Man of the Month (Willowdale Romance Novel) (6 page)

After two hours, and several good new recipes swimming in her brain, Jeanne’s arm was going numb, but she just couldn’t put the baby down. It felt so wonderful to have her warm little body pressed up next to her. It was so easy to imagine this baby being hers—and Brad’s.

Her phone rang, and she reached for her purse next to the couch, fumbling for her cell before it woke the baby. Emma was still snoozing and working her lips on an imaginary bottle.

“Hello?” she whispered.

“Ready for the best news so far this year?” It was Brad.

Guilt swept through her for all the baby fantasies that had been dancing in her brain—with him as the star. At least she wasn’t watching one of those baby shows on cable. Motherhood porn, she liked to call it. Always left her feeling empty.

“Good news?” she asked. “You’re canceling Man of the Month?”

He laughed. God, she loved his deep laugh. “Never. Nope, we landed the Residential Center’s Anniversary party in June. All because of your cherry pie. Edna was livid when she tasted a sample. Said you should’ve been making it all those years you worked there.”

She let out a little squeal and felt herself blushing. “I’m sure your rum butter shrimp had something to do with it, too. A lot to do with it.”

“We’re a killer team, Jeanne, that’s why we landed it.”

The baby cried in her sleep, and Jeanne jostled her in her arms.

“Don’t cry, kiddo. This is good news,” Brad said.

“No, no. It’s Emma. She’s sleeping in my arms—or she was, until I got a little too excited about our news.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Right. I forgot you were babysitting. How’s it going?”

She chewed on her lip. “Great. She’s just so beautiful. And she smells, oh, like heaven. I’ve been sniffing her head, trying to remember the smell, and her little fingers
 . . .
” She stopped herself.

“Yeah, my nieces and nephews are great. Especially when you can go home without them.” He chuckled. “Sorry.”

Her heart sank like a rock that had been skipping across a pond and finally ran out of juice. She cleared her throat. “Thanks for calling with the great news. The anniversary party is huge. Plus, we’ll get a bunch of new clients out of it for sure. Thanks for taking such good care of the business side of things, Brad. It’s so great to have someone to count on.” And that’s all she’d ever get from him.

Deal with it, woman.

He said nothing for a moment, then, “See you first thing Monday morning. We’ve got a few new recipes to make.”

Thinking about the recipes they’d tried out the night before—and that near kiss—she hung up and pressed her lips against Emma’s soft hair. Tears trickled down her nose, onto the baby’s head. Emma’s eyes fluttered open, and she started crying again. Which got Jeanne crying. What would she do if she never had this?

She stood up and was bouncing Emma on her hip when Becca walked in.

Becca’s smile fell, and she tossed her coat on the rocker. “Oh, no. Has she been crying the whole time? You should have called me.” Becca stretched out her hands for the baby, wiggling her fingers anxiously.

Jeanne could only shake her head no. Her breath caught in her throat. “She just woke up when Brad called.”

Becca rolled her eyes and took Emma from her. “So, it’s not the baby that’s got
you
crying like a baby.”

Jeanne opened and closed her mouth because there was no lying to Becca. She knew.

Becca grabbed a bottle from the fridge and plopped on the couch with a greedy little Emma. She patted the spot next to her.

Jeanne sank onto the couch, snatching a tissue from the box on the end table.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. It was good news. We landed a big job. It’s just that I was holding the baby, talking to him, and well it was easy to imagine . . .” She let the idea trail off, crumpling the tissue in her hand.

Becca nodded, her hair shorter, shinier and darker than it had been a few hours ago. But she could be bald in a flour sack, and Rick would be just as happy to see her. Becca wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure this is really about Brad?”

Jeanne choked on a laugh. “You know how I feel about Brad.” Their older sister, Gracie, had left town ten years ago. She really didn’t know the whole history. But her younger sister had listened to Jeanne’s sob story more than once. With a big emphasis on the sob part of it all.

Becca plucked the bottle out of Emma’s lips and propped her on her shoulder for a burp. “I know you think you love Brad. But did you ever think that maybe what you’re really in love with is the idea of the perfect family we never had, and he just happens to play the part of the hubby?”

“No. No! I love Brad.” Jeanne’s voice trailed off to a whisper. When was the last time she’d admitted that out loud?

Becca nodded. “Is it possible you’re picking a guy you know you can’t have because deep down the thought of being married and having a family scares the tar out of you?” Emma burped, and Becca plugged the bottle back into her mouth. “Face it, we don’t exactly have the blueprints on the family thing. It’s scary for me, too. Every day I go to bed and wonder what I screwed up. Growing up with a cranky, two-hundred-year-old aunt doesn’t help you figure much out about being a good parent.”

She was right about that. Aunt Betty meant well. But when Jeanne’s parents had died, and three little girls had suddenly become her responsibility, Aunt Betty’s solution was to be as strict as possible. Dinner was at six o’clock sharp, and if you were a minute late, you didn’t get dinner. Chores took all of Saturday morning. Wasn’t a lot of talking or laughing in their house growing up. Jeanne’s only joy had been cooking fancy dinners and desserts, hoping to bring a little happiness to their strange family.

She’d been shocked to find out Brad had coped with his dysfunctional family the same way. She always thought that was part of the reason they had such an immediate connection when they started working together. Emotions fueled their cooking.

Maybe her sad childhood did make Jeanne more desperate for a family than most single women facing down thirty, but Becca was mistaken. She wasn’t afraid of that. She was afraid she wasn’t going to have it. “You’re wrong.”

Becca closed her eyes, probably trying to summon the patience needed when talking with her about Brad. “Just think about it. It seems like you’re trying to fix the past with the totally wrong guy.”

Jeanne tilted her head. “He’s the perfect man for me.”

Becca frowned. “How can he be your perfect man when he doesn’t want children? Shouldn’t that take him out of the running?”

Jeanne wrapped her arms around herself and tucked her feet underneath her on the couch. “When you know, you just know. Like with you and Rick.”

Becca laughed. “I don’t really know he’s the right one, but he’s the father of my child, I do love him, and we’ll see what the future brings.”

Jeanne was stunned. “You don’t know if you want to marry him?”

“I’m not going to marry him just because we have a baby. Not if we’re not really in love. This wasn’t exactly what I planned, but I’m not going to screw up three lives by getting married if it’s not the right thing to do.”

Jeanne closed her eyes and tried not to cry again. Becca had the man and the baby, but wasn’t sure she wanted them. Jeanne knew she wanted that with her entire being and, of course, she didn’t have it—and probably would never get it. It was like a recipe she wanted to cook without having the right ingredients.

Jeanne tried to lighten the mood with a chuckle. “This is ridiculous, my little sister counseling me. Isn’t it usually the other way around?” She wondered if their mother would’ve been able to help her sort this out. She sniffed.

Becca set down the bottle and wiped a dribble of milk from the baby’s chin. “No luck with the blind dates he’s been setting you up with?”

Jeanne shook her head.

“Doesn’t that right there make you stop and wonder why he’d do that if he wanted to be with you? Would he really set up a woman he loved with a bunch of different guys?”

Jeanne chewed on her lip. Maybe Becca had a point. She sometimes wondered if he had feelings for her, hidden underneath, like she had for him. Like the night before. She shivered, remembering how it felt to be in his arms, so close to kissing. But maybe she was mistaken about any passion on his part because he sure seemed like just a friend most times. He’d been the one to pull away when they were caught up in each other’s arms after that food fight. And Becca was right. If he ever had wanted more from her, this was a real clue he was doing his best to move on.

Becca interrupted her inner pity party. “You’ve got to get over this. Give Mr. March a chance.”

Jeanne nodded and tried to convince herself she could picture her happily-ever-after without Brad. But she just couldn’t conjure up any scenario without him. It was like trying to bake cookies without baking soda. They had no chance of rising.

BRAD WENT over the proposal for the residential center party one more time. It was a great gig, but the upfront costs were huge. The down payment would cover it, but it wouldn’t help cover their other bills. Their standing orders at the local diners and his lunch rush deliveries at local businesses would cover the utilities. He’d catch up on the rent they owed on the shop once they were paid in full after the event. The building owner was an old family friend, and being one of the Larsen boys had some pull, even when dealing with late rent. And here he was, still keeping the truth from Jeanne.

He stood up and did what he always did when he was stressed—started cooking, often without a recipe. With plans for a new cake, he grabbed some eggs, sugar, flour, and other ingredients. He liked seeing what he could create. Better than seeing what he could destroy with bottle after bottle of liquor like his folks had done. While growing up in that chaotic house, cooking had been the one thing that had created order in his world.

Too bad his father had told him he’d be embarrassed to have a chef for a son. “Woman’s work,” he had said, before spitting.

So Brad had gone to college to major in business instead, bartending on the weekends. He’d only put in a few semesters at college, dropping out after his father died. Brad liked to tell himself he’d finish up the degree someday, but that seemed as likely as roping the moon.

Cracking the egg against the bowl, he decided to make a few Valentine’s desserts. Sure, he was supposed to be the business brains of the operation, but he loved cooking and baking just as much as Jeanne did. They could offer some desserts to local restaurants for the big day. He’d make a heart-shaped lava cake. Jeanne would love it. He added cream and sugar and imagined her nibbling the sweet crumbs off her fingertips. He smiled, remembering the first time he’d had a chance to talk to her at The Hideaway, after so many years of avoiding each other.

He’d actually introduced himself that day. “I’m Brad Larsen,” he’d said.

She had stared at him for a moment before smiling. “I know.”

He jumped, knocked off his stroll down memory lane when she walked into the kitchen.

“Whatcha working on?” she asked.

There was no fighting the warm feeling that spread from his chest and on down—way down—whenever he saw her. “A little Valentine’s Day experiment. I was thinking lava love cakes?”

She pretended to gag. “How about heartbreak cookies with jagged edges.” A giggle slipped out. “Or conversation heart cakes with horrible sentiments. Like ‘Love Sucks.’”

“Or ‘Bite Me.’”

“Or ‘Not In A Million Years.’” She frowned. “That one’s too long.”

He paused. “It’s a great idea, really. Not everyone loves Valentine’s Day. We might have an untapped market here.”

She playfully knocked on his head. “Hello, I was kidding.”

He grabbed her hand and held it. “I’m not. We could throw an Anti-Valentine’s party. That might get us some good publicity anyway.” Sure, they didn’t exactly have the funds for it, but his credit card wasn’t maxed out quite yet. And hell, they’d make a profit for sure, and he could pay it off.

She slipped her hand out of his.
Good thing,
he thought.

“An Anti-Valentine’s day party,” she said. “Which is less than two weeks away. Isn’t it a little late to plan?” She pulled a ball of dough out of the fridge and set up to make a pie.

“The banquet hall is pretty much ready to go.” They still needed new lighting, fixtures, and drapes. “Some of the unfinished work might add to the unromantic charm. What have we got to lose?” Besides more money . . . But for some reason, he loved the idea. “You’re the one who suggested heartbreak cookies.”

She set her hand on her heart. “My, my. This coming from Mr. Matchup. I’m shocked. Does this mean you’re giving up on love? Canceling Man of the Month?” She gave him a great big smile.

“No ma’am, that continues until you find true love.” Or killed him. Whichever came first.

She rolled those beautiful eyes of hers. “Well if you’re serious, I’m all for it. Down with love on Valentine’s Day, seven p.m. sharp.”

He smacked his hands together. “Awesome. I’ll print up some flyers, get the word out online.”

“And in honor of Anti-Valentine’s Day, I’m assuming we can skip Mr. March?”

“No way. A New Year’s Resolution is practically an unbreakable legal agreement.”

God, he loved teasing her. Her face turned the slightest shade of pink when she got angry. Totally adorable.

She groaned low in her throat. “Since you seem to be intent on torturing me, could I just schedule a root canal instead of this month’s blind date?” Jeanne asked, pounding the pie dough much harder than she needed. “Would that suffice?”

“Only if the dentist is single.”

Jeanne shook her head. “It’s Doc Miller.”

“Married, and pushing seventy, right?”

“Yep.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve already got someone lined up for you.”

“Yay.” She twirled a finger in the air.

Brad held up a floured hand. “This one’s good. Employed. No allergies—I asked. Has two cats, and get this—he’s got two kids, too. Since that’s
 . . .
really important to you.”

“Kids, huh?”

“Sound good? Maybe March will be your lucky month with St. Patrick’s Day and all.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She shrugged a few times, like she had a tic.

“But first, we celebrate Anti-Valentine’s Day.”

JEANNE TUGGED the strap of her little black dress back into place. The banquet room had a good-sized crowd Valentine’s night, and even Tara O’Hara had shown up—the only gal in Willowdale to ever have an honest-to-God coming out debutante ball. Her mama had had all the guests wear Civil War period clothes to match her estate—a perfect replica of the house from
Gone with the Wind
. Every town had a nutter—Willowdale had a few—and Sarah O’Hara was one of them, and certainly the most eccentric of the bunch, with all that money to throw around.

Tara’s bound to take over the role when her mama dies someday
, Jeanne thought.

And that’s why she cringed when Tara showed up at the party, certain she’d find something to criticize.

While Tara coolly surveyed the bash, in no time she was taking a whack at the black heart piñata and throwing darts at heart-shaped balloons tacked up to a bulletin board. What was good enough for Tara O’Hara was usually good enough for folks around Willowdale, and soon everyone was having a blast, enjoying their sumptuous desserts—those broken-heart cookies, fortune cookies with slips offering bad dating advice, Brad’s lava love cakes.

Ned from the
Weekly Saver
was there, snapping pictures for the paper and flirting with Dolly. Seemed like anyone who was single was there. Even a few of the seniors from the residential facility had bribed the center’s driver to load them in a van and bring them over. Marge moved a lot faster than seemed possible when single men were around.

Brad had compiled a mix of bad love songs—
Bad Medicine
,
Love Stinks
—lots of tormented tunes, but Jeanne had made one too, featuring irresistible, romantic ballads. She figured folks flocking to an anti-Valentine’s Day party might actually be looking for the real thing. So she swapped out Brad’s mix for her own. Then she lowered the lights and flipped on a fog machine she’d picked up cheap at a flea market. Mist swirled on the floor as Elvis couldn’t help falling in love in the background, but the guests just looked around nervously.

Brad scooted over to her and set down the tray of cookies he was refilling. “What are you doing?”

Jeanne crossed her arms and frowned. “Trying to set the mood. And failing.”

“It’s an anti-Valentine’s Day party.
Love Me Tender
is exactly the mood we’re trying to set here. Everyone here is down on love.”

“
Can’t Help Falling In Love
,” she said.

He blinked at her. “What? With who?”

She whacked his arm. “That’s the name of this song. And this party is the perfect get together for a few setups. I thought Mr. Matchmaker would realize that. But no one’s dancing. I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” He reached for her hand and linked his fingers in hers. “Come on.”

He whirled her onto the dance floor, and she wondered how he’d ever become such a good dancer.

“Ballroom dance lessons in college. Swear to God,” he said. “I had a P.E. requirement to fill, and it fit in my schedule.”

She laughed and wondered how he’d known what she’d been thinking. He did that a lot. Soon enough, a few other couples joined them on the floor, and Jeanne started thinking this might be an annual tradition for Elegant Eats. Probably with her and Brad still single and lonely years from now.

“Mind if I cut in?” Tara O’Hara tapped what had to be a ridiculously overpriced shoe as she smiled at Brad.

Jeanne felt her hold on Brad tighten, but she had no claims on him. She summoned her best sweet attitude and drawled, “No problem, darlin’.”

Then she marched off to the kitchen and straight into the deep freezer so she could scream. Turned out the bitter temperature in there was more effective than a cold shower at chasing away all those hot and nasty thoughts she was having about Brad.

Calmer now, she left the freezer, poured herself some woe-is-me punch and peeked through the window in the kitchen door to see Brad whooping it up on the dance floor with Willowdale’s number one bachelorette.

Down on love, indeed.

She expected him to humor Tara with one dance. But three sappy love songs later, and they were still swaying to the music. Jeanne had a mind to flip on the lights and bring the party to a screeching halt. But when she saw Ned and Pansy dancing, she didn’t have the heart to break up a potential match. It must’ve been a few decades since either one of them had cut the rug.

So she hid in the kitchen and ate the leftover broken-heart cookies. Then finally at midnight, with her feet screaming and her heart aching, she turned off the music.

“Thanks all so much for coming out to our Anti-Valentine’s bash. Looks like ya’ll weren’t so down on love after all.” She flipped on the lights and headed for the kitchen, followed by compliments on the party and promises to come next year.

And when she looked for Brad, he and Tara had their cell phones out, tapping away at their keyboards. Exchanging numbers, no doubt.

Jeanne was halfway done with the dishes when Brad finally wandered in. “Have a good time?” she asked.

He stretched. “It was a hit. We’re a good pair.”

“A good business pair,” she added.

He snatched a broken-heart cookie from the tray. “That’s what I meant.”

“So, Tara O’Hara. That was a surprise. Thought we commoners weren’t good enough for her.” She banged a kettle around in the sink while she nearly scrubbed the enamel off.

“She was having a good time.”

She sure was
, Jeanne thought.

Brad scratched his head. “Talks an awful lot. I know about each and every pair of shoes she bought this year, and the dozen purses, because she couldn’t decide on one for her trip to the Riviera. That’s in France, right?”

“Yep. Her mama has an awful lot of money, but no one seems to know why. Guess she had a big insurance policy on Pappy O’Hara.”