22. Chapter 22
Chapter 22
Marcy
I stared at Nonna Russo, waiting for her to speak.
She stared back at me.
I stared some more.
In the distance, there might have been a desert whistle to cue this showdown.
I wouldn’t admit a single thing until I knew what she knew about my business plans. Maybe she only saw me stopping at a bakery booth. No harm in that. I liked baking. Public knowledge that I liked to bake. Of course I’d stop by a bakery booth.
“Ready?” she asked.
Deep dread pitted in my gut. She had to have heard the bakery owner Eliza’s last words about us not being in direct competition for our businesses. Nonna would put the pieces together.
I remained calm despite my internal freak-out. “Sure. Let’s stop by Patrick and see if he’s still alive.” I meant it to be a distraction, but also these crowds hadn’t thinned all that much, and I feared for him around these women.
Nonna said nothing further. She didn’t even look calculating or anything. Maybe she hadn’t heard what I’d been saying to Eliza. She could have assumed the business card hand-off was simply for wedding planning purposes. Nonna surely understood I’d be hands-on about the cake.
We made it back to the front of the ballroom to Patrick’s booth. Scattered stickers remained, but I didn’t see any buttons despite the re-stock. “You okay?” I squeezed through the small space between tables to get to him. “You’re in one piece, at least.”
He shook his head, seeming dazed. “It’s been a non-stop stream of people asking who I am and where I’m running. A woman got out her phone in front of me and texted her friends who live in Birchwood Hills to vote for me! I wasn’t anywhere near this popular at the events I did myself.”
And we had my family to thank, I supposed. “Wow,” I forced artificial cheer into my voice. “That’s great.” It was great, right?
“People around here are familiar with Birchwood Hills from the spring festival and the art fair,” he went on. “A guy I spoke with, his elderly aunt and uncle were forced out of their apartment in town about five years back when the units were bought by a condo developer. They couldn’t afford to buy and had to move to another town to find affordable rent. Away from their established community. I just hate hearing stories like that.”
“I’m glad you’ve had some meaningful conversations.” I’d definitely underestimated the impact of being present at an event like this that, to me, seemed worthless and artificial. No, that wasn’t fair. Eliza and others here were running businesses, and this was one way to connect to the community. I’d just judged it unfairly because of the wedding drama in my own life.
Patrick angled away from nearby onlookers, placing a hand at my shoulder. “They didn’t get you to sign anything, did they?”
“No. But I met a nice woman who owns a cake bakery. She gave me her card and said we should talk business.” I raised my eyebrows. “Like, business business.”
“That’s awesome.” He grinned, but a hint of stress came through. It’d been a stressful day .
“I just hope certain people didn’t overhear,” I whispered.
“Look how sweet they are,” Mamá’s voice carried over.
I forced myself to relax, since I shouldn’t come off looking tense around Patrick. “Gosh, how is it they’re always listening?”
“No idea. But you know what would seal the deal against any suspicion?”
“A signed contract with a wedding venue and an Italian caterer?”
His hand moved to my cheek. “I was thinking more like a rated-G version of what we did last night.”
Oh. Oh . I must have nodded because Patrick leaned closer.
“This okay?” he spoke softly near my mouth.
Oh, was it. “Yes. Kiss me.”
And he did. A chaste kiss, but not a short one.
A smattering of clapping sounded on the other side of the table. I pulled away, still a little stunned by this new connection with Patrick.
“Aren’t they the sweetest?” Nonna Russo was saying beyond the table. “And he’s running for office. Here. Take a sticker. The buttons are all gone.”
No one brought up anything about my bakery discussion at the bridal expo. Crisis averted. The next day filled with the usual day job work, household chores, and texting Patrick non-stop.
Tuesday, we decided a hang-out night was definitely required, with two of our favorite reality shows on deck to catch up on. Away from family and anything campaign related .
I landed at Patrick’s place as fast as traffic allowed. He opened the back door before I reached the porch. As soon as I entered, he swept me into his arms.
He kissed me long and deep. So deeply, my knees quaked. They quaked .
Still kissing, we reversed until my back pressed against the wall. Patrick angled his forearm to lightly box me in. No matter. I wasn’t going anywhere.
How was it possible to feel like we’d been doing this for years? He was comfort. He was home.
He pulled back. “How did we miss out for so long?”
“Stubborn foolishness.” I met his lips again and showed him how much I was over that foolishness.
I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. I should have been worried about ruining our friendship, but I didn’t because this felt right. This was where we needed to be. We’d finally vented those past feelings that gummed us up all these years. I felt lighter now. No more secrets between us. No more denying we’d kissed.
We were going to be kissing a whole lot more.
Making our way into the living room, we found the couch and kept on doing just that.
Inconveniently, my stomach growled.
Patrick broke the kiss. “I should feed you.”
“I’m not hungry.” My stomach squeaked a rubbery sound. We both laughed. “Okay, fine.”
“I’ve got Door Dash credits if you want delivery.”
A half hour later, gyros and various sides in takeout containers covered the coffee table and The UK’s Next Top Duchess waited for us on the TV.
But the delightfully snarky English host couldn’t keep my full attention. I kept sneaking looks at Patrick. We used to do this all the time—hang out at one of our places, cracking jokes at our chosen mindless entertainment. Only things were different now .
Or were they? This felt like old times but… enhanced . Now my couch pal was also my—wait, what was Patrick? “Are we dating? Are you my boyfriend?”
Patrick’s gyro stalled halfway to his mouth. “I’m your fiancé.”
“Right, but for real.” I pointed between us. “What is this really?”
He set down the pita. “I think we did this in the wrong order.”
A snort-laugh escaped. “No kidding.”
He grinned, breaking the tension. “If it needs to be said out loud, yes. I want you to be my girlfriend. I’d like to be your boyfriend. Will you? Be my girlfriend?”
My insides threw a party. “Yes. Yes, I will.” Even if I wanted to overthink this, I knew saying yes was the right answer. I didn’t know what happened after this, but I was tired of being scared about it.
He moved toward me, angling past my lips to my cheek. That sweet move sent my heart soaring. He stayed close. “Do you think this counts as secret dating?”
“Publicly betrothed and dating behind-the-scenes? I don’t know if there’s a word for that.”
I kissed him again, totally not caring if either of us had onion breath. And we did have onion breath.
After that, the TV took our attention, but I couldn’t stop the constant, intruding thoughts. Not doubts, just thoughts. I loved this, being here with Patrick. I wanted to do this every night. Not just Tuesdays. Forever.
An emotional wave washed over me. My eyes swelled, but no tears came. A vision formed of us exactly like this, but two years in the future. Together. In a totally new place. Our house.
Was this really happening? Was this what wanting to settle felt like? To settle beyond being moderately confident your bills were paid and your job was secure?
Patrick noticed me staring. “What? Do I have Baba Ganoush on my face? ”
“No. I’m just sort of looking at you. Taking it all in.”
He tipped his head toward me. “Because of the girlfriend/boyfriend thing? That’s what you’re taking in?”
I nodded. “It’s hitting me in the feels.”
He squeezed my knee and pointed at the TV. “Can you believe this wannabe Duke this season? They should have stopped at season two. This is getting stupid. I mean, I’m in for the full season, but maybe not another after this one.”
It was the perfect response. He wasn’t ignoring how I was caught up in my feelings. He knew I needed time for this shift to sink in.
The food now eaten, we were onto the next episode, where stunt casting came into play with an American reality star crashing the duchess competition. Patrick gathered my feet into his lap and rubbed the stress from my toes.
Heaven. I could definitely sign on for this.
My mind wandered until my thoughts landed on a predictable category: the bakery. “Hey, have you heard yet about who owns that vacant space?”
Patrick’s hands stilled. He went back to rubbing my feet. “Uh, maybe.”
I scooted upright, ending the blissful massage. “What’s maybe mean? It’s pretty weird there’s no phone number posted on the window or an online listing, right? What, does the mob own it or something?” I snickered.
He scratched the back of his neck. “Okay, I found out. It’s…the Ribbens.”
“The frog people own my bakery?”
He sighed. “I’m afraid so. It complicates things, but it doesn’t mean you can’t get the space. In fact, it shouldn’t matter at all. If the Ribbens are on the up-and-up, there should be no problem at all selling that space.”
The deadened silence that followed told me he didn’t believe that either. “How long have you known? ”
“I just found out the other day.”
“Like, how many days?” We’d seen each other all weekend and texted throughout the day yesterday and today while working.
“Not that long, okay? I was trying to figure out what to do. How to tell you.”
“So you do think there’s a problem buying the space.”
“It shouldn’t matter whether I’m part of the picture or not. I’m not the one buying it.”
My thoughts raced. “But they’ll assume you’re part of the deal since we’re engaged. They probably won’t sell to you while this campaign is going on. And when you win, they’ll have a grudge against you and definitely won’t sell.”
He grabbed my hand. “All we know is who owns the place. I told you I’d get you that space for your bakery. I’m not giving up.”
I tried to push doubt aside as we watched the show. Those Ribbens had too much control over the town. And now to find they owned the one tiny sliver of real estate I had an interest in?
Ugh. Why were dreams so stubbornly complicated?
My gut told me once that Ribben guy found out his rival for the mayoral race wanted something he had, he’d dangle it in front of Patrick with some shady deal.
Patrick said he’d do anything to get me my bakery. I didn’t doubt his efforts, but that’s what worried me. What if he compromised his campaign for me? What if Ribben senior said: I’ll give you what you want if you drop out of the race? My nephew and our family will run this town forever!
“Hey.” He turned to me, all full-face Patrick, so kissable. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”
I nodded, wanting to believe him.
But work out how? We were supposed to be mutually helping each other, but I wouldn’t do this at his expense. And I knew, with every crumb of my existence, I wouldn’t let him sacrifice all he’d worked for.