Chapter 20
20
Totally warm and delicious smells greet me the moment Noah opens his door. His house looks much like mine in layout but has been decorated in a more traditionally masculine fashion. His sofa is leather, his TV takes up the entire wall, and instead of a dated yet color-coordinated kitchen, his is all sleek marble and stainless steel.
And he appears to actually use said kitchen, which is something none of my past boyfriends have ever been able to say they do. To be fair, it’s also something I have never been able to say.
“Wine?” he asks the second I’ve kicked off my shoes and made it through the front door.
“God yes.” I follow him into the kitchen and accept the glass of red he offers.
“Tough day?” He flashes me a smirky smile and turns his attention back to the stove, which currently holds multiple steaming pots.
Since the only tough part about it was dealing with the man I can’t seem to make myself stop thinking about, I lie. “Oh you know, the usual. The bakery has been so busy lately, Emma and I are being run ragged.” I slide onto a barstool at his kitchen island, sipping my wine and trying to look coy instead of depressed. Not an easy task.
Noah tosses me a knowing glance over his shoulder as he stirs something in the largest of the pots. “Glad to hear business is going well, should make it easy for her to invest in a new location.”
I glare at his back. “Not going to happen, bud. And I thought we weren’t going to talk business?”
He shrugs. “You brought it up.”
I fold my arms and lean on the counter. “Can I ask you a serious question?”
“Of course.”
“Does it ever bother you? Doing what you do?” Doing what we do, is what I really mean to ask. I need to hear his answer, to see if it’s the same as mine once would have been.
He taps a wooden spoon on the edge of a pan and turns to face me. “Honestly? Not really. My clients hire me to do a job, and I do it. My loyalty is to the people who pay me. I can’t think too much about what’s best for anyone other than my clients.”
I nod, not put off by his callousness because they’re words I’ve thought to myself hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Why should I feel bad when I’m merely doing as my clients request? “Do you ever think about going into any other line of work?”
He arches a single eyebrow. “Do you?”
“I didn’t. Not before I came to Heart Springs.”
“Thinking about opening your own bakery one day?” he teases.
I laugh and am somewhat surprised to find that it’s genuine. “Not hardly.”
But it would be a lie to pretend that being here, watching Emma’s struggle, hasn’t made me second-guess some things about what I’ve chosen to do with my life. Emma has put her whole heart and soul into her bakery; there was no one there to give her a boost or a financial bailout when she needed one. She’s spent her time and energy creating something where so much of my own time and energy has been spent tearing people down.
Noah leans over to refill my glass. “The way I think of it, it’s not my job to make life better for everyone I encounter. That would be impossible. What I can do is make life better for my clients. And that’s good enough for me.”
It’s a sound philosophy. Except when your clients are terrible people. As I suspect some of his are. As I know some of mine have been.
I swirl my wineglass and take another swig. “Well, that’s enough of that line of questioning. Tell me something interesting about yourself, Noah.”
“I once ate three whole pizzas all by myself.”
My nose wrinkles. “Wow, you really know how to impress the ladies.”
He shrugs, presenting me with a plate of bruschetta, tiny toasted bread rounds topped with bright red tomatoes and golden drizzles of olive oil.
I take a bite and flavors explode over my tongue. “Wow, you really know how to impress the ladies.”
He laughs and his smile brings one of my own to my face. And for the first time, I start to think this might not all turn out so bad.
—
Over the next couple of weeks, life is so busy, it passes in a blur. But it’s the good kind of busy, the kind where I fall into bed each night tired but happy. Maybe even a little bit proud. The bakery continues to take up most of my days, my usual duties split with time working on the fundraiser, which is just days away. All the plans are falling into place and when I show Emma the list of RSVPs, a hint of hope is restored to her eyes.
That alone is worth the long hours.
Noah and I don’t spend every evening together—we’re both too busy for that much contact—but we see each other often enough. We don’t talk about business or lawyerly philosophies, our conversations instead revolve around getting to know the finer details about each other. And he’s not a bad guy, Noah Crenshaw, business practices aside. He cooks and he reads and he makes interesting conversation. Sometimes he makes me laugh. Sometimes I truly enjoy being in his company.
The only thing missing is the spark. That undefinable, little something extra that makes you want to spend every second with a person. That sexual attraction that makes you want to throw a person against a door and kiss them senseless.
I keep telling myself the spark can grow. So can the attraction. It’s not like I’m not attracted to him—the man is gorgeous. I just don’t fall asleep each night envisioning our first real kiss. And I don’t know that he does either, because he hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet. A fact that I’m so okay with, it should probably be alarming.
All the fizzy, happy sparks seem to have abandoned me as of late. Every time I see Ben, the only man who’s made me feel sparky since I arrived here, my stomach jolts, like I’m right on the edge of tossing my cookies. Luckily, I don’t actually toss my cookies (at least I haven’t yet), but it still doesn’t change the fact that the sight of one of my only friends has turned into something so uncomfortable, I avoid him at all costs. And he seems to be avoiding me too.
At least, he is until the night before the Save the Bakery fundraiser. I trudge up to my front gate, feet aching, mind whirling, but heart happy. Everything is set up and ready to go. The only thing to do tomorrow is prep our daters to get auctioned off and hopefully make a lot of money.
I’m so surprised to see Ben sitting out on his porch when I get home, I stand and stare at him for at least a minute, like if I look long enough, I’ll discover he’s really an apparition and he’ll disappear.
He watches me watch him, cocking an eyebrow and finally offering me a glass of wine. “I just opened a bottle of red.”
I shift over to his gate, my steps slow as I make my way up his front walk. Partly because I’m sore and partly because I want to delay this conversation for as long as possible. “Thanks.” I take the proffered glass and sink into my favorite chair with a contented sigh. “I missed this chair.”
A bemused smile pulls at his lips. “It’s been here the whole time.”
I turn my head in his direction. “I wasn’t aware I was welcome.”
“You’ve always been welcome here, sweetheart.” It could be me reading into it, but there doesn’t seem to be the usual trace of sarcasm laced through his endearment.
“It is your task to keep tabs on me, after all.” My words lack bite because I don’t mean them to be cutting, but that doesn’t stop Ben from flinching.
“I suppose it is.” He takes a long sip from his own glass of wine. “Everything ready for tomorrow?”
I nod, turning my head to face forward so I can rest it on the perfectly sculpted back of the chair. “Barring any game-day emergencies, I think we’re in really good shape. Knock on wood.” I rap my knuckles gently on the arm of the chair.
“I never took you for the superstitious type.”
“I’m not really, at least I don’t think so. Force of habit, I guess.” One I don’t even know how I picked up because certainly no one in my family believes in shit like luck. We believe in hard work and solid plans and generational wealth. “I think the real question is, are you ready for tomorrow?”
“I was born ready, sweetheart.” The teasing lilt of his voice doesn’t hide the hint of nerves.
“Is the new girlfriend prepared to break out the big bucks? She’s going to have to if she wants to match Noah’s bid for me.” I haven’t actually talked to Noah about the date auction or bidding on me since that would violate our no-business-talk policy, but I would assume he plans to purchase my time.
“You think Noah is going to put up the big bucks when the whole goal of the fundraiser is to defeat his client? Don’t you think that’s a conflict of interest?”
Well, shit. I hadn’t really thought of it that way. Not that I can let Ben know that. But Noah agreed to be my date to the whole shindig; surely he knows bidding on me comes with the territory.
“I’m not worried,” I say, though I clearly am now worried. “How are things going with your new gal pal?” It’s a testament to how much I don’t want to talk about Noah that I change the subject to Ben’s new girlfriend. It’s a testament to how much time I’ve spent in Heart Springs that I use the phrase “gal pal.”
“Lindsay.”
“How are things going with Lindsay?” I hate to be that girl, but her name tastes sour in my mouth. Though I’m sure she’s a lovely person.
“They’re going well.”
“That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic.” I sneak another peek at him. He’s buried his gaze in his wine and refuses to meet my eyes.
“Sometimes it takes time to feel comfortable with a new partner.”
“She must like you, otherwise she would’ve given you the boot by now. Think about how quickly I got rid of my first two dates.” The realization turns my stomach. There must be something there between them.
“I suppose.” He finally deigns to glance my way. Something uncertain is buried deep in the dark pools of his eyes.
I reach over, chancing a quick pat on his forearm before I think about all the reasons I should really keep my hands to myself. We’re both wearing sweaters, and yet the brush of my hand against the soft fabric is enough to send a zing through me. Though maybe it’s just the wine. “You know you can talk to me, Ben. Things have been weird between us, and I get it, but I’m still your friend, right? We’re still friends.”
He covers my hand with his and if my hand on his sweater created a zing, his hand on my hand sets off a lightning storm in my veins. “Of course we’re still friends, sweetheart. You know we’re in this together, for better or worse.”
I shift my hand the slightest bit, allowing our fingers to interlock. “All I want is for you to get what you want, for you to be happy.”
His fingers tighten around mine. “I want that for you too. Do you think Noah can make you happy?”
I open my mouth to tell him yes, whether I believe that fully or not. But the half-truth refuses to come out. “I hope so.”
“What are you going to do when you get home?” he asks me softly.
I wait for him to move to untangle our fingers, but he doesn’t, so I don’t either. Instead, I enjoy the warm comfort of my hand in his. “I don’t know really. I can’t imagine anyone in my family is going to be too pleased with me.”
His brow furrows. “They’re going to be mad at you for something that’s out of your control?”
“They’re going to be mad at me for missing out on a huge deal and disappearing without a word.” The truth is a biting one, one that makes my heart constrict.
“You don’t deserve that, Cam.” My name so rarely drops from his lips, it does something to me to hear it.
“Don’t I, though? We both know I’m not a good person, Ben. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, and you wouldn’t be stuck here with me.”
He shifts in his chair, angling his body toward me. “Your priorities maybe weren’t the best. But you still have plenty of time to be the person you want to be. The person I know you can be. Look at what you’ve done here, what you’re doing for Emma. You’ve worked so hard, put in so many extra hours, all for the benefit of someone else. I’m so proud of you.”
Wetness pools in my eyes, and we’re sitting too close together for there to be any chance he might not notice.
“I’m sorry.” He reaches out a hand, wiping the trail of tears with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.” I whisper the admission.
His grip on my hand tightens, along with the lines around his eyes. “Your family sucks.”
A tearful laugh escapes my choked lungs. “That I have heard once or twice.”
His thumb rubs a soothing pattern over my knuckles. “You are doing great things, Cam. And you are capable of doing even greater things.”
I use my free hand to swipe under my eyes. “Thank you, Ben. You’re a pretty amazing guy. I hope Lindsay knows how lucky she is.”
Saying her name breaks us from some kind of spell. We gently unlock our hands and scoot back in our chairs—and the small distance feels like an uncrossable chasm. We sit in silence for a few more minutes before I swig the last of my wine and rise. My body aches the moment it’s separated from Ben’s chair, the moment it’s separated from Ben. I would give up my morning espresso for the comfort of my hand back in the warmth of his.
“Good night, Ben. I’ll see you at the fundraiser tomorrow?”
He nods. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
I offer him a slight wave before I head from his front porch over to mine. His eyes stay on me until I shut the door behind me, the weight of the evening pressing my back into the closed door.