4. CHAPTER 4
Zuri
I pace the café’s tiled floor. Each step echoes in the space with chipped chairs upturned on the wobbly tables. I don’t need to walk around the wall to know the other half of the café is set up the same way. Ten tables, each with four to six chairs. Yep, not quite what I envisioned for my plan. And settling for less isn’t how I want to start a business.
But that’s the least of my problems. Jeremy will be here soon. With the way he keeps time, he might be twenty or thirty minutes early.
I rub my eyes, not proud of how I’m going about this. Relying on his financial assistance feels like an odd compromise. I’ve always dreamed of visiting Colorado, and under different circumstances, attending a wedding with Jeremy wouldn’t require such a trade. But the harsh reality is my café needs this money.
A steely cold tightens its grip around my stomach, and I press my hands against the clamping pain. More than the café’s future unsettles me. Confidence prompted me to text, but was I wrong to meet here after work hours and disrupt his schedule?
As I glance toward the kitchen, at the cash register where bags of our dinner supplies await, a soft knock at the half-open door jolts me back to reality. Jeremy emerges, handsome as if he just stepped out of a glossy magazine. His brown hair, sleek and well combed, shines under the recessed lighting. His broad shoulders stretch out the crisp white button-down, neatly tucked into navy dress pants.
My heart lurches to a stop, misses a beat, and then starts to thump. How misguided my grand plan for this meeting was! With his sophisticated air and polished appearance, he’s out of place in my work-in-progress café. He’s too refined for a self-prepared dinner here. As for my fantasies about him since the day we met, they’re just dreams. The last time I dated someone in my brother’s circle, I ended up messing up his friendship. If I fall for Jeremy and things don’t work out, Damien might have to find another job. But that won’t be a problem because I’m not Jeremy’s type. Well, I’d thought I was Mike’s type, but he didn’t find me attractive enough to stick with me. So, I have no idea whose type I am. With each step Jeremy makes forward, my confidence wavers and morphs into a growing sense of inadequacy. I feel every bit too unsettled, too short not to be overlooked.
“Hello.”
I shake my head and work to breathe normally. His approach, weaving through the haphazardly pushed-aside tables and chairs, seems almost tentative. The soft padding of his leather dress shoes against the beige tile floor marks his progress.
Clearing my throat, I straighten up and muster a smile that better conceal my nerves. “I hope you don’t mind meeting here.” Good. I sound more confident than I feel.
“Not at all.” He pauses to sit on the edge of a table and scans the space. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here.”
“Three months is a long time for a restaurant to be closed. I got a good deal on the lease because it had sat so long.”
He scratches his stubbled jaw. “I haven’t been here in a year. Most times, I eat at my desk. Jill arranges my food delivery.”
And here’s an opportunity to share my vision. “That’s why I need this café. To convince people like you to step away from your desk when it’s mealtime.”
“Is that so?” His well-sculpted mouth curves into such a charming smile I can’t maintain eye contact, so I start walking and beckon him to follow.
“As you can see, changes are necessary.” I gesture around the room, my fingers brushing over the vacant tables and chairs. “I want this place to be a haven for conversations, an escape from the office routine.” I pause to face him. “You know what I mean?”
Jeremy shakes his head, his gaze shifting from the dark-gray walls back to me. His warm blue eyes seem to absorb every detail. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
A nervous chuckle jitters free, and I wring my hands. “No, far from it. My blog was my focus, but it never paid the bills.” But he doesn’t have time to listen to me ramble, so I steer the conversation elsewhere and guide him to the wall bisecting the café. “I’m not sure who designed this layout, but I spoke with your company’s architect. This isn’t a support wall, so it can be torn down. It’s less than inviting now.”
He holds up a hand, stilling me. “By less inviting, you mean?”
“Closed off.” I fumble with my sleeve. “An open space feels warmer, more communal. People can see each other, maybe even interact over their meals.” More than anything, I believe in the power of food to bring people together. “Food has a unique way of opening people up and fostering connections. It’s a powerful tool in combating loneliness.”
“That’s a concept I’ve never encountered before.”
Pointing at him, I grin. “You will soon.” Especially since I’m hoping to cook with him and discuss this whole fake-date arrangement. My plan now seems tangible with him standing here, though it still feels like a leap into the unknown. At least, this is the perfect setting to ease my nerves.
“I want to show you something.” I beckon him toward the kitchen. The small functioning fridge’s familiar hum fills the otherwise silent space, a stark reminder of the broken commercial fridge, a dormant giant needing replacement. The freezer, too, might need a fix. These are just a few of the many expenses looming over my start-up dream. In the meantime, I’m paying the lease without turning any profit. I try not to think about that.
I grab the red apron hanging by the kitchen entrance and toss it to him. He catches it, eyeing its carrot and herb decorations. Slipping mine with its puff-print cupcakes over my head, I tie it at the back.
“What do you want me to do with this?” He waves it at me.
“We’re going to cook our dinner.” I stifle a laugh at what could be a challenge to him. His eyes widen. I know full well his hectic work schedule probably means a late-night dinner. “You haven’t eaten yet, right?”
“I usually order takeout.” He shrugs and slips on the apron.
“I figured as much.” Damien often mentions Jeremy’s long office hours. “I thought it’d be a good idea to discuss your brother’s wedding and the whole fake-date situation while we cook.”
“Okay.” He moves to the sink and rolls his shirtsleeves higher. Then he fumbles with the apron strings, and I laugh, step close, and show him how to tie it properly. But he’s grumbling. “For your information, the only reason I’m wearing an apron for the first time is that I know you’re taking charge of whatever we’re cooking.”
“And I’m ever so grateful you’re here.” My whole body feels light as I finish tying his apron strings. There’s a sophisticated scent coming off him, subtle yet captivating.
As he meticulously washes his hands, I struggle not to look at him. Still, I watch the movement of his strong forearms, and my mouth dries. Wait—am I drooling?
Get a grip, girl!Clicking my tongue at myself, I move to the empty sink beside him and turn on the faucet. I lather the soap to wash my hands, though not with his thoroughness. After drying my hands with a paper towel, I cross to the long counter to gather the necessary supplies and ingredients for our first baking adventure together.
“What are we making?” He wipes his hands and cocks his head, leaning in behind me.
“Shortbread cookies.” I peep over my shoulder to check his reaction.
“Did I happen to tell you they’re my favorite?”
“I had to go with some favorites if we’re diving into deep matters.” My chest warms, a connection already forming in this shared activity. The night we met, I learned all the basics about him.
He steps closer, his presence dominating the space. “What do you want me to do?”
“There’s a mixer in that bag.” I point to the red tote. “If you don’t mind getting it, that would be great.”
When he retrieves the hand mixer, I open the sugar bag and pass him the measuring cup. “Pour two-third cups of sugar into the mixing bowl,” I instruct. As he delicately pours the sugar, almost as if fearing his arm might break, I cut in butter, splash vanilla, and sprinkle salt into the same bowl. Once we’ve creamed that, I set him to open the flour. “While the cookies bake, we’ll start on dinner.”
“What’s for dinner?” He dips the cup into the flour. Is he that meticulous by nature or just trying to avoid making a mess?
“Steak fajitas and veggies.” At his precision movements, a mischievous thought teases me. Imagining his neatly trimmed beard or face smeared with a bit of a mess, I struggle to suppress a cackle.
“What’s so funny?” He eyes me, his eyebrows rising.
“Remember how I talked about food wars in our home kitchen?”
“Uh-oh. What exactly are food wars again?”
I dig my hand into the flour, scoop a handful, and step on tiptoes to smudge it on his cheek. He gasps followed by a comically exaggerated frown.
“That’s a food war.” I flick the rest at his apron.
Jeremy swats flour off the now-dusty red apron. Then, his grin mischievous, he reaches for the flour bag. “Ah, a food fight. Well, now you’re going to get it!”
“No, don’t!” I shield myself with my hand and scoot further away. He thrusts his hand into the bag, and I dash off, my laughter echoing around the kitchen.
“You’re not getting away with this, Zuri.”
Uh-oh. I love the way my name slips off his tongue. Could be why I stop running and he catches up to smear my left cheek with flour and then my right.
“Not fair.” I protest as we engage in a playful tussle of me trying to get the bag from him, which is ridiculous when he simply holds it over our heads. To reach, I’d have to climb him like a monkey to a tree. Unless… I tickle his side, and the bag comes down. As I scoop it, our laughter floats with the flour now flying everywhere until we’re both dusted as white as powder sugar doughnuts.
While we catch our breath, he brushes some flour from my face, tracing the curve of my cheek. I can scarcely breathe as his fingers trail slowly, lingering, edging toward my mouth. It might be intentional. It takes willpower not to nip his flour-coated fingertip as he locks his eyes with mine. In that instant, time seems to pause as if we’ve forgotten the world outside, and awareness simmers between us. Thick and unmistakable.
I look away, clearing my throat. “We, uh, made quite a mess.” My voice sounds ridiculously strange! And now I’m afraid to look at him. I survey the kitchen floor coated in a fine layer of flour.
“Worth it.” At his chuckle, I manage to look into blue eyes still a twinkle. My cheeks warm, but my smile stretches wide.
“Now we got carried away and used up all the flour.” I crouch to pick up the bag. “That means no cookies.”
“There’s not enough for too many cookies, but there’s enough for our dinner.” He points to the mixing bowl.
Our impromptu flour fight confirms he’s slipped into my world, turning an ordinary evening into something delightful. Cooking dinner together feels just right.
“You better show me what to do next if those cookies are going to get baked.”
Right. I dust the flour off my apron.
“Good thing I have a change of clothes in my office.” He keeps dusting off more remnants of flour from himself.
“You don’t need to change.” Careful not to slip on the floury floor, I move to the fridge for eggs. From what I’ve been told, all the executive offices have showers, which is probably why he isn’t stressed about the mess I made of him.
Our hands brush as he takes the salt from me, and a little zap sizzles through my veins.
Jeremy’s cautious yet willing participation in this wraps me up in warmth. Is it possible we might be cooking up something more than a fake-date arrangement?
***
The aroma of sizzling steak and freshly baking cookies fills the kitchen, while the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the steady hum of the refrigerator provide a comforting backdrop. Jeremy and I move in sync, and our easy conversation flows.
Taking advantage of the moment, I broach the subject of our gathering. It had better not be a sensitive topic. “I get the feeling your mom likes to be in control of things?”
He pauses his chopping, the green pepper forgotten. “What?”
“I mean, considering you feel the need to lie to her about your wedding date.”
His oh-so-well-formed lips curve, and his eyes gleam. “‘In control of things’ is putting it lightly. Spend two minutes with my mom, and you’ll see how much she loves micromanaging. If she could, even flies would be camping out in roses by her command.”
I laugh at his statement. “About your wedding proposition…” I stir the meat sizzling in the pan. “I’ve given it some thought, and I’m willing to do it.” Of course, I am! My heart races at the mere thought. He is undeniably handsome. What girl wouldn’t want to be his date, even if it’s just pretend?
He sets down his knife. “You’re agreeing to be my fake fiancée?”
Wait. Fiancée? “I thought it was just a fake date.”
“If we’re going to convince my mother of our relationship, a ring would make it more believable.”
I touch my naked ring finger. A fake proposal is far from the dream I’ve always harbored.
“I’ll buy the ring, of course,” he adds, seeming to notice my hesitation. “I know wearing a ring might be a step too far—”
“No, I’ll do it.” I shouldn’t have any second-guessing, really. “When is the wedding?”
“The first weekend in April, despite the unpredictable Colorado weather.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit Colorado.” I try not to focus on my financial needs. “Going there could be a trade enough in itself.”
He holds up a palm in the universal stop signal. “You need funds for your café, and that was our agreement.”
So he’s a man of his word. Even though I want to tell him to loan me the money instead, I’ll discuss that later. “This wasn’t the way I dreamed of a proposal.”
“No?”
I shake my head.
“What idea of a proposal did you have in mind?” With his tone light and carefree, he keeps his full focus on me. The knife now rests on the cutting board, and he seems interested in what I have to say rather than the task I assigned him. Might as well tell him since he’s becoming a friend, sort of.
“It’s silly, but I like it simple. Thoughtful proposals, nothing overly fancy, but something unusual.” I flip the steak strips, thinking of the different engagements I see in movie scenes. “A proposal in the rain or on a hike. Something not too planned.”
“Quite a romantic, huh?”
“Takes a romantic to know one.” I snatch the garlic bulbs on the plate, put them in the press, then squeeze garlic into the meat, and add salt and pepper. “I’ve never played a fake fiancée before, but I guess we’ll need some practice runs if we have to convince your mom.”
“Trust me, where my mother is concerned, we need to be very convincing. She’ll watch you like a hawk.” His jaw clenches when he mentions the length of his mom’s effort to reunite him with his ex. “That’s why we need at least two months to get our facts straight.”
“Hence, the need for practice.” Which may be harder than I anticipated. Especially if he often looks this endearing with a dusting of flour on his chin.
The timer goes off. Using a kitchen towel, I pull the cookies out of the oven.
“Taste test?” He edges in closer.
“They’ll burn your mouth.”
“My mouth is already watering, so burning is not a threat.”
I laugh at his lightheartedness and use a butter knife to scoop a drop cookie. After all, I didn’t have time to refrigerate and cut the dough. He takes it and breaks it in half, sharing it with me. As we each bite into it, I’m reminded of the innocent photo Lexi took of us. The natural ease between us while we ate chocolate felt almost like a rediscovery of something long lost. There’s an undeniable comfort in Jeremy’s presence, a comforting and intriguing familiarity.
Minutes later, the same warmth still envelops us as we sit at one of the tables, our laughter and conversation filling the space. A curious thought nudges me, and I speak before I can caution myself against treading into more personal territory. “What’s your fiancée back home like?”
Are any feelings lingering there?
“Ex-fiancée,” he corrects, his jaw tensing.
Okay, so this is a sensitive subject. I pivot to lighten the mood. “Tell me about your mom, then.”
“She likes to be in control, just like all the women she tries to set me up with.” He sits taller. “My brother sure gave her a shock when he returned from Africa with a fiancée she couldn’t approve of.”
I laugh, picturing the scene. Jeremy’s stories about his mother’s failed matchmaking attempts are not exactly endearing. The way he speaks about his brother, though, displays an unmistakable admiration.
I cut a bite of steak, then pause with it on my fork. “Any embarrassing stories I should know about you and your brother?”
“Oh!” He waves a hand. “Too many to count. If we’re talking about kitchen-related incidents, he’s the cook, not me. There was a time when he tried to bake cookies and used salt instead of sugar. We nearly broke our teeth!”
A chuckle escapes me, and I drop my fork over my meat. “Remind me not to let him near the kitchen at the wedding.”
“How about you and Damien?”
So I tell him some of our mischief on the street where we grew up. How refreshing to see Jeremy’s carefree side while we exchange funny stories, a side most of his work colleagues don’t know about.
When he compliments my cooking, I bob a bow. “Why thank you for your help, kind sir.”
Then I scoot back in my seat. “If we’re going to practice this fake dating…” Group nights should be less intimidating. “I’ll be hosting a Superbowl get-together, and I also hear you have a team-building bowling event in February. Perhaps those are good first times for us to appear as a”—I form air quotes—“couple?”
“Actually, the awards ceremony is not this weekend but the following Saturday. Would you do me the honor of being my date?” He mimics my air quotes.
Right. My friends have been shopping for formal outfits for that ceremony. But… “Only spouses of staff are invited, though.”
“You’re officially my spouse.” The way he says it with a wink ignites unwanted butterflies in my belly. But I know it’s nothing.
We make plans for our upcoming “dates” for February, exchanging amused glances. Even though we’ve just met, an undeniable comfort and ease relaxes me. Sitting here with him, sharing stories, and planning our charade feels fun. Being his fake fiancée, while daunting, also promises to be the perfect recipe for adventure.