishing what we started.”
“I never said—”
“You didn't have to.”
“I was only teasing you.”
“I'm not a man who's happy with only a taste of ecstasy.” He leaned forward, whispering his lips against her forehead, then against her mouth, before pulling back. “I want more, Candy. Much more. I have a feeling you'd like to try the whole entree as much as I would.”
She blinked, but not before he saw the war between desire and conscience in her gaze. “I... I already ate today.”
He trailed a finger down her cheek. “Doesn't look like it was anything of substance.”
She shook her head. “Just chocolate.”
“That's no way to live.” He picked up her left hand, holding the diamond in front of them. Slivers of light glinted off the pear-shaped stone in a hundred directions. “A little stressed?”
“Wouldn't you be?”
He chuckled. “I'd have already run for the hills.”
“I bet you would have.” She removed his hand from the door. “I think that means we've come to an impasse. Time to get to work.” She turned, opened the door and stepped inside the building.
2 squares unsweetened chocolate
1/3 cup water
1/2 cup sugar
3 tablespoons butter
1/4 teaspoon vanilla
Microwave the chocolate and water in a microwaveable bowl on high for 1 1/2 minutes, stirring every 30 seconds. Why? Because you sure as hell don't have all day to stand around and wait for love, that's why. When the chocolate is melted, add the sugar and microwave for one more minute. Stir. Pop it back into the nuke machine for another two minutes, stirring again every 30 seconds, then add the butter and vanilla. Voila! Chocolate sauce is done.
You could serve this over ice cream like boring people do. Me, I prefer to serve it over a sexy guy. Make him dessert and you'll know why I call it my taste of love syrup.
CHAPTER 17
Candace clearly wasn't going to continue the conversation about them finish
ing what they'd started. And if Michael did, he'd be going down a road he'd done a damn good job of avoiding most of his life.
He told himself to be grateful for the change in topic. He wasn't a man who liked attachments. So why was he fighting Candace's determination not to have anything between them? He should have been happy as a humpback whale in the middle of the Atlantic.
What did he want? Hell, he was as bad as she was. He'd accused Candy of choosing the wrong path, and yet he seemed hell-bent on staying on the same rutted one himself.
So he took the bachelor male's favorite course—dropped the subject and followed her. But a little twinge of disappointment churned in his stomach all the same.
They went down three steps and into a room buzzing with activity. The room had green walls, pale tile, and a long line of people holding plastic bowls and spoons, all winding along in a zigzag to a set of tables. Steaming pots of soup sat inside chafing dishes while stacks of sandwiches filled nearby platters.
Despite the warm June weather, most of the people were dressed in layers of threadbare, ill-fitting clothes. They waited with patience, some chatting with others they knew, some quiet and sullen. A few were having a rousing debate with themselves.
He noticed two men missing legs; another missing an arm; and a few with glazed, lost looks in their eyes and emaciated bodies that spoke of drug abuse and lives of despair. Everyone's story was different. But the one thing they all had in common was that none had a home.
The adults didn't bother him as much as the children. One thin blond girl—she couldn't have been more than six— held tight to her mother's hand, her green eyes wide and round. In her other hand, she clutched a stuffed bear. Most of its fur had worn away, leaving great empty patches of pale cloth where brown tufts had once been.
Part of him wanted to run across the room, scoop up that little girl and take her to every store in the city, showering her with toys, clothes and food. He watched her move along in the line with her mother and thought of all the experiences she must be missing: playing in a schoolyard, opening presents on Christmas morning, making French toast on Sunday mornings. All the things normal children's lives included. And yet, he'd grown up wealthy, and without any of those traditional family joys, too.