Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Archer
By six o’clock the next morning, I already have regrets in taking on The Serendipity. Or, at least, in staying here. When we realized the furniture wouldn’t be here, Bellamy suggested he book me a suite at the hotel a few blocks away where he’s staying.
I couldn’t articulate my reasons, but it somehow felt significant that I stay here. The kind of gut instinct I don’t ignore.
Now, waking up aching and exhausted, I’d like to fire my gut instinct.
My air mattress leaked slowly through the night, which required me to add more air. Twice. A few hours later, it had almost fully deflated, leaving me like a human hot dog in the center of a floppy air mattress bun.
Physical discomfort aside, my ability to sleep was also hindered by the events of the evening. Specifically, the woman who appeared in my closet with her ridiculous story. I was thrown by the whole encounter, and her face kept popping up in my mind, along with paranoid and intrusive thoughts about someone being in my closet.
I checked the space both times I got up to refill the air mattress. Empty. Thankfully.
But I can’t help but wonder if there could be some secret passage—another way for Willow to have entered. The Serendipity is old, and if any building were to have hidden features like that, this would be it. I feel around for hidden cracks, knock and listen for hollow sounds, and run my fingers up the wall searching for hinges.
I find nothing.
But I do make a note to contact Galentine to ask if she has blueprints of the building. Just to double-check.
After a cup of coffee—thankfully, I brought my Jura machine from the city—I find a hair tie by the front door, one Willow must have lost last night. Though I intend to throw it away, I slip it into my pocket instead, next to my mints.
I haven’t been intrigued by a woman in a long time. Maybe ever? My relationships have never been particularly engaging. They’ve been more about finding someone suitable who isn’t only interested in my money.
Patricia, the last woman I dated, wasn’t intriguing so much as a woman who made sense. I was wrong, but that’s beside the point.
Willow makes no sense.
Not her appearance in my apartment. Not her flimsy explanation—or her lie. A woman who can’t be honest or who had some kind of strange temporary amnesia—another idea I had while listening to the slow hiss of air leaving my mattress—is not someone I should be thinking about.
And yet, I struggle to banish thoughts of her from my mind. The memory of the way her fingertips brushed over the back of my hand—and the reaction it elicited—makes me shiver now.
Work . Work should help. Especially when I consider the mountain of tasks at hand, starting with forging some semblance of organization out of the mess in Galentine’s office. My office now.
Though she cleared out most of her personal items, the clutter on the large wooden desk and on every other surface makes me twitchy. The filing cabinets might as well be tables, as manila folders are stacked haphazardly on top. Galentine’s version of organization could best be described as chaotic, and it takes me an hour just to sort things into somewhat organized piles.
No order. Hardly any labels. No rhyme or reason to what I find.
One folder contains nothing but movie ticket stubs.
Another: receipts so old, the paper is soft and the ink has faded too much to read.
Yet a different folder holds a collection of Serendipity Star newspaper articles from the 1990s, clipped seemingly at random.
I should throw them all away, but it’s hard when I don’t know if there is some secret significance to the articles and movie stubs—perhaps something Galentine might have forgotten? I toss the unreadable receipts in the trash and place the other two folders in the very back of the bottom drawer, the tabs labeled with a series of question marks.
One of the very first major tasks will be to shift everything from physical to digital. Not only did Galentine not change the rent in the twenty-five years she owned The Serendipity, it appears she was also still using the original paper application and taking payment primarily by check.
Shudder .
Bellamy will help with organization, of course, putting systems in place here, but he’ll be heading back to New York soon. After talking with the board, we decided it would be better to have me out of sight. Bellamy will go back soon to man the ship. Which means this disaster of an office falls squarely on my shoulders.
Hire someone.
I should. I will. The little voice in my head is wise, but the louder voice is stubborn, telling me to do as much of the work myself as I can. I need to learn the operations so I can improve them. It would be harder to manage someone at this point when I’m still getting my bearings. Once things are in a more manageable working order, then I’ll hire someone.
There is another, deeper reason why I feel compelled to do the kinds of tasks I’d usually hire out. The headlines were hard to read but easier to ignore: Illegal Gaines: Like Father, Like Son? Credit to them for creative use of our last name.
But the accusations flung from reporters anytime they could get at me … those were different. One man slipped past my security as I was mobbed leaving a lunch meeting.
Before he was yanked away, he managed to spit on my tie and say, “You might still be walking free, but don’t think for a minute you’re any different from your old man.”
As I ducked into the waiting car, Bellamy squeezed my shoulder and said, “They’re just trying to get a reaction out of you.”
I knew that and still know it, but the words struck and landed.
Now, I carry them with me, less like a haunting weight and more like a torch. I refuse to be like my father. Not as a businessman; not as a man.
And if that means I sometimes make choices like this—to acquire and then be hands-on with something like The Serendipity—then I’ll dig in and do the minutiae and the hard work. Even if it’s not typical for someone like me and I’m in over my head.
I can only spend so much time in the office before it starts to feel like the walls are closing in on me. The antique desk is too large for the room, making it feel smaller than it is. It must have been assembled inside. I might have to chop it into pieces to remove it.
With my furniture delivery set for later this afternoon and an hour before Bellamy is set to arrive, I head down to the lobby alone. I’d like to assess the parlor and the library spaces to see how they might be repurposed into more functional—and profitable—areas.
A waste of space , I think as I march down the grand circular staircase at the front of the building. Tearing it out to replace it with a regular set of stairs would free up a little bit of square footage on every floor. For storage or bumping out the apartments next to them for added space. Anything would be more useful than a dramatic staircase taking up unnecessary square footage.
I make a note to ask the engineer when we talk next week about other structural changes. I can see how, at one time, this stairway might have made for grand entrances. Perhaps when The Serendipity was a women’s dormitory, at a time when men would have been banned from rooms and waited here for their dates or girlfriends.
The tiniest twinge of something tugs at my chest, and I shake it off.
Galentine’s influence is lingering a little too much in my head.
“Good morning, Mr. Gaines. Hope you’re settling in well.”
I’m startled by the voice and almost stumble down the last step. An older woman I’m sure I haven’t met stands at the wall of mailboxes, a few envelopes in hand. She has a bright smile, wild white curls, and jangly bracelets on both arms.
“Hello. Yes. Thank you.”
My words come out stiffly, and my mind spins, trying to make a connection. Have we met? Should I know her name? Willow mentioned rumors last night, so clearly, Galentine spoke to at least some of the residents about me. Anyone could have googled the sale of the building to find out my name.
“I’m Sylvia,” she says. “Fourth floor, toward the back. I made an educated guess that you’re the new owner based on Galentine’s description. I think she said well-dressed but not fully because he never smiles. It’s a reference to the movie Annie .”
This is a lot of information to take in. “Happy to meet you.”
“Are you?” she asks, the smile on her lips turning sly. “Happy?”
I don’t get a chance to answer as another woman barrels down the hallway, being dragged by a monstrously large, hairy dog who shoves his head right into my hand and starts bathing it with a proportionally large tongue.
“I’m so sorry!” the woman says breathlessly, brushing her dark hair from her face and tugging on the leash. “Archibald, no!”
I freeze at the sound of my full name, then realize she’s talking to this beast with overactive salivary glands. My entire hand is slimy by the time the woman manages to pull him back.
“Your dog’s name is Archibald?” I ask.
“Yes. And he’s still learning his manners. He’s just a puppy.”
“A puppy? ”
The beast is sitting now, his city-block sized tongue hanging out of his mouth, drool puddling on the hardwoods.
“He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog. This is one of the few apartment buildings in town without a weight limit on dogs.”
Not for long.
Needing an immediate escape and a hand-washing, I make a beeline for the kitchen—one more useless room that’s a vestige of the building’s past.
But I open the door to the kitchen and find it already occupied—by the woman who has been residing in my thoughts since last night.
“Willow,” I say.
She startles, dropping a cup of flour. A white cloud rises around her face.
My mouth tightens, unsure if it wants to grimace or smile. “Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Coughing, Willow waves a hand through the air, stepping back from the stainless-steel prep table, which, even aside from the flour, is already a mess. Mixing bowls, bins of flour and sugar, and a variety of other baking paraphernalia litter every surface in the room. It makes Galentine’s office look tidy.
“Will a ,” she corrects, coughing once more. “Remember? I’m a person, not a tree.”
“Right.”
Willa—not a tree. Will a .
“What’s happening in here?” I ask, glancing at the stainless steel worktable littered with baking supplies.
The urge to reach for my mints is strong, but I remember my saliva-covered hand and curl it into a fist at my side, itching to push past Willa and wash it off.
“Oh,” Willa says, seemingly surprised at the question. “I use the kitchen for my business.”
“Which is?”
Her cheeks flush, turning the same rosy pink as the frilly apron she wears. “I’m a baker.” Her tone of voice is defensive.
“And you bake what, exactly?”
“Cookies,” she says, sounding even more defensive. She’s even clutching a rolling pin now, like she’s prepared in case she needs to use it as a weapon.
I hold back from any remarks I might otherwise make about cookies as a business, not wanting to risk her taking a swing at me.
Instead, I cross the kitchen to the sink, washing away the remnants of my canine namesake. While I’m scrubbing, I make note of the cookie cutters, bowls, and baking sheets piled high in the deep sink.
Cookie baking, indeed.
I turn off the water, only to realize there are no towels of any kind. With dripping hands, I glance around the kitchen.
“Here.” Willa thrusts a towel at me. It’s white with pink cursive writing which reads, Let’s Get Our Bake On!
“Thank you,” I say, drying my hands. “I had an … encounter with a large dog who greeted me with his mouth.”
“Let me guess—Archibald?” Willa smirks. “He’s very cute, but his bad manners won’t be cute when he’s a hundred and fifty pounds of untrained, hairy beast.”
One hundred and fifty pounds?
The horror must be evident on my face because she says, “Don’t worry—Sara just enrolled him in obedience school.”
“Let’s hope he makes the honor roll.”
Willa laughs. “Wow. You just made a joke. I didn’t think you were the type.”
Neither did I. Without thinking, I’ve folded the towel into a neat square. “Here.” I hold it out. “Thanks, Willa the Person.”
She laughs again, and our fingers brush. The same icy zip I felt last night moves up my arm. My pulse quickens, far too much for such a small touch. I walk away, putting the crowded prep counter between us. Apparently, I need the barrier.
Willa stares at the neat square like it’s the first time she’s ever seen a folded towel. I get the sneaking suspicion she’s the kind of woman who keeps all her clothes shoved into drawers. Or maybe lives out of her laundry basket and never puts anything away.
As though to prove my point, Willa rumples the towel a little before tossing it on the counter. I can feel her gaze on me and need somewhere to look. But everywhere, there is just mess .
“Does this kitchen hold the necessary permits for commercial baking?” I ask, reaching out to push a cookie cutter back into line with others.
“Yes. See for yourself.” Willa’s tone is clipped as she points to the wall, where an official looking document is hanging in a cheap frame. Indeed, it’s a city of Serendipity Springs inspection for the kitchen.
And, I can’t help but notice, it expires in exactly ten days.
“Did you and Galentine have a contract for you to rent this space?”
There is a long moment of silence, which is at least a partial answer to my question.
“I had an agreement with Galentine to use the space.” Willa shifts. “But we didn’t—she didn’t ask me to sign anything. We had a verbal agreement. A verbal contract about the appropriate use of the space.”
Clearly, she’s grasping for legal terms. Trying to justify the free use of this kitchen for her business without a written contract or rental agreement. Unless it’s in writing, it won’t hold up in court. As I consider how to explain this to Willa, she sighs and picks up the measuring cup she dropped earlier.
“Want to help?” she asks, not looking up as she levels what I realize is powdered sugar, not flour, into the cup.
“What?”
“You’re standing here, doing nothing. Make yourself useful. Grab that little container of meringue powder.”
I have no idea what meringue powder is, nor did I have any urge to help with baking this or any other morning, yet I find myself instantly responding to Willa’s bossy tone. The meringue powder isn’t hard to locate; it’s in a small white container near the stand mixer Willa is dumping her sugar into. I move next to her, our arms nearly brushing, and hold it out.
When she takes the container from me, a light dusting of powdered sugar covers the lapels of my suit. Frowning, Willa tries to brush them away, only making it worse.
“I’m messing up your nice suit,” she says, dismayed.
“It’s fine. I have more suits.”
But Willa is already untying the apron strings at her back, and before I can protest, she pulls it off. Standing on tiptoes, she tries to drop it over my head but can’t reach.
“You’re a giant,” she says with a giggle. “Duck down.”
Again with that bossy tone. No one speaks to me like this, not even Bellamy, and I find I really like it. At least, coming from her. It makes no logical sense, and yet I find myself obeying her order.
I dip my head, and Willa drops the loop around my neck. “There.”
Her gaze flicks to mine, and only then does she seem to realize how close our faces are. There’s the smallest intake of breath, a tiny gasp, but Willa doesn’t move away. Neither do I. Instead, she leans in and reaches around my waist.
I stop breathing.
For a moment, I think it’s my second hug in twenty-four hours, though this is nothing like Galentine’s embrace. Willa’s cheek presses to my chest and her arms link around my lower back. My muscles tense like over-coiled springs as the scent of her—sugary almond and vanilla—hit my bloodstream like a drug. I swear, I can feel my pupils dilating.
Should I … hug her back? Do I put my arms around her back or her waist or?—
It is at this humiliating moment I realize she’s simply tying the apron strings.
“There we go.” She takes a step back and pats my chest, now covered by a pink, frilly apron. Unaware of how impacted I am by her proximity or my embarrassment for thinking she was hugging me, Willa grins. “I like your business attire, but this suits you.”
“Does it?” My voice sounds rougher than usual, a low growl.
Willa runs her hand over a ridge of ruffles along the top of the apron. She’s not making contact with any part of my skin, yet I feel her touch everywhere.
“Not every man can pull this off, you know. Consider yourself lucky. Now.” Her brisk, businesslike tone returns. “Hand me a clean tablespoon. I need to finish this batch of icing.”
Before I can discern which of the half-dozen measuring spoons is the correct one, the kitchen door swings open.
“Well, good morning!” Bellamy strides into the kitchen, grinning when he sees me standing next to Willa, wearing her apron. “Isn’t this a delightful surprise. Nice to see you again, Willa. Good morning, Archer.”
I am caught, a boy elbow-deep in the cookie jar. Or a man who has better things to do than search for a tablespoon while wearing a pink apron.
“Archer is helping me make royal icing,” Willa says. “I’ll give you a job too, if you’d like one.”
Bellamy waves her off. “I won’t get in the way. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all that. I’ll happily watch.”
I’m keenly aware of Bellamy watching, a smirk on his face. I pointedly ignore him as Willa directs me to add six tablespoons of meringue powder to the stand mixer. She finishes up with water, then attaches a clear plastic shield to the top and turns on the mixer.
“You didn’t measure the water,” I say, hoping my tone comes across how I intend, which is curious, not critical. But with the powdered sugar and meringue powder, she insisted on things being precise. For water, she used a larger measuring cup with a handle and didn’t use it all.
Willa lightly—but very intentionally—steps on my toe before beaming up at me. She explains that royal icing is tricky and there are different consistencies she needs depending on if she’s flooding or piping. I have no idea what the terms she’s using actually mean, but find myself listening raptly anyway, my attention darting between her eyes and her mouth.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” Willa asks, mouth slightly upturned.
“I … no.”
But I’m intrigued all the same. More interested than I’ve ever been in cookies, which I rarely eat. Though it’s the baker, not the baked goods, who has me standing here in a frilly pink apron, playing sous chef.
I’ve forgotten Bellamy is in the room at all until he says, “Did you see these, Archer? Wow, they are exquisite, Willa. Well done.”
“Oh, thank you.”
I step away from Willa, needing but not wanting a respite from her closeness. Somehow, I’ve spent nearly half an hour now in this kitchen and missed the fully decorated cookies drying on a rack. There is a whole cookie zoo, each animal with tiny, expressive faces and the kind of detail I’ve never seen on anything edible. It’s shocking how perfect they are, given the chaos surrounding them and the decidedly messy nature of the one who made them. This kind of detail must take hours and a steady hand. Plus a kind of creative vision I don’t possess.
I’m unable to find words that adequately convey how impressed I am. Words that apparently come so easily to Bellamy.
“Remarkable,” he’s saying now, and I want to elbow him in the side to stop the effusive show of praise. Even though I agree. “You have a gift.”
“Thank you, Bellamy.”
Willa’s cheeks flush, and she fidgets, dragging a finger through a little pile of powdered sugar. Her smile is shy, and another flicker of irritation moves through me at Bellamy’s easy way with people.
Before he walked in, I had no problem speaking with Willa. I forgot to be self-conscious in the way I sometimes can be.
But now I’m far too aware of myself. Overthinking my words. Distracted by my hands and feet. Feeling stupid in this pink apron as Bellamy tugs at the ruffles.
I nudge him away and then untie the strings and pull it over my head.
“I need to get back to work.” I briefly consider putting the apron on Willa the same way she did me, but I can’t with Bellamy here. Instead, I fold it and set it on the edge of the counter.
“Before we go, might you have any samples? I’d die for a bite.” Bellamy smiles mischievously like a naughty schoolboy.
“You don’t need to give him anything,” I tell Willa, glaring at him. “It’s barely breakfast.”
“Well, you’re in luck,” Willa says. “I always have a few rejects and broken pieces.”
Bellamy grins. “As long as the old adage isn’t true about how you are what you eat.”
Willa laughs. “I make no promises. Here.” She holds out a tin she procured from somewhere behind her on the counter.
Bellamy eagerly takes a few pieces, and Willa steps toward me. “You can try them too, if you ask nicely.”
“I’ll take his,” Bellamy says, trying to block me from taking one. “He’s not really a cookies-in-the-morning kind of person. Or a cookies-at-all person. He likes a strict, no-fun meal plan that doesn’t include treats.”
“Give me that.”
I grab for the tin, my hand closing over Willa’s in the process. Though I could shift my grip, I don’t, leaving my fingers over hers as I take my time looking through the messy, misshapen pieces. I’ll be honest: it’s more about holding onto Willa than being selective about which broken piece I choose. Finally, I pick a larger piece covered in vivid pink icing.
“It was part of a hippo,” she says.
“What?”
When I glance up, once again, I find my gaze clashing with hers. She’s the first to look away, nodding down at the cookie in my hand.
“You looked like you were trying to figure out what it was supposed to be. It was a hippo, but I broke it.”
“It’s pink. Hippos aren’t pink.”
“Hippos are a grayish brown in real life, which doesn’t make a particularly cute cookie for a child’s birthday party.”
“People buy these for children? At how much per cookie?”
The flush in Willa’s cheeks is more of a red fire now, and I realize too late how rude my question sounds. I’m not saying what I mean, which is that her cookies are far too beautiful to waste on children who probably wouldn’t appreciate the difference between something hand-decorated and a factory-produced cookie in a package.
Willa turns away without answering, putting away the tin of broken cookies.
“I’m pretty sure your father paid outrageous prices to cater your birthday parties,” Bellamy says drily.
Then he grimaces and shoots me an apologetic look. Those parties were never really for me, and he knows it. I made it through my entire childhood without blowing out a candle. Somewhere, I’ve amassed a whole collection of unused birthday wishes.
If I could use one now, I’d wish to take back my foolish words.
“These are absolutely delicious,” Bellamy says quickly, grabbing another rejected cookie. “What’s the minimum number of cookies to purchase?” he asks. “I might need to place a standing weekly order.”
Of course he would. His love of sugary treats rivals his love of people.
As Bellamy and Willa discuss details, I lift the cookie to my nose and take a deep inhale. Sweet vanilla and something else … almond, maybe?
My mouth waters. I can almost taste it. When was the last time I allowed myself to eat processed sugar? Bellamy tells me I’m too regimented—though he uses a less polite term—about my daily five-mile runs and my refusal to eat sweets.
I realize the room has grown quiet, and both Bellamy and Willa are watching me expectantly to see my reaction.
Immediately, I drop my hand, palming the cookie, feeling a flush work its way up my neck at their attention. This small moment has become too significant.
“We should let you get back to baking,” I say without looking at Willa.
“Right,” Bellamy says. “I’ll be in touch about my orders. Do you have a website?”
Willa pulls a card from a pocket I hadn’t seen in her apron. “All my information is here, and you can place orders online.”
“Wonderful.” Bellamy tucks the card into his pocket. “One more cookie for the road?” he asks, batting his lashes at Willa.
I know he’s not genuinely flirting, but it still bothers me. I’m not sure if it’s his ability to build familiarity so quickly. Or if it’s because he’s turning his charms on Willa.
“You’re incorrigible, aren’t you,” Willa says, swatting at him with the dish towel I used earlier.
“I’m not sure you should insult future long-term customers,” Bellamy says.
“Here,” I say, holding out my piece of cookie. “You can have mine.”
Again, I’ve upset Willa. I can see it in the way her lips purse as she walks back to the stand mixer, testing out the icing consistency and pretending we’ve already gone. She looks hurt, like rejecting a cookie is rejecting her.
It makes me want to grab the tin of broken pieces and shovel them into my mouth.
I try to remind myself that it shouldn’t matter as we say quick goodbyes and leave Willa to her work. This is the same woman who appeared in my closet just last night and is either confused or lying about how she got there.
But already, something has shifted in the way I see her. Which shouldn’t happen. Can’t happen.
She’s a resident here, and I don’t need to make friends. I certainly won’t be making any once I announce the first round of changes I intend to make. One of which needs to be ending the free use of spaces like this.
The thought of telling Willa that has me pulling out my tin of mints and popping one in my mouth. It’s fine. I need the separation and the space. A firm boundary between us.
But all day long, the smell of sweet almond sugar cookies lingers around me, just like thoughts of the woman who baked them. And for the first time in years, I find myself truly longing for something sweet.