Cupcakes & Chardonnay (19 page)

The good feeling didn't last long. The restaurant's back door burst open and Brent's hot, red face appeared. He saw Suzanne and a puzzled expression took over his face. "Did I hear breaking glass? Did something fall?"

"No, I—" Suzanne struggled to explain, gesturing at the dumpster. "I threw it. I'm sorry."

Brent pointed into the restaurant. "You need to go home, Suzanne," he said firmly.

She followed him inside, feeling like a chastened child. "I'm sorry, Brent. I don't know what came over me."

"Home," he repeated. "You need a break."

"You need the help. I can't leave."

Brent stopped and put both hands on Suzanne's shoulders. "I don't know what's going on with the two of you, but you're an emotional wreck. And I don't need that right now. Go home, take a shower, get a nap. Come back when you feel better."

"But my place ..."

"Right. You can't go to your place." He reached deep into the pocket of his chef's pants and pulled out his keys. "Here. Go to my place. Rest for awhile."

Brent quickly hung up his phone when Daryle approached. To Daryle, Brent looked like he was hiding something.

"Where'd Suzanne go?" he asked Brent. Daryle had looked all over for Suzanne after he finished his conversation with Liam Kennedy. He wanted a few moments with her, but she was nowhere to be found.

"I sent her home."

"Why? Is she okay? Is her head bothering her again?"

"She needs a break. And I want you to go home, too," Brent said in his best no-nonsense voice.

Daryle stared Brent directly in the eye. "I'm not sure I believe that Suzanne isn't here."

Brent had an office here somewhere. Suzanne could be there. It wasn't like her to leave when there was work to be done. She certainly would never abandon Brent.

"This is my restaurant. If I tell you to go, then you go."

"And it's my money paying for this today." He clenched his fists in frustration. Brent and Suzanne were like identical twins. Stubborn, immoveable in the face of reason, and utterly blind to what was right in front of them.

Brent stepped closer to Daryle, shrinking the distance between them to mere inches. "Take your money and go. Go home. Leave her alone."

Brent was not an athletic guy, but he was a bear of a man. Big, burly and—at the moment—clearly ill-tempered. Memories of his sister's museum reception came back to Daryle, when Brent had practically marched him away from Noelle. It had taken a few cases of wine after that to keep those photos from ever seeing the light of day.

Daryle backed away. "Fine. I'm leaving."

He got in his car and headed for Suzanne's Russian Hill apartment, but debris in the streets stopped him five blocks shy of her home. He threw the car into park and left it in the middle of the street. He'd walk the rest of the way.

As he turned each corner, though, he began to have doubts. The buildings he was seeing were not in good shape, and there was nobody out and about. The neighborhood felt deserted, like a bomb had hit. He rounded the corner onto Suzanne's street and stopped suddenly. He covered his mouth with his hand, in shock. Her building was listing to the side, most of the window panes now empty of glass. A big red S had been painted on the front door, meaning the building had already been searched.

There was no way Suzanne was here. He stood beneath her window anyway and shouted her name.

"Hey buddy! There's no one left in that building. They already checked," a man across the street yelled over.

"Thanks, pal."

Daryle sprinted back to his car. He was ready to wring Brent's neck. Brent may be her best friend, he thought, but he is not the only person who cares about her. He put the key in the ignition, his hand shaking with rage and panic. He was feeling the way he'd felt earlier in the day, when he 'd been calling Suzanne's cell phone for hours, unable to get through. He didn't know where she was or whether she was okay.

He left the car running in the street and burst into the HobNob's kitchen. There was a news crew inside, interviewing Brent. He shoved aside the reporter. He was about to make a scene and he didn't care.

"Where is she?" he yelled.

Brent pressed his lips together in a thin, stern line. He said nothing.

"I want to know where Suzanne is," Daryle said, aware that a video camera had swung over toward him.

"She's somewhere safe," Brent said.

"She's my wife. I want to know where she is." The kitchen went deathly silent, the only sounds the hissing of the gas cooktops.

"You're divorcing her," Brent replied. "What does i
t matter to you where she is?"

"I'm trying to not divorce her, actually. I've called off the divorce. But I can't tell her that if I don't know where she is." Daryle got right up in Brent's face. A broken nose was a small price to pay to save his marri
age. "Where did you send her?"

Brent just stared at Daryle for what seemed like an eternity. Daryle knew he had him right where he needed him. The cameras were on. Was Brent really not going to tell him where his wife was—on camera? The HobNob wasn't a customer of Iris Vineyards, but lots of other restaurants in the city were and Daryle knew plenty of the HobNob's business patrons.

"She's at my apartment," Brent said finally.

Hah, Daryle thought. He knew where Brent's apartment was; Suzanne had pointed it out to him one day as they happened to be driving past. He lived in a railroad flat, an apartment with rooms one right behind the other. Daryle had been surprised by the modesty of the place. According to Suzanne, Brent had been living there since he'd finished culinary school.

Daryle parked his car on the sidewalk in front of one of the building's garages. He assumed the police weren't out ticketing cars today. He ran up the stairs to Brent's flat and pounded on the door.

"Suzanne! Suzanne!"

The door remained resolutely closed. That was okay; begging was not beneath him today.

"Can we talk? Suzanne, open the door. Please. I need to know you're okay."

Finally, the door opened. Her face was tear-streaked, her hair corkscrewed in the heat. He moved forward, intending to take her in his arms but she stepped back inside the apartment. She put out her arms as if to say
back off,
then disappeared into Brent's living room. He followed.

He found her sitting on the sofa, her legs drawn up beneath her, a heavy knit blanket wrapped around herself. Even Daryle could see the message she was sending. He sat down on the arm of the sofa, close to her but leaving enough distance for her comfort. There was so much he wanted to say, but no words were coming. All he had at the moment were feelings, an intense rush of emotion he couldn't put into words.

"What's the status?" she asked, finally. She had a look of brave resignation on her face. Then her bravery collapsed. "Oh Daryle. I swore I wouldn't do this. I promised myself—promised everyone—that I wouldn't fall for you again," she said in a hurried rush of words. "And then I did. We need to get this over with. I can't stand dragging it out any longer. You can keep the money. I just need my life back."

Daryle was stung. She wanted her life back? "I called it off," he said quietly. "I phoned Liam today to call off the divorce ..."

Suzanne pulled the blanket tighter. "You did what?"

"I don't want us to divorce," Daryle said, daring to move from the arm of the sofa down onto the cushions. "I know that was the deal. But I've fallen in love with you again. Hell, I probably never really fell out of love with you in the first place. And when the earthquake hit and you were here alone, I was nearly out of my mind. I love you, Suzanne. I love you like crazy."

Tears began to well up in Suzanne's eyes.

"And I like being married to you,
" he continued. "Even though we've been pretending it's not a real marriage. I want to start acting like it is. Right now." He leaned toward her and caressed her damp cheek. Her hands stopped clutching the blanket and she leaned toward him. He pulled her the rest of the way and kissed her, long and deep.

"I booked a suite at the Fairmont," he murmured, as he buried his long fingers in her hair. "They're open."

" I have to get back to the restaurant."

"We'll go back tomorrow. I have a feeling Brent has had all he can take of me today."

"What did you do now?" Suzanne said, nuzzling closer to him.

"Brent kicked me out and wouldn't tell me where you were. When you weren't at your apartment, I went back to the HobNob and, well, let's just say there was a bit of a scene. With reporters and television cameras." He couldn't help smiling at the memory.

"Daryle." Suzanne took his face in her hands, tracing his lower lip with her thumb. "You and Brent have to find a way to be friends if we're going to stay married."

"And he has to get used to me, even if I'm really not good enough for you. And I admit that, deep down, I'm not." He put his hands up in mock-surrender. "But the guy was not telling me where my wife was." He let Suzanne pull his face into hers so he could taste those soft, sweet lips again. "When I don't know where you are, I go a little nuts."

Suzanne leaned back and let his lips explore her skin. He traced a searing line down the sensitive skin of her neck, stopping for a moment at the little dip between her collarbones. His hands deftly undid the top button of her blouse and spread the fabric apart. She heard him inhale sharply just before his lips began planting kisses on the curves of her breasts.

"You said the Fairmont is open ..." she said breathily. "Do they have hot showers?"

He pushed aside the lace of her bra so he could kiss the skin beneath. "And a soft bed," he murmured. "Maybe even some champagne. I do owe you a proper wedding night ..."

About Julia Gabriel

Julia Gabriel is the author of
Feral
and
Cupcakes & Chardonnay
. In addition to romance, her literary short stories have been published in literary journals and an anthology. She holds a master's degree in creative writing and teaches writing at a university in New England.

Visit Julia Gabriel's web site at
http://www.authorjuliagabriel.com
to learn about upcoming releases. Follow Julia Gabriel on Goodreads and on Twitter at
authorjulia.