Chapter 7 Close-up
CLOSE-UP
Audrey
The Chowder House Rules smells like butter, corn, and impending regret.
I fidget with the bottom of my pale blue sweater while Jack sits back after ordering a bowl of said chowder, scanning the mixture of blue and cherry wood paneling like he’s filing away the details.
His gaze lingers on a porthole mirror and the carved wooden buoys strung above the kitchen pass-through.
“I like this place. If the food’s good, I wouldn’t mind eating here again. ”
“This is a work lunch.” The votive lit inside a Mason jar flickers violently from the bounce of my restless leg beneath it.
When I asked Jack yesterday if we could review where I stood with the cease-and-desist order, I pictured us spending my day off at the bakery.
I could get ahead on tomorrow’s orders and this weekend’s gingerbread competition designs, and he could speak fluent legalese without me nodding off. Win-win.
But no.
After last night’s snowfall prevented him from getting to the bakery this morning for coffee and pastries—something I always have in supply—Jack insisted on a lunch that wasn’t delivered or microwaved. Unlike the frozen entrée army currently staging a coup in my walk-in freezer.
One brow lifts. “I’m aware.” He breaks off a corner of cornbread, the warm squares bleeding butter into their napkin nest. “But if I’m going to tell you what I’ve been doing on your behalf”—he leans in, forearms braced on the table, voice pitched low enough to curl heat up the back of my neck—“I won’t have you distracted by batter or an oven timer. ”
A burst of laughter rises from a table near the bar, blending with the muted clink of silverware against ceramic. Somewhere behind us, the kitchen door swings open and releases a puff of briny steam that smells faintly of buttered lobster.
I grab a piece of cornbread, more to keep my hands busy than to eat. “And what exactly have you been doing?”
His fingers drum once on the tabletop, like he’s choosing where to start.
“First, I established the date Making Whoopie—the one under your ownership—began operating. In business terms, that’s your first use in commerce.
” Jack pauses, as if making sure I’m following.
“Second, I found invoices, supply orders, and even the article in The Almanac from your opening week. All of it proves you’ve been using the name longer than the other guys. ”
I frown, thinking back to two years ago and my foray into small-town life and entrepreneurship. “Did I actually keep that article?”
A faint shake of his head. “No. But that’s what your reliable Internet connection was used for.” The curve of his mouth lands somewhere between smug and infuriating.
The warmth in my ears spikes.
“You didn’t really think I was just squatting in your bakery for Wi-Fi so I could scroll social media, did you?”
I answer by not answering.
Jack’s smile shifts into a smirk at my silent admission. “Though I have to admit, a lot of my time was spent learning how to be a baker’s assistant.”
My expression flattens. “Do you really think that after four days of answering the phone and ringing up customers you have the skills to call yourself a baker’s assistant?”
He chuckles. “No, not really.” His eyebrows raise. “How about cashier boy?”
I bite my tongue, stopping whatever comment I was about to make that would insinuate there was nothing boy about him. And all pervy thoughts aside, it’s true that even when customers had to wait longer than normal for service, they always left smiling—thanks in large part to Jack’s people skills.
Avoiding his eyes, I manage, “Yes, you can definitely add that to your list of skills.” Feeling grateful for all his hard work, I add, “I’d even tack on people pleaser.”
Something shifts behind his eyes that makes him seem pleased, but it’s gone in a second. “Now that’s generous praise.”
I shrug, playing it off. “It’s the holidays.”
“Well, for someone ready to go twelve rounds over the sanctity of Hideaway’s Christmas lights, I was surprised to discover you don’t attend many of the town’s holiday festivities—and that you’re living in an apartment without so much as a strand of tinsel.”
Having forgotten he was in my apartment yesterday, I suddenly find the condensation trailing down my glass extremely interesting.
He leans forward, brows pinched. “Now how does that end up happening?”
I grab my water, the cold glass feeling arctic in my hot hand. “I’m focusing all my attention on the shop.”
“Uh-huh.” His tone makes it clear he’s not buying it.
But thankfully, as he watches me chug down my tall glass in an attempt to cool down, he must decide to pivot instead of press the matter.
“Well, you’ll be pleased to know what I learned when I looked into the company that sent the cease-and-desist. They are set up in Bangor, which may have a larger client base being in the city, but it turns out they only filed their state registration three months ago.
” He wipes his thumb along his lip, erasing the distracting smear of butter.
Annoyed at the diversion, I blink a few times to refocus. “Which means…?”
Jack’s grin widens. “Which means that you have senior common law rights in Maine for the business name Making Whoopie.” He shrugs as if he didn’t just pop the balloon of anxiety swelling in my gut since I received that letter.
“They probably just hoped you didn’t know that.
Or that you didn’t have an awesome lawyer to tell you. ”
The look he gives me feels equal parts smug and intimate, the kind of heat that almost pulls my focus from what’s important.
“Wait.” I replay what he said and not what he looked like saying it. “So my business is not doomed?”
Our waitress chooses that moment to set down two steaming bowls, and the scent of sweet corn and cream is almost as soothing as what I think Jack just told me.
“Not if we move fast.” He scoops a spoonful of chowder, blowing across the surface, his pursed lips pulling my thoughts into dangerous territory.
“I’ve already sent a response asserting your prior use.
Then I compiled and background checked a list of nearby Maine lawyers who can step in if they try and take things further, as well as looked into the steps to apply for a federal trademark if needed. ”
I pause in picking up my spoon. “You did all that since Wednesday?”
He hums happily over his first taste of Hideaway’s finest comfort food before answering. “I was also fielding calls to Los Angeles, negotiating an endorsement contract for Felix, and looking into this state’s filmmaking laws for Amanda.”
“Wow.” I stare into my chowder because apparently the hard-working, case-juggling lawyer side of Jack is…kind of impressive.
It’s not like I thought he didn’t know what he was doing.
I wouldn’t have hired him if I didn’t think he could do it, no matter how convenient his timing was in my moment of legal need.
But the fact that he could juggle all of that without looking flustered, swamped, or even remotely out of his depth?
Must be nice.
Taking my stunned silence for gratitude, Jack’s gaze shifts past me to a passing dessert tray, then slides back with a glint I don’t trust. “You can thank me with dessert.”
The warmth from the chowder fades under the weight of his look. I focus on my bowl, chasing a kernel of corn with my spoon. “What, my lifetime supply of whoopie pies isn’t enough to appease you?”
One brow lifts. “I didn’t know I was included in that offer.” A beat passes before his smile curves up nice and slow. “Dangerous thing to offer up your whoopie to a man with a sweet tooth.”
Jack
She bought me dessert.
It’s chocolate and dark and decadent but in no way comparable to Audrey’s whoopie pies.
I don’t know if I should take the slice of chocolate cake as her drawing a line between us after I made the joke about offering up her whoopie or if it’s simply her thanking me for the work I did for her.
Why I made the joke in the first place is beyond me. I already told myself not to mix business with… whatever this thing is between Audrey and me.
I thought helping settle her worries over her business name would make things less awkward.
I thought wrong.
Because there is something about seeing her in something other than her chef’s coat, or the way the table rattles from her leg bouncing beneath it like she’s bracing to bolt, or the way her brown hair flashes auburn in the candlelight that has me wanting to make bad decisions.
A family of four laughs at the table beside us, and across the room, the bartender is busy slinging drinks to the guests on barstools.
Clearing my throat, I refocus. “How’s the cake?”
She cuts off the tip of the cake wedge, bringing it to her lips without meeting my eyes. “Good.”
“Good, huh?” I cut myself a bite. “Coming from a James Beard winner, that’s high praise.”
Her fork stops halfway to her mouth. “You googled me?”
“I researched you,” I correct. “Big difference. My investigation uncovered that you were the pastry chef at the Ritz-Carlton in New York and, yes, a James Beard Award winner.”
Her lips purse to one side. “That was a long time ago.”
“Long time?” I force my eyes to hers and not her lips. “I’d argue that. Four years isn’t so long.”
After a beat, she wraps her lips around her bite of cake.
Clearing my throat, I sit back. “And unless I’m mistaken, they don’t just give out James Beard awards like Santa does candy canes.”
I’m rewarded—tortured?—when her lips twitch around her fork, as if fighting a smile.
I grab my knife and butter a piece of cornbread I have no intention of eating. “So what was it like working at one of the world’s most prestigious and well-known establishments?”