Chapter 7
Ipull open the door to Corner Cafe and freeze when I see a massive table with eight chairs, only one of which is occupied. And I tip my head back on a groan when my eyes connect with amused blue ones.
Of course Reid is the only one here.
I walk over and stop in front of him, not yet sure if I want to commit to sitting at a table alone with him yet.
“Where is everybody?” I ask, looking around the cafe as if my sister and the rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen will materialize.
“Oliver is on call.”
Already one of Jason’s groomsmen are proving to be exactly as helpful as I expected they would all be.
“Does Oliver know that when he’s on call he can still leave the house and do things?”
“Yeah, but he uses that as an excuse to get out of things he doesn’t want to do.”
“You think I want to be here? I have a ton of things I’d rather do than sit here with you.”
He smirks. “Oh yeah, like what?”
“Pour lemon juice into paper cuts.”
Reid rolls his eyes. “Where’s Charlie? Isn’t he supposed to be here?”
“Probably taking care of his sick wife, who will also not be here,” I supply.
“I’m not sure where Ricky is, but he’s notoriously flaky.”
“Same with Jessica.”
I’m still surprised Kate keeps in touch with her college roommate, especially considering how catty she always said Jessica was, but apparently they’re close enough that she’s in the wedding and willing to travel to Positano with us. Which I was not very thrilled about, but it’s not my wedding.
“They’ll make a great bridal party pair,” Reid muses. “Lydia?”
I shrug. “Something with Brad. So I guess it’s just you and me,” I say, my voice carrying a solemnity like I’m preparing to plan a funeral and not a couples’ wedding shower.
“It appears that way.” His voice holds something I can’t quite decipher. A cross between irritation and frustration and impatience I think.
“Well I’m going to need a vat of caffeine to deal with this,” I say, turning to look at the chalkboard menu above the coffee counter as if I ever order anything besides a caramel latte.
“Here’s your coffee, Reid,” a sweet voice says from next to the table.
We both look at the barista, curly dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and a bright, intoxicating smile that even makes me want to stare at her.
When neither of us says anything, she sets a paper cup on the table in front of him, her wide smile completely unperturbed by our silence. He arches his brow as he studies it.
“I didn’t order this.”
She lifts a delicate shoulder, a blush creeping along her high cheekbones. “Yeah, but I remembered what you got last time you were here.”
He looks up from the cup to her in disbelief. “I’ve only been here twice.”
“You’re hard to forget.” She winks at him. “I wrote my number on the cuff again. Please use it this time.”
He lifts the cup and twists it until he finds the phone number scrawled across it. “Maybe,” he mutters.
Somehow seeming to take this as a promise, the barista smiles at him before strutting off. I watch her walk away, glancing back at him twice before getting back to her post behind the espresso machine. When I turn back to Reid, he’s sipping his drink like nothing even happened.
“Does that happen to you often?”
He looks up at me. “What?”
“That.” I gesture to the girl twirling her hair as she looks his way. “People delivering you free food and gifts as they fawn over you.”
“I’m going to pay for this.”
I roll my eyes. “Besides the point.”
He sets the cup down and sighs. “More than I’d like for it to happen.”
I finally toss my bag on the table and take the wooden chair across from him. “Wow, I’m in the presence of greatness. How did I ever get so lucky to spend my days off with you?”
“Your sister,” he deadpans. Then he gestures to the notebooks and pens and Kate’s thorough checklist I’ve started unpacking on the table in front of us. “And her wedding.”
“Not denying the greatness part, I see.”
“Not going to deny the truth.”
I scoff. “You’re annoying.”
He props an elbow on the table and rests his chin in his annoyingly large hand. “You’re cute when you’re angry.”
I divert my gaze from noticing his hands and his mouth and busy myself with flipping open my notebook to a clean page. “I’d rather be terrifying when I’m angry.”
“Sorry.” A smile plays on his lips as he brings the cup back to his mouth and sips. I glare at him as he does so, which seems to only make him smile wider. “It’s like when a toddler tries to get angry, but they mispronounce all the words and you can’t take them seriously.”
I grit my teeth at the visual, but choose to ignore him instead. The longer we sit here and bicker, the longer it will take to actually plan this damn thing, which means the more time I have to spend with him.
“Okay,” I sigh, pulling out my laptop and flipping it open. “Let’s get this over with.”
“What even goes into a couples shower?” Reid asks.
“Location, food, desserts, games, invitations.” I tick the items off on my fingers.
“God’s sake,” he mutters. “Okay, well I can cater.”
“Generous of you.”
“I am putting out ‘catered by’ signs to promote the restaurant.”
“I would expect absolutely nothing less.”
“Desserts?” he asks.
“I can,” I quickly offer. Baking has always been my happy place—being able to turn off my brain as I measure ingredients and watch the oven to make sure things are cooking correctly, the challenge of expanding my skillset by watching thousands of cake and cookie decorating videos online, the pride I feel when I accomplish what I’m seeking out to do.
And the delight of always having a sweet treat in the house when I’m stressed and need the sugar to make me happy again.
This is something I’m good at, something I love to do, and I’m thrilled to be able to do something nice for my sister. Here’s hoping she notices and appreciates it, but even if she doesn’t, I get some hours of creativity and some extra cookies in my freezer out of it.
“Great,” Reid agrees. “Which bakery are you thinking of?”
I deflate slightly at the assumption that I’d order it out, but then I remember Reid knows next to nothing about me. He only knows that I’m a new food journalist and that my sister is marrying his best friend.
“No, I can make them.”
His eyes narrow slightly as he processes the information, then he says, “I feel like your sister has higher expectations than boxed cake mix and an ice cream bar.”
Damn. Okay then.
“Okay first of all, an ice cream bar would be delicious. But second of all, I’m a home baker. I can make cake and custom cookies. Mini cheesecakes. Delicious little brownies. That kind of stuff.”
He arches a brow at me. “You feel confident that those will meet your sister’s lofty expectations?”
I mean not anymore, but I don’t want him to see me weak.
“Yes.”
Fake it ‘til you make it, right? If I act confident, I shall be confident. I think even if I paid thousands at a local bakery, she’d find a way to nitpick and be unhappy, so I may as well do it myself. It’s fun for me. Soothing. A creative outlet.
That and I soak up the compliments from people saying I did a great job. Great for my ego. It’s a win-win.
Plus, she complimented me on my cookies once, so I mean, she has to appreciate the effort if nothing else, right?
“Great, so we’ll have professionally catered food and a home bake sale.”
“Bite me, Reid. My cookies are spectacular.”
“Probably not nearly as good as my bruschetta.”
“I’m willing to bet they’re even better,” I snap back.
Amusement gleams in his eyes, but it doesn’t meet the stern line of his full lips. “Want to bet on it?”
“What, are you going to leave out a survey for guests to ask which they liked better?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“What do I win when everyone likes my cake better than your appetizers?”
He scoffs. “Obviously nothing because that’s not happening.”
“You’re awful at betting.”
He releases an exasperated sigh, the amusement gone from his annoyingly handsome face. “What would you like from me if you win?”
“I would love a compliment. In writing. No, I want it recorded so I can see the pain in your eyes as you have to say something nice about me.”
“I’ve said nice things about you.”
I snort. “Sure, Reid.”
He rolls his eyes. “When I win—”
“Fat chance,” I interrupt.
“You have to come to my restaurant as a guest, alone, eat dinner, ask for the chef, and pay me the loudest, highest compliments you’ve ever paid a chef in your entire life.”
“That hardly seems like a fair wager.”
“You chose your way of compliments, I chose mine.” His eyes are alight with amusement again as he rests his forearms on the table and leans closer to me, lemon and rosemary overpowering my senses.
“Which do you prefer, by the way? Table or booth? Just so I can make sure you get seated in the busiest area with your preference.”
I mimic his pose, leaning toward him with a glare in my best effort to intimidate him. “Okay, King Reid. I get it. You think you’re far superior to me, a mere peasant with a penchant for freshly baked bread.”
“Go ahead, Jane. Bring your homemade desserts on your cute little plastic serving trays.”
“They’re ceramic,” I interrupt. “And I will.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
“Can’t wait to try one.”
“It’s going to be the best dessert you’d had in your entire, miserable life.”
His nostrils flare slightly. And because the universe hates me, my mom chooses this exact moment to breeze in and set her purse on the table as Reid and I are mid-glaring contest.
“Jane, what have I told you about wearing that color?”
Spectacular introduction, mom. I’ve grown used to the backhanded compliments from her to the point that I barely register them anymore, but saying them in front of Reid leaves me painfully aware of them all over again.
I sigh, all my resolve for beating Reid evaporating as my mom makes me feel like a poorly-dressed, very small person.
“Hi, mom. So glad you could make it.”
And this is why mom and dad aren’t ever invited to Sinclair Sibling Brunch.
Mom looks around the room, ignoring my heavy sarcasm as she slowly pulls out the chair next to me. “Where is everybody?
“Working or sick or busy apparently.”
“Hello, Mrs. Sinclair,” Reid says in a velvety voice much too plush for greeting my mother.
As predicted, mom falls victim to his charms. She pauses momentarily, her hands frozen on her designer purse as she looks at him.
Then, ever so slowly, a smile that rivals the Cheshire Cat spreads across her lips.
“Oh, I don’t know if we’ve been properly introduced.” Mom slides an elegant hand toward Reid. He stares at her hand for a beat before taking it in his and shaking it. Mom frowns at the gesture, assumedly hoping that he would’ve kissed her hand instead. I fight back a laugh at her disappointment.
“Mom, this is Reid, Jason’s best man who was very much present at the couple’s shower last weekend.” She ignores me, so I continue on. “Reid, this is my mom.”
“Lynn,” she murmurs. “You can call me Lynn.”
“And my dad’s name is Frank,” I supply, reminding her that she is, in fact, happily married. Or so I think.
She tosses a glance my way. “Why are you here planning the shower with the best man? Shouldn’t the maid of honor be doing that?”
“You would think. Lydia apparently had better things to do.”
“Oh yes, I think she had a date with Brad planned.”
“Why am I the one who’s planning all the stuff and I’m not even the maid of honor?”
“You did promise her the best wedding she’d ever seen,” Reid reminds me. I narrow my eyes at him. Mom doesn’t notice as she goes back to digging in her purse for her own pen and tiny notebook.
“Oh Jane,” she mutters, “don’t get so upset over such petty things as titles.”
“Or who is the best at what,” Reid adds. I kick him under the table. He doesn’t even flinch, much to my dismay. He only grins wider. I grit my teeth together.
“Yes,” mom agrees. “This wedding is about Kate.”
“And Jason,” I say.
“So let’s make it the best celebration it can possibly be.”
“Agreed,” Reid says with extra gusto. My nostrils flare as I draw in a slow breath through my nose and stare him down. How dare he make me look bad in front of my mom?
As my mom opens her own notebook, Reid pins me with a self-satisfied stare, lips pursed in a smug grin. It’s going to be a long few months.