Vanity Fare (6 page)

“But—but we just started working together.” Shit, did that mean I was off the project, too? Why the hell was I here? What was I going to do without that five grand I’d already spent in my mind? Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He blew out a breath that raised one of those curls off his forehead. “I don’t wish to discuss it. She’s off, and we’ve got work to do.” His voice held that autocratic tone I’d heard the first time we met. I didn’t feel like arguing, but I did need to know about my status.

“So where does that leave me?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” He gave me a look like I was stupid. I was really tired of people doing that.

“The project. Me. Am I still working on it? Are you going to hire another firm?” Poor John. He’d been so excited.

Simon shook his head. “It’s too late. And I have faith in you.” Did he know that when he smiled like that my insides turned to Jell-O? Oh, yeah, he sure did.

“What can I get you?” The waitress had returned.

Simon gave her an easy smile. “I’d like two eggs scrambled, bacon, toast, and coffee. Molly?”

“Just coffee, please.”

He scowled and flipped his menu open. “Not just coffee, Molly. Don’t be one of those, you need to eat. Here, try the fried chicken salad, it’s got Stilton cheese in it, a very good supply of protein.”

And fat, my mind added. I nodded in acquiescence. Maybe I wouldn’t have to eat dinner.

He took my menu and handed it to the waitress, then leaned on the table after she left. “So. The investors need to see a presentation of our products, and we can’t delay any longer.”

He spoke as if he were discussing the weather. Not the fact that he’d just dumped something on me for which I was totally unprepared, in so many ways. All I knew was that Simon had some cockamamie idea about a bakery and a library. Great. Reading and food. I liked both, but that was hardly the basis for a marketing plan.
Natalie, I hardly knew you.
“Have you talked to John about this?” I was surprised I could manage a normal tone.

He waved his hand, brushing my arm. It sent a shiver of awareness over me, and I blinked to keep myself focused. “John is not the lead on this thing. I am now.”

Oooh, Mr. Corporate was going all Alpha on me. I liked it. I liked it a lot. Was that wrong?

“Ah. So.” Stop me before I uttered another noncommittal monosyllable. “What’s the next step?” And will I make more money?

He smiled at me, and my stomach flipped. Flipped! “The next step is for you and your lovely self to sit down and write me some killer copy. Something fun, inviting, and sexy.”

It was too obvious. But so was he.

“Right, then. Fine. Good.” At least the monosyllables were actual words. Now if I could just get myself to ask about the money . . .

“In a week.” Aagh! “And I’ll make sure you get continual feedback so we don’t end up with our asses in a sling. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” he said, grinning naughtily. “Of course you’ll be making more than we originally agreed to, but I’ll leave those details to John,” he said in a much more serious tone.

Books and bread. I could work with that as a starting point, right? I could. But before my mind could start to churn there, I had another thought; so technically John was employing me, and only on a freelance basis, but wasn’t it a bit . . .
odd
that Simon was being so aggressive? I mean, besides the fact that I’d seen myself and really didn’t deserve this kind of attention. And a week. Ouch.

Lissa, Keisha, and Dr. Lowell would tell me to stop selling myself short, but really—I wasn’t all that. Did Simon think if he flattered me I’d work harder? Better? Faster?

Okay, now I was getting inappropriate.

I folded my hands in my lap. “I appreciate the confidence you’re showing in me. I hope I can live up to your expectations.”

That naughty smile came back, only this time it was even naughtier. “Oh, I’m certain you can, Molly. Absolutely certain.”

Dorothy Parker House Rolls

You’d bet this has got a bite to it—and you’d be right. Tangy, dry, and ever so slightly bitter, this by-no-means meek breadstuff is something to eat when you’re ready to take a chomp out of the Big Apple. It’s better in short (story) bites, but one taste of this sage-and-onion roll and you’ll be ready to take your place at the Algonquin Table (we’d say the head of the table, but the table is round, dear,
round
!).

6

“I THINK I MIGHT BE A VAMPIRE.” I WAS PROPPED UP IN BED
, the phone held to my right ear, a blessedly full cup of coffee in my left hand. I wasn’t sure how to talk to Keisha about what had happened that morning without totally freaking out, so I was avoiding the problem.

“What makes you say that? Have you had a sudden urge to drink people’s blood or something? Because if so, I’m sure glad I don’t live next door to you anymore.”

“No, it’s that I can drink coffee at—let me check—eleven o’clock at night and
still
be asleep by eleven thirty. And I’m cold all the time. And I’m very, very pale. Plus I want to nap frequently.”

“All that means,” Keisha replied with a gusty sigh, “is that you’re a mom. An Irish, sleep-deprived, coffee-obsessed mom. And besides, vampires are up all night chasing blood, not coffee.”

“Dunno why. Coffee tastes better.” I sniffed in disdain. “Maybe I’m just dead.”

“Now
there’s
a happy thought. So how’s the assignment going?”

I put the cup down on the headboard and rolled over onto my stomach, wishing I could bury my head in the pillow. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“At the beginning?”

“Oh, you’re funny.”

“Ah, shucks, you’re just saying that. But really, Molly, it’s not so hard. Break it down, piece by piece.”

“Have you been talking to Dr. Lowell again?” I said with a suspicious tone. “Because you know, I’ve never seen both of you at the same time. Maybe you’re really her.”

She uttered a disgusted sigh. “If I were her, would I be spending my free time talking to you?”

“Good point. Okay. Piece by piece.” I reached over to the side of the bed, drawing out a gray folder from the big bag John had given me. “Here’s one of the files. It’s a PowerPoint nightmare, and it’s totally boring and I don’t want to read it anymore—”

“You’re whining. Speaking of which, how’s Aidan?”

“Fine. Completely unaware his mother is . . .
me,
and his father is, well . . .”

“A fuck. Look, Molly,” Keisha said, in the serious tone she usually reserved for telling me how much she valued our friendship (after a few cocktails, of course), “you are totally competent. You are beautiful in a regal Irish kind of way. You can do this. You
will
do this, or I will come to Brooklyn and kick your ass.”

“Promise?”

“Yup. Now, what’s your first step?”

“Get my ass kicked?” I asked hopefully.

“No. Go to where the store is being set up—Midtown, right? Scout it out, bring a notebook, have some coffee. Like I had to tell you that part. Then get to work with that big brain of yours. Remember, that English literature major brain?”

Midtown Manhattan. The library. I started to get excited just thinking about it.

“And by then I’m sure you’ll have figured out some ideas,” she said in her best “I’ve just solved the problem” voice. “Listen, I’ve got to go,
The Lion in Winter
is about to start, and I can’t miss the first meeting between Peter O’Toole and Katharine Hepburn, you know, on the boat.”

“Bye, hon.”

“Bye.”

I hung up, a little grin on my face. At least I was smiling more lately. I downed the rest of the coffee, then looked a little sadly at the bottom of the cup. If I wanted more, I’d have to make it, which meant grinding the beans and cleaning that little gold filter thingy, and really, I should be going to sleep because Aidan was going to get up at seven.

Sometimes I wished I
were
a coffee vampire. Instead of blood, coffee would swirl through my veins, bringing life to my body and breath to my lungs. Maybe I’d have coffee beans instead of red blood cells, little puffs of steamed milk instead of white blood cells. I’d never need to worry about needing a caffeine fix again. It would be coffee heaven.

It was a chilly February day,
the kind of day that reminds you why people get so rhapsodic about spring anyway. I emerged from the subway and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the light. The library was a couple of blocks away, so I started walking, keeping a mental note of the retail shops right nearby:

• A clothing store for women who clearly had very different lives than I did. I mean, plaid short shorts?
  
• A video game store with graphics so violent I wouldn’t even wish them on Hugh.
  
• The Stationary Shop: my auto-editor noticed
  stationary
  was spelled wrong. I bet they sold lots of
  papar
  .
  
• A shoe store.
  
• An odd-lot store with a window full of teakettles, plastic storage boxes, stuffed animals, canned goods, and other random things you’d never want to own but somehow felt compelled to buy.
  

And then I saw the bakery storefront. It didn’t have a name or anything, but it was diagonally across from the Nat Sherman store, and the windows were covered over with newspaper, a sure sign of construction within. It looked big. It looked official. It looked as if someone who might even know what the hell they were doing should be working on it.

I took a deep breath. And then held it, because Nick the Unfriendly walked out the door.

“Good morning.” I tried to keep my voice from trilling upward.

He looked even more forbidding in natural sunlight. His brows snapped together, and he appeared to be gritting his teeth. I wondered just why he seemed to dislike me so much. And why Simon couldn’t have been there instead.

“Hello, Miss . . . ?” His tone was almost rudely disinterested.

“Hagan. Molly Hagan. And it’s Ms.”

Dark blue eyes raked me up and down.

“Ms. Hagan. So, you’re here scouting the territory?”

I took my notebook out from my right hand and clasped it to my chest, hoping to obscure the Pokémon stickers Aidan had insisted on decorating it with. I took a quick peek down and realized Pikachu was smack dab on the back, facing him. Darn. Nick’s lips curled in an almost smile as he looked at the sticker.

“Yes. The store looks impressive.”

This time his lips did curl in a smile, revealing ultrawhite, ultrastraight teeth. “You’re impressed by newspaper-covered windows? Remind me to invite you over next time I paint my window moldings.”

A joke! Mr. Forbidding made a joke!

“Would you like to go inside?” He gestured toward the door. A lock of straight black hair fell over his forehead.

“Mm, yes.”

I walked in just ahead of him and felt his solid warmth behind me. The door swung shut, and we were definitely alone. Me and Mr. Scary. I wished I’d gotten a bit more sleep the night before, I was going to need it to deal with him.

“This is the main retail space,” he said, waving toward the open space we had entered, “and back there is the kitchen. We’ll be making all the goods on-site rather than trucking them in, and the emphasis will be on the artisanal qualities of our goods.”

“So Simon, that is, Mr.—?”

His lips thinned. “Baxter.”

“Mr. Baxter will actually be cooking back there?”

He gave me a look of utter disdain. “No, of course not. Simon is an artist. He creates the pastries, he doesn’t actually cook them. Did you actually think he was going to make the product?”

Put that way, of course not. But . . . “Yeah, I did,” I admitted. It wasn’t as if he had a good opinion of me anyway.

His tone grew gruffer, if that was even possible. “Simon won the James Beard award for Outstanding Pastry Chef two years running, he was named Best New Pastry Chef in
Bon Appétit,
he—”

“I get it. Simon is a star. He won’t be measuring flour.” I really didn’t need for him to make me feel any stupider. I could do that on my own. Man, I was old—shouldn’t I have Googled him or something?

He exhaled, as though my dumbness had taken his breath away. “Ms. Hagan, let’s go get some coffee and talk about just what Simon requires.”

We stepped out in the sunshine together and I dared to glance over at him. He was tall, a lot taller than Hugh. I guessed he was about six foot three. As though being verbally intimidating wasn’t enough, he had to throw physical height intimidation into the mix.

He lifted his chin toward a coffee shop halfway down the block. “There. I’m hungry, too. Do you have time to eat?”

“Yes, I have to be back on the subway no later than two. But that gives us at least an hour.”

We slid into a booth in the surprisingly deserted restaurant. I took a few deep, calming breaths from behind the enormous, laminated menu. When I lowered it, I discovered his intent gaze on me.

“What would you like?” he asked, his voice low and rumbly.

And, just like that, I wanted to spill it all: my anxiety about this assignment, my worry about paying the bills, my fear that I would never figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life.

Foolish. This guy didn’t even like me. And I sure as hell didn’t like him. Why did I suddenly feel the need to share? “Er . . . yes, I think, well, yes, I think the Greek salad. And coffee, of course.”

The waitress stepped over, a wide grin on her face as she looked at my companion. It faltered a little when she saw me. “What can I get for you?”

“I’ll have—”

“She’ll have the Greek salad and a coffee, and I’d like a piece of cherry pie and coffee also.”

“How do you want your coffee?”

He regarded me, raising one brow. I was hoping Mr. Autocratic would just guess. “Light, one sugar, please.”

“Black for me.”

The waitress took one last look, then walked toward the kitchen.

He really
was
a hard-ass. “Taking your coffee black in a place like this is living on the edge, Mr.—”

“Harrison.”

A solid, dependable name. Not the least bit intimidating. Names sure were deceptive.

“And I like a little danger—don’t you?”

Danger like taking on an assignment for which I was completely unqualified? Uh, no.

“Not really, unless you count fighting my son for the remote control.”

“A son—how old?” His blue eyes were focused closely on me, and I felt myself wanting to fidget, because that scrutiny made me nervous. I sat on my hands instead.

“Six. He’s in first grade.”

“What’s his name?”

“Aidan.”

“Aidan Hagan?” His brow climbed high in disbelief.

“Hagan is my name. His is McLaughlin.”

“Ah.”

“Do you have any kids?” I darted a quick glance at his left hand. Nothing there.

His voice was soft, almost wistful. “No. I like kids, though. My sister has two, one of each. Seven and four. They’re in Minnesota.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

He reverted to his normal hard tone. “No.” Well, all right then.

The coffee arrived, just in time to avoid an incredibly awkward silence caused by my indefatigable curiosity. So what if this man kept looking at me as if I were something he’d like to scrape off his shoe? I was taking one of those steps Dr. Lowell talked about: Make conversation with someone who patently despises you. Or something like that.

I took a sip of coffee. Not truly awful, just mildly awful. “What else can you tell me about Simon’s concept?”

“What do you know?”

I shrugged. “Obviously not enough. What do you think I need to know?”

The food arrived just as he opened his mouth. He gave the waitress an impatient scowl as she set our plates down. I surveyed the salad. There were only three olives, maybe four, tops. And the iceberg lettuce was almost paler than me. The feta cheese looked good, though.

I chewed on a forkful of cheese and gave him a surreptitious glance. He had cut off a piece of pie and was lifting it to his mouth. Pop, it went in. And a little bit lingered on his lower lip, which he licked off quickly, giving me an abashed, little-boy grin as he did so.

If he loathed me less, I might have to admire the view. Because, objectively speaking, he sure was easy on the eyes. Good thing his moments of charm were few and far between—limited to one, in fact, thus far.

“Basically,” he said, spearing another piece of pie, “Simon is hoping his bakery will cement his place among the cooking elite. He’s made good progress, but working at someone else’s restaurant naturally means he has to share the limelight.”

“Naturally,” I murmured, surreptitiously picking an olive pit from my mouth.

“The bakery—provided it’s successful—will be the springboard upon which we can build Simon’s empire. The bakery is only a piece of the pie, so to speak,” he said, his mouth twisting up at the corners. Another joke! He’d doubled his moments of charm to two in under ten minutes!

“How are you involved?”

Nick shrugged. “I’ll handle the paperwork, the finances, basically everything that isn’t the actual baking. We’ve got start-up capital, and it all has to be managed properly. So even though this is a start-up, it’s not as though Simon and I aren’t qualified.”

Unlike me, his tone implied.

He leaned back and placed his hands in his lap. “I have to tell you, Ms. Hagan, I am not at all sanguine about Simon’s putting you in charge. In fact, I believe it’s a mistake. A big one that we cannot afford. But Simon is in charge.”

Okay, forget
implied,
and substitute
said
.

He gave me another intent gaze, as if to see that his words had the proper impact. My eyes dropped to my plate. I drew a deep breath and thought of Aidan.

“Well,” I said, looking up and giving him a bright, totally artificial smile, “I’ll just have to dream up something totally original to knock your socks off.” Oh my God, had I just used that phrase?

“I’m looking forward to it,” he replied, in a voice that indicated he was doing anything but. “My socks are getting complacent,” he added in a dry aside.

Another joke! Mr. Forbidding might have to change his name to Mr. Fun-Loving!

He finished the piece of pie and regarded the plate as if he wanted to lick it clean.

He might be ruthless and nerve-racking, but he liked dessert. There had to be some good in him.

“When
are
you starting to work on this?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. It sounded as if he thought I was already slacking off.