Chapter 20
Chapter 20
I spend the next few days focusing on two things: working on my High Tea proposal and avoiding Jason like the Bubonic Plague. Although the first thing should be my absolute key priority, it’s virtually impossible to keep Jason from seeping into my consciousness, like a spilled glass of red wine into carpet.
Yup, much like Lady Macbeth in Shakespeare’s famous play, Jason has become a “damned spot” I simply cannot get out. (Although, unlike in Macbeth , I don’t have the invisible blood of King Duncan on my hands, and I’m sincerely hoping I don’t go mad in the process.)
Sean would be so proud of me.
“Hey, Sophie. What are you doing here?”
I look up from scribbling notes in my notepad and blink at the guy standing by my table. “Oliver.” I try to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, but really, Oliver “feeder” Price is the last person I want to see, particularly when I have a cake stand stacked with delectable treats currently placed on the table in front of me. Let’s face it, that’s akin to having a line of tequila shots in front of an alcoholic.
I paste on a smile. “I’m, ah, doing some research.”
“For the high tea place you work at?”
I nod. “Cozy Cottage High Tea.”
He taps the side of his nose. “I won’t tell anyone.”
What would it matter if he did? “Err, thanks?”
He looks around the room. “This place is awesome, isn’t it?”
I glance at the lavish surrounds of Operatic, a high tea spot in the affluent suburb of Newmarket in central Auckland. Like the other handful of high tea places I’ve visited in the last couple of weeks—the diet to fit back into my pants begins tomorrow—it’s got the ubiquitous chandeliers, crisp white tablecloths, and quiet and refined atmosphere. No one seems to talk above a whisper, and everyone seems to be on their very best behavior.
It’s all a little yawn-worthy.
“I love their little eclairs, and their mini smoked trout sandwiches, and those tiny scones with jam and cream,” Oliver says with enthusiasm.
Is there any food he doesn’t like? “You’re right. They’re all so good.”
“What I like about them the most, though, is that you can eat them whole. No need to even bite off a chunk.”
I push an image away of Oliver stuffing morsel after morsel into my mouth until it’s totally full of mini sandwiches and little eclairs. “Yes, bite-size is very . . . convenient.”
Just as I’m hoping this conversation is done, a pretty woman about my age in a bright pink dress approaches us and smiles at me. “Hi,” she says as she takes Oliver’s hand in hers.
He plants a kiss on her cheek, turns to me, and says, “This is Cleo. We’re on a date.”
My eyebrows ping upwards. Oh, that poor girl. She has no idea what she’s in for. “Hi, Cleo. I’m Sophie. Is this your first date?”
“Oh, no. I think this is our ninth.”
“It’s our tenth, pumpkin,” Oliver corrects.
Ten dates? Huh . Maybe he hasn’t tried his spoon-feeding trick on her yet?
“Is it? How could I have forgotten one of our dates?”
Oliver wraps his arm around her shoulders. “It’s no big deal, honey.”
She pushes her bottom lip out and replies, “It is to me.” Thankfully, the pouting lasts for a limited time—pouting women is right up at the top of my pet peeves list—before she looks back at me. “How do you two know each other, then?” She lifts her tone from petulant child to actual adult.
“Oh, through a friend a while back,” I say.
Oliver puts his hands up in the air. “Okay, full disclosure, snicker doodle: Sophie and I dated.”
I’m almost too sidetracked by the “snicker doodle” nickname to respond. “Oh, it was just one date, really, and it was over before it began,” I explain hastily.
“I don’t mind,” Cleo says to me with a shake of her pretty head. She turns her gaze to Oliver. “We all have our pasts, don’t we, baby cakes?”
Oliver cups her face in his hand and gazes at her. “You’re such a wonderful person. Do you know that, pudding?”
Baby cakes? Pudding? Added to a list that includes snicker doodle as a term of endearment and I’m beginning to feel pretty darn queasy.
After a moment of mutual gazing, they seem to realize I’m still sitting here beside them like the dumb third wheel I am.
“It was great to see you, Sophie.”
“Yes. You, too, Oliver,” I lie.
He spies something on my cake stand, and his eyes light up. “Ooh, we didn’t try a lime and avocado mini cheesecake.” He looks at me, and I know exactly what he’s going to ask before the words spill out. “Would it be weird if we tried one?”
I want to scream out that this whole thing is weird, but instead, I simply nod. What else am I going to do? He scoops one of the cheesecakes up, takes a bite, then pops the rest into “babycake’s” open mouth.
“Mmm. So good,” Cleo replies with a big grin.
Cleo likes the spoon-feeding. I guess Oliver’s found his perfect mate.
“Come on, sugar-daddy, take me home,” she coos.
Sugar-daddy? Oh, I’m definitely queasy now.
Thankfully, they say their goodbyes, and I’m left to contemplate whether I can stomach eating anything after their little display.
Oliver has a girlfriend, a fully grown woman who clearly enjoys being fed. I guess what weirds one person out makes another person happy. And they did look happy together. I guess it just goes to show, there’s someone out there for everyone.
It’s not that I’m not happy for Oliver. Far from it. In fact, I’m ecstatically happy for him. It’s just . . . I guess I want what he has with Cleo—well, not with Cleo exactly, and definitely not that whole weird feeding thing they’re into. Gross. No, what I want is to find someone who makes me smile. Someone I feel totally at ease with. Someone who gets me. Someone who gets my pulse racing and makes my belly flip and flop all over the place whenever I think of him.
Maybe someone who looks amazing fresh out of the shower in nothing but a towel . . .?
Argh! No, no, no, no, no!
I cannot go there. It’s not Jason. It can’t be. He’s wrong for me on so many levels. Layers and layers of levels stacked high into the clouds like a freaking skyscraper.
Levels like the fact we’re roommates, and messing that up would make home life beyond awkward.
Levels like he’s a serial cute-and-perky-nurse-dater, with a revolving door policy on relationships.
Levels like we’re friends, best friends, and everyone knows friends and romance don’t mix.
Don’t they?
Seriously, there is no planet in this solar system where Jason and I can be together.
Deep in the layers of my skyscraper visualization, I must look like I’m in some sort of haze because one of the servers asks me if I’m okay, his features creased in concern. “Is there something you’re unhappy with, miss?” he asks as he gestures at the virtually untouched food on the three-tiered cake stand on my table.
“Absolutely not. It all looks delicious.” And just to prove that I’m a perfectly normal person who isn’t obsessing about her roommate, I pluck a slice of smoked salmon atop a pumpernickel round from the stand and pop it in my mouth.
And it is delicious. All of it. Despite wanting to, I cannot fault the food in this place, or in any of the places I’ve visited.
Which makes my task of pulling a proposal on how to resurrect High Tea’s flailing customer numbers so much harder.
I’m sprawled out on the sofa, my belly full of the Operatic treats I indulged in earlier in the day, when I get a text from Cameron, asking me to go out with him the next day.
Are you free for drinks tomorrow night?
Of course I can’t meet him tomorrow night. Rules of the No More Bad Dates Pact clearly state Initial Contact must be over coffee during the day. No liquor to influence decision making, cold light of day rational thinking required.
I tap out my reply.
Can we meet for coffee in the morning tomorrow instead? You name the place.
My phone pings straight away with his reply, naming a café I’ve not been to before in the central city. I picture Cameron in all his tall, athletic, Clark Kent glory. If anyone can help me conquer my feelings for Jason, Superman can.
He’s got to.
I hear the key in the lock and sit bolt upright. My nerves instantly zing around inside at the prospect of seeing the one person I’ve been working hard at avoiding.
Oblivious to my internal turmoil, Jason breezes into the living room in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that’s tight enough around his upper arms to show off his muscles, and slim-fitting enough to do more than hint at the buff torso beneath. And yes, I know what you’re thinking. Why did I look? If I’m working so hard at avoiding him, why let myself down by gawping at him now? It’s a very good question.
All I can say is Superman, I need you now . . .
Jason’s face breaks into a grin when he sees me. “Hey, McCarthy. How’s it going?” He wanders over to the kitchen and pulls a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, pops the cap, and takes a long drink.
“It’s going great, thanks. Just great.” I clear my throat and avert my gaze. Finally. Instead, I choose to concentrate on a scatter cushion on the sofa next to me. It’s one Mum gave me for my birthday a couple of years back. It’s got an image of a Parisian cat in a beret, a cup of coffee in hand—or should that be “in paw?”—as it looks out at me with a self-assured grin. “I bet you don’t have to deal with inappropriate crushes on your roommate,” I mutter under my breath to the cat.
Yup, things have gotten that bad, people.
I hear footsteps and look up to see Jason leave the room. I sigh. “Oh, to be a French cat with nothing to worry about than the fact you don’t have opposing thumbs to hold your cup of coffee.”
The cat doesn’t reply.
“I bet your name is Gerard or Pierre or something like that.”
No response.
“Oh, I know, you’re Francois the French Feline.”
The sound of Jason’s water bottle against the glass coffee table pulls me out of my mildly insane feline ponderings. He flops down onto the sofa next to me. “Who the heck are you talking to, McCarthy?”
“No one.” Embarrassed, I push the French cat cushion behind my back and shift over to get as far away from him as I can. “I assume you’ve been to the gym?”
He arcs an eyebrow. “Do I smell that bad?”
I don’t dare risk inhaling his scent for fear of what it may do to me, so I fan my nose and say, “It’s pretty bad.”
“Oh, well. I guess a man has got to get a bit stinky in the process.” He flexes his arm muscle, and says, “This doesn’t just happen by itself, you know. It’s long, hard workouts and tireless dedication.”
I let out a jittery laugh as I drag my gaze from his bulging bicep. Where’s that French cat when I need him? Oh, yeah, I’m currently squashing him against the back of the sofa.
Thankfully, Jason relaxes his arm and leans back. “How was your day? Weren’t you doing more research or something?”
“I went to Operatic.” I pat my belly. “I’m so full, I can barely move.”
“It was good, huh?”
“Yeah, it was. All the places I’ve visited have been amazing. Great food, gorgeous interiors, everything is elegant and refined. And they’re busy, like all the time. I’m really struggling to work out how to fix High Tea.”
“You’ll come up with something. I know you will.”
Because he has faith in me.
Thoughts like this are not helping me kick my Jason obsession. I’ve got to focus on something I don’t like about him. Something like the fact he sometimes makes the coffee too strong in the morning, or the fact he leaves his towel draped across the bath sometimes instead of hanging it on the rail.
I can hear a voice in the back of my head asking, “Is that all you got?” I slump my shoulders in defeat.
Yeah, I got nothing.
“You okay, Soph?”
I come back to reality to see Jason peering at me, his handsome face creased with mildly amused concern.
“Oh, of course. Sorry. I was in la-la land.”
Thinking about you.
“Thinking about High Tea?”
“Yes, absolutely. That’s what I was doing; thinking about High Tea.”
Not what it would feel like to have those strong, muscular arms wrapped around me as we’re locked in a passionate, toe-curling, utterly breathtaking kiss.
Definitely not that.
“Here’s what I think. You’ve got a great place with delicious food, all served up in those ridiculously small sizes.”
“Bite-size.”
“More like chick -sized. Give me a man-sized burger any day.”
“I thought you were going to tell me what you thought about how to fix High Tea?”
His eyes dance when he replies, “I can share my love of burgers too, can’t I?”
I let out a light laugh as the extreme awkwardness I was feeling only moments ago begins to diminish.
“Anyway, my point is, all these places have similar offerings, right? So far, so universal. What I would do if I were you would be to look at what Cozy Cottage High Tea either does or can start to do that’s different.”
I nod as his idea sinks in, “It’s U.S.P.”
“U.S.P.?”
I prop my elbow up on the sofa arm. “Are you telling me I know something Doctor Christie doesn’t know?” I tease.
“I would hope you know a whole load of stuff I don’t know, for your sake. Otherwise, you’re in way deeper trouble than I thought.”
I grin at him. “Oh, I know plenty.”
This. This is what I want. Talking, teasing one another, everything between us relaxed and easy going. The old Jason and Sophie. Roommates. Friends.
Not all twisted up in knots over wanting him when I know I shouldn’t. Time to move on dot com. #GetOverIt.
“In case you want to know, U.S.P. stands for Unique Selling Point. It’s what Cozy Cottage High Tea has that other high tea places do not.”
“Exactly. Find the ‘U.S.P.,’” he uses air quotes, “and you’ve got the magic formula.”
I tap my chin in the internationally recognized “I’m thinking” gesture. And then it hits me, right like that, right out of the blue. I know what the Cozy Cottage has got that the other places haven’t. I know its U.S.P.
My pulse speeds up and I feel a lightness in my chest. I look up at Jason. “I think I just cracked it.”
“That was fast, even for a mastermind ninja like you.”
“Think about it. Who knows the Cozy Cottage better than me?”
“Its owners?”
“Well, sure, but they haven’t been able to make High Tea work. And I think I might have a hunch why.”
“Why?”
I bite my lip. “I need to get my head straight first. But I think this is going to be great!”
His smile is full of warmth when he says, “You’re so cute when you’re excited.”
Despite all my efforts to deny the way I feel, my heart swells. Suddenly, I’m all awkward around him once more. “I’ll, ah, go work on that idea now.” I hop up from the sofa.
“Right, I’d better go get showered and dressed. I’m out for dinner tonight.”
“With Megan?” I ask and am embarrassed when my voice comes out all breathy.
“Actually, yes.”
I try not to let it sting. “That’s got to be a record for you. All the other nurses in the line must be getting annoyed by now,” I joke.
He stands up beside me, and I work hard at not noticing how tall and imposing he is. Tall, imposing, and completely gorgeous.
Dear Lord, help me.
“There’s no line, McCarthy, just a seemingly endless pool of willing participants.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
He gives a shrug before he collects his empty water bottle from the table. “I’m just giving the people what they want. And tonight, that’s dinner at Chez Pierre.”
I swallow, my chest tightening. “You’re going to Chez Pierre?
“Yeah. I’ll have to resist the urge to try to feed anyone while I’m there, though.”
“Oh, very freaking funny. Actually, I’ve got a date myself coming up soon.” I watch his face for a reaction and am secretly pleased when I detect what might just be a hint of concern.
“You mean an Initial Contact, and then we’ll need to interrogate him until we break him.”
“You won’t break him. I bet he’ll pass with flying colors. He’s really sweet, and a really great guy.” Yup, I’m laying it on thick here.
He shakes his head. “That’s how it all begins. Even the merman looked good to you in the beginning, remember? Before you found out he likes to swim around in people’s pools with his perfectly serviceable legs jammed into a fake fish fin.”
Channeling the nonchalant attitude of Francois the French cat, I wave his acerbic comment away with a flick of the wrist. “Cameron’s nothing like him. He used to play rugby, and he’s in great shape.”
“McCarthy, a lot of guys played rugby.”
“For New Zealand?”
His mouth forms an “o.” “He played for New Zealand?”
I press my lips together, enjoying his reaction. “That’s right. Although the poor guy got injured and had to retire. He still looks like he could be a professional sportsman, though. In fact, Cameron looks like Dan Carter crossed with Superman.”
“Cameron?”
I nod. “Cameron Lewis. Why? Do you know who he is?”
Jason’s jaw is on the floor. As suspected, he knows precisely who he is. “Ah, yeah, I do. He was the best halfback the Cyclones had in years. His career was over after one lousy game for the All Blacks. He shattered the country’s dream.”
I use air quotes when I reply, “‘Shattering the country’s dream’ seems a little over the top, Jas, even for a mad rugby fan like you.”
He wanders to the kitchen to collect his phone from the counter and types something in. He turns the phone around, and I see an image of Cameron dressed in a Cyclones team uniform. The camera has caught him as he’s running, ball tucked under one arm, his leg muscles strong and pronounced. His brows are knitted together in concentration and he looks every bit the strong, manly rugby player he is.
I take the phone from Jason and study the image. “That’s him. I didn’t recognize him when we were talking, but now that I see him dressed like this, I know I’ve seen him play on TV.”
“You have. With me, right here in our apartment.”
I concentrate on the image. “Cameron Lewis, huh? All those rugby games I sat through with you, and now I’m going on a date with a star player.”
Jason’s mouth twists, and I think I detect something lurking beneath the surface. “It sucked when he got injured. The All Blacks needed him. His country needed him. The man had such potential.”
I hand him back his phone. “Well, I would have to agree with that statement.”
I’m not proud. I know I’m teasing him. I thought it would make me feel better. I thought it might help to push my feelings for Jason away. It doesn’t. It only makes me want him all the more. Especially when I see the look on his face. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks . . . hurt.
What the flipping heck am I doing?
He pulls his lips together into a line. “Well, I hope he’s what you’re looking for, Soph. I’ll, ah, catch you later, I guess.” He drops his empty water bottle into the recycling bin and walks down the hallway. A moment later, I hear his door close.
Great work, Sophie! I’ve teased the guy I want to be with over a guy I don’t want to be with, and now he’s clearly unhappy with me.
I wander back to the sofa, flop down, and balance the cat cushion on my knees. Francois the French Feline is slightly creased from being shoved into the back of the sofa but otherwise fine. I smooth the cushion out with my hand. At the risk of sounding like I’ve completely lost my grip on reality, I whisper, “Francois, what am I going to do?”
Francois, arrogant French cat that he is, does not respond.