Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Despite the Devan Dating Debacle (the dreaded D.D.D.) this morning, I always feel at home at Cozy Cottage Café. Although I spend more time at High Tea next door these days, thanks to my BFF, Sophie, becoming the manager there recently, I’ve been coming here for years. I love the comfortable, easy-going, welcoming vibe of the place.
And the cakes. Definitely the cakes.
“Oh, this place is darling!” Larissa exclaims as we step through the door into the café. She’s donned her sunglasses so as not to be recognized, although several people turn to gawk at her as she sashays toward the counter, and I know her feeble attempt at a disguise has been foiled. Either that or they’re looking at her because it’s plain weird to wear sunglasses inside unless you’re Bono from U2.
We make our way to the counter where I notice one of the owners, Bailey, is serving. I do a quick scan of the café and feel my shoulders relax. No sign of Alex Walsh. Things are certainly looking up.
At the cabinet, we peruse the assorted cakes. There’s the deliciously moist carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, an apple streusel cake, an orange and almond syrup cake, along with the flourless chocolate and raspberry cake that so tempted Larissa before.
“Oh, they all look so good,” Larissa exclaims. “But you see, darling, that’s how the evils of sugar, dairy, and gluten work. They make you crave them, and you’re only ever satisfied by another fix and then another. It’s all in my book.”
“Yes,” I say with a nod. “Yes, it is.”
Larissa’s book is entitled the very subtle and non-sensational Sugar is your Nemesis, subtitle: How the sugar you eat is slowly killing you and how to destroy its evil grip on your life. It’s rousing stuff if you’re into all that. And a lot of people are if Larissa’s sales are anything to go by. Although, by the look on her face right now, I’d say the sugar nemesis hasn’t entirely lost its evil grip on her life.
“Hey, Darcy,” Bailey says over the top of the counter. “Weren’t you in here earlier today? Twice in one day. You must truly love us.”
I smile through my cringe. The last thing I want to do is think about Devan and his “I’m gay but will you come to my brother’s wedding as my date” calamity. “Yes, that’s right, and now I’m back to get two slices of your flourless chocolate and raspberry cake. To go, please.” I look at Larissa for confirmation, and she nods her assent.
Bailey shoots me her beautiful smile. If she noticed my dodge, she doesn’t mention it. “Sure. Two slices of chocolate and raspberry cake coming up.”
As Bailey busies herself with the cake, Larissa launches into her ideas for the gallery once more. “Ideally, I want to open the gallery at the same time as we launch the Guatemalan charms. Therese said she can get us some from her next shipment, remember?”
I gasp. “But that’s in only a few weeks.”
She flicks my concern away with her hand. “Oh, I have faith in you, Darcy darling. You’ll totally pull it off. You always do. That’s why I love you so much.”
It’s so easy for her. All she’s got to do is come up with the ideas and then show up once all the work’s been done. Me? I’m the poor shmuck who’s got to do it all.
“Here you are, Darcy.” Bailey places two small cardboard cake boxes on the counter in front of me.
“Thanks.” I wave my card to pay, and she passes me the receipt. “See you later.”
“Are you planning a third visit today?” Bailey asks, her eyes alight.
I shrug. “If you did dinner, then that would be a resounding ‘yes.’”
“Come back for the Friday Night Jam.”
“I’ll do that.” I collect the boxes and turn to Larissa. “Shall we go?”
She lets out a light sigh. “I feel like I could stay here all day, even though it’s not exactly on-brand for me. It’s got the atmosphere of a young child who’s free of the restraints of the world, at peace with who she is. Don’t you think?”
What? “Sure, yeah. A small child.” Personally, I would have gone for “great place,” but for Larissa, I go with it. It’s easier that way.
As we reach the front door, someone pushes through in front of us, holding a couple of potted hyacinths in her hands.
“Sophie!” I say with delight. I collect my friend in a one-armed embrace as I balance the cakes in the other.
“Hi, Darce.” She nods at my cake boxes. “I see you’ve come in for your sugar fix.”
I can feel Larissa bristle at my side at the mention of the “s” word, even though both she and I know that the contents of one of the boxes are for her.
Sophie smiles at Larissa. “Hi, Larissa.”
Larissa extends her tiny, fine-boned hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says.
“Actually, you’ve met Sophie a bunch of times,” I say.
She crinkles her forehead as she sizes Sophie up. “Of course. How are you . . .”
“Sophie,” I say under my breath.
“Sophie,” she repeats.
Sophie’s face creases into a smile. “I’m great, thanks.”
“Soph runs High Tea next door.”
“I sure do. You should come by some time,” she says to Larissa.
Larissa gives her a tightlipped smile, and I know that despite her declaration Cozy Cottage Café has the “atmosphere of a young child who’s free of the restraints of the world,” she needs to get out of here, pronto . As the face of anti-sugar, anti-gluten, anti-anything worth eating, lingering too long in a café like Cozy Cottage is like flirting with death for Larissa.
“We’d better get going,” I say to Sophie.
“Sure.” She pulls me in for a hug.
I feel a small hand grip my arm, and I turn to look back at Larissa.
“Oh, my gosh. Whose work is that?”
I follow Larissa’s line of vision to the wall by the window. There’s a simple, framed black and white photograph of an ornate building under a dramatically cloudy sky. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, and with the frequency with which I’m in this café, I’m surprised I’ve not noticed it before.
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly.
“It’s got exactly the sort of feel I’m looking for. It evokes a sense of turbulence and beauty as a comment on the fragility of the human spirit. Don’t you think?” Larissa bustles over to the wall to get a closer look.
I shoot Sophie a quick look before I follow her. Sophie looks like she’s working hard at simultaneously deciphering what the heck Larissa’s talking about and suppressing the urge to laugh. It’s a state of being I’m all too familiar with.
“I’m sure we can find out who took this photo,” I say when I reach Larissa.
“Oh, we’ve got to!” she exclaims.
“It’s by one of the baristas here. Alex,” Sophie says at my side.
I snap my attention to her. “Alex? As in Alex Alex?”
Alex Walsh, the self-satisfied barista who refused to leave me and Devan alone this morning, is responsible for something that beautiful?
Sophie nods, and I turn to look back at the photo. I knew Alex was a photographer and had disappeared to rove distant lands to indulge his passion for photography, but I’ve never actually seen his work before. Although I’m not sure I agree with Larissa’s interpretation that the photograph comments on the fragility of the human spirit exactly (I mean puh- lease ), it sure is stunning. And I would never in a gazillion years say it to Alex, but he’s got something here. An eye, I guess. An ability to capture something more than just what you see.
“Who’s Alex Alex?” Larissa asks. “I adore the name, by the way. Totally unexpected. I think I love him already.”
“His name is Alex Walsh. He’s my cousin. Darcy and I went to high school with him,” Sophie explains. “He’s a really talented photographer. Bailey put this one up yesterday, and we’ve got a bunch over at High Tea.”
“Take me to them,” Larissa instructs dramatically.
“Sure, I just need to deal with this.” Sophie waves the potted hyacinths in the air.
Larissa takes the plants from an astonished Sophie, passes them to me, and says, “Darcy will take care of them.”
I struggle to balance the plants and the cake boxes in my hands as Larissa loops her arm through Sophie’s and says, “Let’s go.”
Sophie mouths “sorry” to me as she and Larissa walk out the door.
With a sigh, I make my way back to the counter to ask Bailey what to do with the plants. Instead of Bailey, I find a smirking Alex, looking like he’s a cat who drank the cream. All of it. Usually, I give him the cold shoulder or mutter an entirely insincere greeting. But now, having seen how incredible that photograph he took is, I feel . . . what? Impressed? Moved? Like I’m seeing him in a new light?
Maybe all those things.
I’m quite sure the feeling will pass. I hate the guy, after all. Alex Walsh and I? Well, let’s just say we’ve got unfavorable history.
He quirks an eyebrow. “Are you stealing the plants now, Darcy?”
“Oh, you know me. Always . . . doing stuff.”
Doing stuff? What am I talking about? I see one of Alex’s photos and I’m reduced to a bumbling, monosyllabic imbecile? This isn’t me. I’m Darcy Evans, Personal Assistant to Larissa Monroe. I Get Things Done. I’m not the girl who’s so thrown that I lose my inability to form a coherent sentence, even if it is with Alex.
“You’re doing stuff,” he echoes, a look of amusement written across on his face. His handsome face. Dammit.
I suck in a sharp breath as I toss my long hair. “That’s right. I’m a very busy person, you know, Alex. I’ve always got a lot of . . . stuff to do.”
Great work, Darcy. That showed him.
He merely keeps his gaze on me, his lips twitching with amusement.
“Now. What should I do with these plants?” I brandish the plants at him as I paste on an “I’m not in the least bit fazed by you” smile. Because I’m not in the least bit fazed by him. Or at least I won’t be, just as soon as I manage to pull myself together and get back to normal.
“Let me get this straight. You’re asking me what you should do with the plants you’re trying to steal? Do you not know how robbery works, Darcy? You try to take stuff without other people noticing.”
“Oh, Alex,” I say with as patronizing a tone as I can muster while awkwardly balancing cake and plants. It’s not an easy thing to achieve. “I don’t have time for your games. Sophie asked me to deal with these, so can you please take them so I can get on with my day.”
“Why don’t you bring them ’round the back. We can find a place to put them out of the way.”
“Oh, all right.” Begrudgingly, I traipse past the food cabinets and find him holding the counter flap open for me. I plod past him and into the kitchen. I stop, turn, and raise my eyebrows in question.
“How about over here?” He takes one of the plants from me and places it against the back wall.
I follow suit with the second. “Thank you,” I say as I turn on my heel to leave.
“Is Papa Smurf waiting for you outside?”
I turn back. What is he talking about? “Papa Smurf?”
“You and your friend. You’re both in head-to-toe blue. Or wasn’t that planned?”
“Oh, that. It’s a thing my boss has. She likes blue.”
“I like blue, too, but I tend to limit it to one item of clothing at a time. Not all of them.”
“Actually, I’ll have you know that blue is a very spiritual color.”
Another quirk of that darn eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes, Alex, it is. It’s very powerful and associated with vision and hearing as well as our sense of smell.” I’m spouting a bunch of Larissa-isms like I mean them, but damn him! He’s being all superior, and I don’t like it one little bit.
“You can smell blue?”
I falter, but I’m committed to this now. “Yes, you can. Please don’t tell me you haven’t smelled the color blue before, Alex, because that would be truly, truly tragic. For you. Blue smells absolutely amazing.”
To my surprise, he wanders over and leans in close to me. For a second, I can feel his breath on my neck, making my skin tingle. I clear my throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He straightens up, his eyes lit with mischief. “You’re right. Blue does smell amazing.”
“Well, I . . . there you go.” I throw him a haughty look, as though what he just did wasn’t completely unexpected and… and what? Nice? No, it threw me off guard, that’s all. People don’t go around smelling other people. It’s just plain weird.
He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms across his chest. “I guess I’ve learned something new today.”
“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Alex, I need to go.”
“Because Papa Smurf is waiting for you.”
Exasperated, I roll my eyes. “Yes, Papa Smurf and Smurfette and the whole blue gang. They’re all waiting for me outside with Gargamel and Azrael. Happy?”
His smile teases as he replies, “Doesn’t Gargamel want to kill the Smurfs?”
“Well, don’t you know a lot about them,” I quip.
He shrugs. “I watched the movie a couple weeks back with my nephew.”
“Right.” I refuse to be moved by the fact Alex watched a movie with a kid. People do it all the time. It’s normal human behavior. Nothing more.
“He loves the Smurfs. He was sick, and I wanted to do something nice for him.”
Seriously?
“Well, that’s kind of you,” I sniff.
Alex shrugs. “Not really. His mum had to work, and I was at a loose end. He’s a good kid.”
I point blank refuse to let the fact Alex is a kind uncle to some kid I’ll never even meet touch my heart.
“Good. Well. That’s that then.”
He shoots me a questioning glance. “What’s what then?”
“You’re an uncle, and I’ve got to go.” I balance the cake boxes in front of me and resume my walk out of the kitchen. Thrown by Alex, I’m not looking where I’m going and I almost walk smack-bang into Sophie. “Oops!” I exclaim as I let go of the boxes.
She catches them with significantly greater dexterity than I could manage right now. “Got ’em,” she says with a smile and then hands them back to me.
“Thanks, girl. That could have been a disaster.”
“I’ve got your back,” she says to me with a wink. “Alex, can you please go next door? Larissa wants to meet you. Oh, and you need to go, too, Darce.”
“Sure,” I reply.
“Who is Larissa and why does she want to meet me?” Alex asks.
“Larissa Monroe. You know, the actress,” Sophie explains. “She’s Darcy’s boss and she asked me to come get you.”
Alex shakes his head. “Sorry. No can do, even for Darcy’s boss.” He shoots me one of his looks and I narrow my eyes at him. “Bailey needs me in the café.”
Sophie waves his excuse away with a flick of her wrist. “I’ll cover you until you’re back.”
He seems to think for a moment before he says, “I guess.”
“Good. Now go!” Sophie instructs.
Alex lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay. But you need to know it wasn’t me trying to steal the plants.”
“For the last time, Alex, I wasn’t stealing plants!” I exclaim in utter exasperation, winning a fresh smile from the guy.
Really, Alex Walsh has got to be the most infuriating person I’ve met in my entire life. And I work for a celebrity, so that’s saying something.
Sophie hustles us both out of the kitchen, and we plod in silence through the café, out onto the street, and into Cozy Cottage High Tea next door.
All tables in the place are full, servers buzzing around, and I find Larissa standing in front of one of Alex’s photographs on the far wall above one of the tables.
“Larissa,” I say as I arrive at her side, “I’ve brought the photographer for you to meet. This is Alex Walsh.”
She turns and looks up at him, her face aglow. “Alex Walsh.” She grabs his arms, pulls him down to her height, and air kisses him. “You are a genius.”
I harrumph. “Genius” is going a little far, isn’t it? But this is Larissa. When she and Therese discussed the Guatemalan fertility stones this morning, she said they would revolutionize humankind. Hyperbole could be her middle name. (It’s not, it’s Mabel, but she doesn’t want anyone to know that particular gem.)
“Good to meet you, Larissa,” Alex says. “I’m glad you like my work.”
“Like it? I adore it. It’s so whimsical yet rooted in the reality of our existence.”
“Yes,” he replies with a nod. “Absolutely.” He shoots me a small smile, and I press my lips together.
I don’t want to bond with this man. Sure, Larissa can say some pretty out-there things so I get why he’s smirking, but really, I’m not his comrade in all this.
“Alex Walsh, you must exhibit for me. Say you will. I want all of these. All of them.” She gestures with her arms, and I notice most of the people in the room are looking at her, recognition dawning if their expressions are anything to go by. She swings her eyes to mine. “Darcy, tell him about my vision.”
“Oh, I, ah,” I begin uncertainly, “Larissa’s opening a gallery next door. She wants all the artwork to be black and white photography, which yours clearly is.” I gesture at the handful of photos on the walls. They’re landscapes and cityscapes, all with big, dramatic skies. Just like the photo next door in the café, they’re absolutely stunning.
“You’d want to sell them?” he asks.
“Of course!” Larissa replies as though he’s just asked a preposterous question like “Do birds fly?” or “Are the contestants on The Bachelor only in it for the fame?” Preposterous. Of course they’re on it for “the right reason,” which is true love. Everyone knows that.
He shrugs. “Thanks, but I’m happy with them where they are right now. They kind of add to this place. I’m gonna have to pass.”
I blink at him. Alex is saying no to Larissa? No one ever says no to Larissa!
She gawks at him, the shock registering on her face.
Part of me wants to fix this, to make Alex agree to what Larissa wants. The other part of me—the morbid part that likes to watch horror movies late at night despite the fact I know they’ll give me nightmares—wants to see what will happen next.
With a stunned look on her face, Larissa mutters, “I don’t know what to do with that.” She turns her gaze to me. “Darcy? Fix this.”
My morbid, horror film-watching part slinks back into the shadows as Personal Assistant Fix It kicks in. After all, keeping Larissa happy is my job, remember?
“Alex, why don’t we discuss this? Larissa’s got a vision for your work. I assure you, it’ll be very tastefully and respectfully done.”
Larissa nods like she’s one of those bobblehead figurines. “I’ve got a vision,” she repeats.
“This could be huge for you, Alex. Right now, you’re exhibiting what? Five photographs in a café?”
“Six, actually, if you count the one next door.”
Splitting hairs much?
“Six, then.” I paste on a smile so fake, I could also be one of those contestants on The Bachelor, talking about our “connection.” “My point is, Alex, with Larissa’s exciting new project, you’ll be able to exhibit a large body of work and sell it for a lot of money. It’ll be amazing exposure for you.”
I watch Alex hopefully, waiting for his reply. If he repeats his initial response, who knows what Larissa will do? She won’t even know. As I mentioned, she doesn’t hear the word “no” a whole lot, unless it’s in conjunction with the word “carbs,” too, of course. She uses that a lot.
He gives a nonchalant shrug, as though this isn’t a huge opportunity for him. “Let me think about it.”
I reel back from him with a jolt. I always knew Alex Walsh thought a lot of Alex Walsh, but his response to being offered to exhibit his work in a major solo show put on by Larissa Monroe is a noncommittal, unexcited, downright mediocre “let me think about it?”
My eyes dart to Larissa’s. Her forehead is creased and she’s looking at Alex as though he’s speaking in tongues (which he may as well be, as far as she’s concerned). “What does that mean?” she asks, looking directly at me.
“Could that become a yes?” I ask him tentatively.
There’s a hint of a smile on his face when he replies, “It’s a ‘persuade me.’”
Persuade him? Is he serious? Who does he think he is, freaking royalty?
“Look, Alex, this is a huge opportunity. Larissa Monroe endorsing your work will put you on the map.”
“On the map,” Larissa echoes, her eyes wide.
“I get that. It’s just, well, I’ve not exhibited in a while, and I like the photographs where they are right now.” He looks up at a nearby photo.
“They do look amazing there,” Larissa says.
“But they’d look even better on the walls of your new gallery,” I say to her as I shoot her a meaningful look.
“They would. Alex Walsh, say yes,” Larissa instructs.
I hold my breath as we both await his response.
His eyes pass from Larissa to me and back again. Finally, he says, “Look, I’m happy to be a part of this on one proviso.”
“What’s that?” I ask a little too eagerly.
“I get creative control.”
Relief washes over me, and my smile turns from brittle to genuine with a puff of air. “That’s great. Isn’t that great, Larissa?”
“So, so great,” she gushes.
And then, my initial euphoria evaporates as his words sink into my brain. “Wait. You want creative control?”
He gives another one of those frustrating shrugs. “It’s my work. I get to choose what I exhibit, the theme, placement, that kind of thing.”
“But—” My eyes swing to Larissa’s. She’s got her brows knitted together as though she’s thinking hard. She gives a short nod, and I turn back to Alex. “That sounds reasonable.”
Larissa totters on her heels over to Alex, takes one of his hands in hers, and pulls him down to air kiss him. “This is going to be amazing. Alex Walsh, I know the synergies that already exist between us will grow transcendentally as we travel on this journey together.”
I take in Alex’s perplexed expression and have to suppress a giggle. Unless you’re in Larissa’s world, she can come on a little strong. Or crazy, depending on your point of view.
“Ok aaa y,” he replies uncertainly. “Well, thank you, Larissa. I guess we’ll talk some more about this soon. But right now, I’d better go get on with my job.” He quietly pulls his hand away from her grasp. “So, ah, thank you,” he repeats.
Call me bad, but I quite enjoy seeing him nonplussed by Larissa.
“Oh, no. Thank you , Alex Walsh. You are the talent. I am merely your creative springboard, your nurturer, the sunlight to your bud waiting to flower.”
Alex’s face has gone from perplexed to utterly bewildered as he replies, “Sure. Flowers and . . . all that. It sounds really good.”
I bite my lips together so hard to stop a giggle from exploding out of me, I think I can taste blood.
Larissa turns to face everyone in the room, her arms outstretched. “We have our man.”
All the people at the tables who have been watching the scene unfold break into applause. Larissa laps it up, smiling and clutching her hands against her chest as though she’s won a frigging Oscar—not just simply talked a barista into exhibiting his photos in her new gallery next door.
“Thank you all. We will be opening our little gallery with this rather wonderful man here,” she hooks her arm through Alex’s, “in only a few weeks’ time. It’s right next door, and we would love it if you could all come to see it.”
A couple of moments later, Larissa is busy having selfies taken with a few of the High Tea patrons, and I find myself standing next to Alex, still holding the cake boxes in my hands.
“Now that I’ve agreed to do this, how’s it gonna work?” he asks.
“Well, I guess to start with, you’ll need to get a full catalog of your photographs, so we can begin to work out what to exhibit.”
“Sure. Do I get that to Larissa?”
“No. You’ll need to get it to—”
And then it hits me, like a heavy blow to the belly. Why the heck didn’t this occur to me before? I’ve just talked Alex into working with me. Not Larissa. Me. The guy I can’t stand to be near. The guy who makes my blood boil simply by being alive.
The guy I’ve got history with who I’d really rather forget.
I swallow, my throat tight. “You’ll need to get it to . . . me.”
“To you, huh?” His grin is wide, his eyes dancing. “Does that mean we’ll be working together now, Darcy?”
I open my mouth to reply, then close it again. Working with Alex Walsh? How fan-freaking-tastic.