Sweet Dreams on Center Street (11 page)

Blake pushed away his plate, his appetite gone. “Their
competitor.”

“Big fish eat little fish,” Darren said with a shrug.

“And we serve up little fish on a platter.”

Now Darren set down his knife and fork. “Was it a mistake
sending you back to your hometown?”

Maybe. “You've seen my report. You tell me.”

Darren took another swig of beer, then leaned back in his chair
and studied Blake. They sat there for a moment, locked in a stare-down, while in
the background other diners talked over an old German drinking song.

Darren was the first to break eye contact. He picked up his
knife and fork and resumed attacking his meat. “You're doing a fine job. I'd
hate to see you follow in Arnie's footsteps.”

“I have no intention of doing that,” Blake said. “But I
am
trying to do what's best for the bank. Maintaining
good community relations by helping a business that's been part of this
community for generations is a sensible way to bring in more business.”

“We don't want the kind of business that costs us large amounts
of money. Come on, Blake, you've been in banking long enough to know the bottom
line.”

“Yeah, and it sure isn't people, even though we say it is,”
Blake muttered.

“Trevor Brown is people, too, and if Sweet Dreams goes under,
his company will benefit from their loss.”

Blake's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “So you know Brown.”

Darren calmly cut off another piece of meat. “I know a lot of
businessmen in Seattle. Look, Darren. I'm not saying I want this company to
fail. I hope they succeed. But in case they don't, either way, the bank will be
fine and someone will be happy. Someone goes down, someone else goes up. And
that, my boy, is business,” he said, and popped the meat in his mouth.

“Like you said, either way the bank comes out fine,” Blake said
in disgust.

“That about sums it up. And all the people who work in the
Icicle Falls branch will still have jobs come March 1 because you're doing what
has to be done.” He picked up his glass and saluted Blake. “Cheers.”

Yeah, cheers.

Chapter Ten

Luck is what you make it.

—Muriel Sterling,
Knowing Who You Are:
One Woman's Journey

T
he day before had been ugly, with
unsympathetic creditors to deal with and an unexpected computer crash.
Miraculously, Jonathan Templar had been able to fix it, but that minor miracle
had taken several hours, and he'd warned Samantha it was only a temporary fix.
She'd finally left the office at seven, a drained dishrag in heels, thoroughly
depressed by what felt like a never-ending run of bad luck.

But now their luck was going to turn, she was convinced of it.
Her sister being able to come and help was surely the first of many lucky
breaks, she told herself as she drove to Sea-Tac Airport on Friday to pick up
Cecily. Reinforcements had arrived and things were already humming right along
for the festival.

Shop owners as well as the restaurants and B and Bs were on
board and promising to offer special sales. Jonathan had their website up and,
with the exception of one thing, it looked good. For the home page he'd used a
landscape shot of the town and surrounding mountain peaks for background and
then superimposed a glorious box of bonbons in the foreground. Looking at Center
Street with its Bavarian shops and window boxes and hanging baskets full of
spring flowers (not to mention that box of goodies), who wouldn't want to come
to Icicle Falls and enjoy a weekend dedicated to shopping, fun and
chocolate?

Cecily's flight was on time, more good luck.

“How are you doing?” Cecily asked as soon as they had her bags
loaded in the car.

“Great,” Samantha said. “Did you check out the website?”

Cecily nodded. “It's fabulous. I can't believe how much
progress we're making.”

“It's amazing how much you can accomplish with so many people
pitching in,” Samantha said. “But…that schedule of events you had Jonathan put
up— I'm not so sure about this Mr. Dreamy contest.” She had a sneaking suspicion
their baby sister was behind it. “Was this Bailey's idea?” Whoever came up with
it should have run it by her first before posting the event. Was it too late to
remove the contest? Even though the website had already gotten a lot of hits, no
one had entered yet, and she'd know if they had, since, according to the
website, contestants could download the form and drop it off at the Sweet Dreams
gift shop. Another little detail no one had run past her.

“Yes, it was Bailey's brainchild,” Cecily said, “but it's a
clever idea.”

Translation:
I didn't stop her because I
didn't want to hurt her feelings.
Samantha frowned.

“It'll stir up lots of local interest,” Cecily said, “and you
can bet Festival Hall will be packed with women the night we have the
competition. We're charging for the event, so we'll make a ton of money.”

“And you know that because?”

“Because I've been to events where the firefighters who do
those fundraiser calendars make an appearance. The women go crazy. We'll give
everyone a small box of chocolates and a chance to watch their favorite man walk
the catwalk shirtless, and they'll think they scored big.”

“It all seems a little tacky.”

“I suppose it is,” Cecily admitted, “but with the ball, the
dinner and the chocolate high tea at Olivia's we already have enough classy
events. This gives people a chance to cut loose and get silly. And Bailey's
rounded up some really cool prizes, so I suspect we'll have a lot of men wanting
to enter, not to mention women volunteering their boyfriends.”

“I don't know,” Samantha said dubiously.

“Sam, you're not going to micromanage us, are you?”

“I don't micromanage.” She shot a glance in her sister's
direction to see Cecily giving her a look that said,
Oh,
yeah?
“I don't,” she insisted.

“Okay, then, since you don't, don't. You've delegated the
events and publicity to us. Let us handle them. You've got your hands full
overseeing the festival and running the business. That means you just have to
make sure we're doing our jobs. You don't get to tell us how to do them.”

“I would never do that. I mean, I might offer some suggestions
once in a while.” That was part of overseeing, after all.

“Suggestions are always welcome, but don't worry. Everything's
under control,” Cecily said.

“Okay, so tell me where we are with promotion.”

“I found the name of the producer of that Seattle talk show,
Northwest Now
. I'm going to email her and see if
they'll do a story on the festival. I know the
Mountain
Sun
will do one.”

“Free publicity, the best kind,” Samantha said approvingly.

They spent the rest of the drive home talking about Cecily's
ideas and brainstorming other ways to promote the festival. By the time they
entered town both sisters were excited.

“This really is going to be great,” Cecily predicted.

Samantha nodded. “I think our luck is about to change.”

And to prove it, her car started
ka-thwumpity-thwumping
down the road.

“What the heck?” Cecily asked as Samantha gripped her jiggly
steering wheel.

“We've got a flat. That's a real pain.” Samantha pulled off
into the parking lot of the Man Cave.

She got out to inspect her car and discovered that her left
rear tire was flat. “My lucky day,” she grumbled as she got back in the car to
fish out her cell phone and call a tow truck.

* * *

“What is this place?” Cecily asked, although the Bud
Light neon sign in the window was a pretty big clue.

Still, she couldn't help asking. It was such an eyesore with
its tacky mural, the potholed parking lot and the smattering of beat-up trucks
and motorcycles parked in front.

This business was a new addition to town since she had moved to
L.A. She remembered the building itself. It had been a mom-and-pop grocery store
before Safeway came to town and cornered the grocery market. Then it had enjoyed
a short life as an office supply store. After that it sat empty and became party
central for kids bent on fun their parents wouldn't approve of. She'd been one
of those kids for a short time until she decided getting high wasn't going to
get her the kind of attention she wanted in life or the kind of boys.

Not that she'd gotten the type of men she wanted after high
school. Pathetic to be able to tell who was right for whom when people came to
her dating service (not that they listened), but never able to figure it out for
herself. She eyed the gigantic mural of the Neanderthal in lederhosen on the
side of this old building, which was being given a dubious new life. That was
the type of man she'd always seemed to gravitate toward. Why? Had her life been
so boring that she had to spice it up with cavemen?

“It's been here about a year,” Samantha said. “A guy named Todd
Black bought it and turned it into a sports bar. He's one of the few people
who's not on board with the festival,” she added with a frown.

“Interesting taste in decorating,” Cecily observed.

“The Neanderthal says it all. Oh, and speak of the devil.”

Handsome devil. Cecily took in the lean man with the broad
shoulders walking across the parking lot toward them. He had the dark hair and
swarthy pirate complexion she typically fell for. He dressed like the kind of
man she always fell for, too, in jeans and leather jacket hanging open over a
gray T-shirt that showed off a fine set of pecs.

Oh, no,
she told herself,
those pecs are attached to the wrong man.

But a girl could look.

You look, you'll want. Don't
look.

As he got closer she saw he had light blue eyes. Blue like ice.
Mysterious.
Stop. Don't go there.
She swallowed hard
and looked away.
Out of sight, out of mind.

She could hear the car window on her sister's side sliding
down. Then she heard his voice. “Planning on coming in for a beer?” Oh, she was
a sucker for a low, sexy voice. Its magnetic pull turned her head toward
him.

“How'd you guess?” Samantha retorted. “We had a flat. I was
just about to call Swede.”

“Swede'll gouge you good. I assume you've got a spare.”

Her sister was always prepared. If there was no spare in the
back, then Samantha had been kidnapped by aliens and this cranky woman sitting
behind the driver's seat was a fake. “Of course,” she said, insulted.

“Pop your trunk and I'll change it for you.”

“Thanks, but you don't need to do that,” Samantha said. “We'll
be fine.”

“I know. Pop the trunk.”

She popped it and got out. Cecily decided to stay inside. It
didn't take two women to supervise changing a tire. And besides, she didn't need
to see any more of Todd Black than she already had.

Their voices drifted toward her through the open window.

“So, you pissed because I'm not into chocolate?”

“Should I be?”

“Actually, no. What's the point of getting pissed just because
someone disagrees with you?”

“None, of course, but there's a difference between disagreeing
and trying to discourage people,” Samantha said.

“Hey, I happen to think you're biting off too much and it's
going to blow up in your face. I don't want to be part of that.”

“You're about the only one in town who doesn't,” Samantha
countered.

Cecily couldn't help smiling.
Don't waste
your time arguing with my sister.

“It only took one kid to see the emperor was buck naked,” Todd
said. “Anyway, it's a free country. Knock yourself out.”

This man was quick with a comeback, but it wasn't a very nice
comeback. Cecily knew her men. They all fell into categories and now she had
this one pegged. He was a mule man—stubborn, intractable, always positive he was
right. Ugh.

A tap on her window made her jump. She turned to see the
blue-eyed mule man. “You mind getting out? I'm about to jack up the car. If you
move around in there, you might move it off the jack.”

She nodded and got out.

“I'm Todd Black,” he said. “You new here?”

“I've lived here all my life,” Cecily informed him.

That smile on his face… Was he mocking her? “Ah, part of the
old-timers' club,” he said with a knowing nod. “I've been here a year and I
haven't seen you. Where've you been hiding?”

“L.A.” And she hadn't been hiding. “I'm Cecily, Samantha's
sister.”

“That explains it,” he said. Now his smile was definitely
mocking.

“Explains what?” she demanded.

“The warm reception I'm getting.” He walked back around to the
other side of the car and started cranking the jack.

“Todd, we do appreciate you bailing us out,” Samantha said. “I
just wish I could get you to see how good this festival can be for the whole
town.”

“I don't need a festival to boost my business.”

“Oh? You don't need paying customers?”

“I already have paying customers,” he said as the car
levitated.

“This will bring in more,” Cecily put in.

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “So, you drank the
poisoned Kool-Aid, too, huh?”

“I think my sister's right,” she said. “That's why I'm up here,
to help her.”

He shrugged. “Well, blood is thicker than water. And what do
you do when you're not planning festivals?”

Cecily could feel her cheeks burn, a sure sign that she was
blushing. But she had no reason to be embarrassed. She offered a vital service.
“I have a business.” Well, she
had
a business.

“Me, too,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the dump at
the far end of the parking lot. “What's yours?”

“It's a dating service.”
And a very good
one at that.

At least it was, until the final straw had glowered his way
into her office—Clyde Dangler-Dunn. Mr. Double D, she'd called him, and he'd
been a typical stud man—the kind of man who thought he was God's gift to women
and was more interested in exercising his favorite muscle doing the horizontal
bop than in finding a life companion. She had tried to do the impossible and
find someone for Clyde but had failed—not for lack of trying but because there
was no perfect woman for a man like him. Except for a hooker, and since she
wasn't a madam she couldn't help him with that.

“None of the women your service introduced me to have met my
standards,” he'd informed her, his double chin raised to its haughtiest level.
(Clyde was a little on the hefty side, but since he also had a hefty bank
account he expected women to overlook that.)

Which probably meant they'd refused to sleep with him on the
first date. “Now, Clyde,” she'd said sweetly, “I've found you six beautiful,
talented women half the men in America would die to date.” And coming up with
that many women had been a miracle.

“I'm not half the men in America. I told you I want women with
big breasts. Real ones.”

Like she could find those easily in L.A.?

“Cancel my contract immediately and refund my money or you'll
be hearing from my lawyer.”

Cancel his contract? She'd gladly have canceled
him.
But not wanting to repeat the disaster she'd had
with Liza, she'd restrained herself. Instead, she'd said all that was
diplomatically required and written him a check right then and there. And that
had drained her business account.