“So the best part of being a baker is giving people pleasure …?”

Daniel’s grin made Angela catch her breath. His blue eyes had caught the late evening light. His white teeth were surrounded by golden, smoothly shaved skin that looked as if it smelled and tasted wonderful. Angela felt as if her body had stopped functioning. Certainly her brain had.

Daniel knelt at her feet; his fingers landed softly on her bare knee, shooting Angela through with arousal as if he’d touched her … somewhere else.

“I think you could give me a lot of pleasure, even though we hardly know each other.” His voice was low and slightly husky, his eyes didn’t leave hers, so blue and so serious, humor dancing at their edges.

Angela’s cue. Her hands landed on the firm planes of Daniel’s pecs, her mouth lifted toward his. “I think I’d like to.”

“But …”

“No.” She put her finger to his lips, heart thudding. “We’re here, Daniel, you and me. We’re alive and we’re together. This is supposed to happen. For both of us.”

Then she let herself melt fully against him, and whispered, “You’re okay with this?” just to be sure.

“Yes.” He murmured the word without hesitation; his hand cupped the back of her neck and he bent to her mouth, his lips sure and sweet.

About the Author

ISABEL SHARPE was not born pen in hand like so many of her fellow writers. After she quit work to stay home with her firstborn son and nearly went out of her mind, she started writing. After more than twenty novels—along with another son—Isabel is more than happy with her choice these days. She loves hearing from readers. Write to her at www.IsabelSharpe.com.

Dear Reader,

When I visited a friend in Seattle a few summers ago, I knew I had to set a book there. After the idea came to me for a series about friends whose businesses represent the five senses, I realized I could set three books there! It’s a great town, clean, green and close to one of my favorite things in the world: the ocean.

Of course the five friends who own the Come to Your Senses building not only explore Seattle’s cultural diversity, great food, coffee and hot spots, they also find love. In this first book, Just One Kiss, expert baker Angela struggles with wonderful and sometimes overwhelming feelings for the unexpectedly sexy Daniel, who, finally throwing off past grief, is ready to taste everything she has to offer.

It’s very exciting starting a new series. I hope you enjoy all the books in FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS!

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe

www.IsabelSharpe.com

Just One Kiss

Isabel Sharpe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Mark, who among many other wonderful qualities, put out a good bake.

1

“YOU ARE WELCOME.” Angela Loukas handed the plump waxed bag across her sparkling glass counter to her favorite customer, Marjorie. The seventy-something woman came daily to Angela’s bakery, A Taste for All Pleasures, between 5:00 and 6:00 p.m. for her next-day’s breakfast—today a cinnamon-pecan roll. Given that Marjorie weighed about a hundred pounds, Angela worried the bakery items were all she was eating. “Would you like a black-pepper fruit tart for dessert tonight?”

“Oh …” Marjorie glanced doubtfully at the tiny tarts—raspberries, blueberries, kiwi slices and mandarin sections glistening with currant jelly glaze and speckled with crushed black peppercorns.

“On the house,” Angela said impulsively. “For a loyal customer.”

“Oh, well. I can’t say no to that.” She reached to accept the tart, fragile hand bones extending from her flawlessly tailored coral linen suit. “I’ll eat it right away. It looks too good to wait.”

“I hope you enjoy it.”

Marjorie took a bite and chewed carefully. “Hmm. Yes. Very nice. But your muffins are exquisite. And those cinnamon rolls … my goodness. As if God had smiled on them.”

Angela kept her expression warm, but her heart sank. God hadn’t smiled on the tarts? Maybe she needed to revise the recipe yet again. “Thank you, that’s very sweet.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow, Angela, dear.”

“See you then.” Angela waved the tiny woman out of the shop, still pondering the reaction. She’d added the new section of European pastries to her year-old bakery in the last few months. So far, in spite of low prices and occasional giveaways, and in spite of Seattle’s relatively sophisticated population, her customers still seemed to prefer the standard cookies, muffins, cupcakes, simple breads and other familiar baked goods she’d started with while she built confidence.

Her dream was to turn A Taste for All Pleasures into a European-style bakery known city-wide for its selection, quality and aesthetics.

Not there yet, but she wasn’t giving up.

Her door chime began a phrase from one of Angela’s favorite songs, Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends.” Seth Blackstone, whose music studio was upstairs in the building, had rigged the notifier to play her favorites when customers came in.

Angela’s welcoming smile got wider when she saw Bonnie Fortuna, gifted florist and owner of Bonnie Blooms, the shop opposite hers in the building she and four other entrepreneurial friends who’d graduated from Washington University together had bought a year before. Four businesses were arranged on the first floor, with individual apartments and Seth’s studio/apartment combination on the upper.

“Hey, Bonnie. How’s things today?”

“All good.” Bonnie stood in the center of the bakery, wearing her trademark hodgepodge of styles and colors, proffering a vase of burgundy and pink alstroemeria. “Thought you’d like these. Maybe over by the coffee?”

“Ooh, those would look great, thanks.” She watched Bonnie rotate the black-and-silver vase on the high counter until the arrangement sat just right against her faintly rose-colored walls. “Would you by any chance be hoping to trade for a cookie?”

“A cookie. Well …” Bonnie gave the flowers one last look and nodded her satisfaction. “I could find uses for a cookie. Especially if it happens to be walnut-chocolate-chunk.”

“It does.” Angela handed one over. “What’s new?”

“Wait, let me concentrate.” Bonnie bit into her cookie and closed her green eyes rapturously, a smile curving her bright red lips. “Ohhh, these are so amazing. You are Seattle’s cookie queen.”

“Thanks.” Angela leaned her elbows on the counter next to the register. Cookies. Yeah. Ordinary, everyday recipes she could make in her sleep. “So what’s going on? Did that guy you met dancing ever ask you out?”

“Oh, him. Yeah, sort of.” Bonnie made a face.

“And …?”

Bonnie studied her alternating scarlet and black fingernails a little too carefully. “I wasn’t really feeling it.”

“Why not? You don’t have to marry him, just go out.”

“Hmm.”

“Geez, Bonnie. You can’t sit around the rest of your life wait—” She stopped herself from blurting out her suspicion that Bonnie was still waiting five years later for their resident musician, Seth, whom she dated junior year until he freaked out over how serious the relationship was getting. Bonnie hadn’t come close to being serious about anyone else since. “You can’t avoid men forever.”

“I’ve dated plenty. What about you? You’re not exactly pouncing on single guys, either.”

“I’m not … ready.” Angela winced at how lame the excuse sounded. She’d been divorced for three years, after nine months of a dream-come-true marriage that turned nightmare when Tom was unfaithful with the exact type of woman his parents had wanted him to marry in the first place. Annabel, aka The Princess, was tall, WASPy and aristocratic, with strawberry-blond hair, flawless skin and an inheritance the size of her chilly conceit. While there sat half-Greek wallflower Angela Loukas—not tall, not blond, not rich, not chic, and worst of all, not perfect.

“Tom was a dork.” Bonnie glanced longingly at the cookies, separated from her by a cold, uncaring pane of glass. “You can do sooo much better than him.”

“Maybe. If I wanted to try.” She reached down and pulled out another walnut-chocolate-chunk. “It’s tough to recover from that much fun.”

“Oh, come on. You’re telling me if the perfect man walked through that door tomorrow and asked you out you’d turn him down?”

“Ha!” Angela handed the cookie over. “First of all, I matured out of the perfect-man fantasy when Tom came home late with hickeys all over him.”

“Ew.” Bonnie grimace melted into bliss when she started in on the second cookie.

“I was so naive I thought there was a grand plan written somewhere, ‘Tom and Angela, love at first sight until death parts them.’ Yeah, right.” She wiped her hands on her apron, creamy white with the A Taste for All Pleasures logo Bonnie designed in rich burgundy: various breads tumbling from a cornucopia. “Death didn’t part us, his dick did.”

Bonnie gave a shout of laughter, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I’m sorry.” Her fingers lifted to let the words out. “It’s not funny, except that it is.”

“I know. It’s funny now. Sort of. Sometimes.” Angela wrinkled her nose. “I just don’t know how you ever trust that love-feeling again once you’ve been busted up like this.”

“You want to know what I think?” Bonnie’s walnut-chunk was fast disappearing. “I think someday you’ll meet a guy who makes you realize how effed-up Tom was. You didn’t have anyone to compare him to since he was your first love.”

Angela stared at her, wondering if she had any idea how that advice could be applied to herself about Seth. Probably not. Every time Angela gently broached the subject of Mr. Can’t-Commit, Bonnie turned bristly with denial and stopped listening. “You may be right. But forgive me if I am not holding my breath.”

“Understandable. We all have to go through our bitter stage.” She started backing out, hand raised in a wave worthy of royalty. “I’ve gotta get back to the store. Thanks for the cookies.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for the bouquet.” Angela watched her scoot over to her shop, worrying that there hadn’t been enough flower-selling going on lately if Bonnie’s frequent drop-ins to the bakery were any indication. It wasn’t easy starting your own business; the five of them had some pretty rough times just getting the building bought and renovated. Close friendship was the miracle that helped them survive, but none were taking long-term success for granted.

They’d passed the one-year anniversary of the building’s grand opening three months earlier, in January. They’d named the collection of businesses Come to Your Senses after one of them—Bonnie, Angela thought—realized that their five fields represented the five senses: taste—Angela’s bakery; sound—Seth’s music; smell—Bonnie’s flowers; sight—Jack’s photography; and touch—Caroline’s physical therapy studio, bought by a woman named Demi Anderson after their beloved friend got married and moved out of state. The building’s sign, painted in whimsical, colorful letters by Bonnie, hung over the front entrance to the ornate brick building on the corner of Broadway and Olive, a great location surrounded by other businesses, with Seattle Central Community College and Cal Anderson Park a few blocks down the street, and with nearby neighborhoods housing a population that wholeheartedly embraced the concept of anything goes.

The door chimed—another customer, or in this case, a slew of them, teenagers ready for a pre-dinner appetite spoiler. Angela called Scott, her black-haired multipierced part-time student helper, out of the back where he was sweeping the kitchen, and together they got the crowd taken care of. Two tangerine scones, three pumpkin muffins, eight assorted cookies and four cupcakes. Nothing from France: millefeuilles, croissants. Nothing from Greece: baklava, kouram-biedes. Nothing from Italia: pignoli cookies, spumenti, each recipe made with her own special twist.

Scott returned to his sweeping and Angela glared around the now-empty shop, the last coffee-drinker having vacated his table. She was not going to give up her dream of having a bakery like the ones she and Tom saw on their European honeymoon. Especially because Tom’s voice was still echoing in her head—stick with what you can manage—as if he’d never expected her to rise above a chocolate chip cookie. As if she’d always be plain old unsophisticated Angie …

Stalking out into the store, armed with a rag and cleaner, she wiped down the four small and rather rickety tables. Someday her bakery would be the talk of the town. Not for bran and bland, but for elegant and exotic. She’d be—

“Excuse me.”

Angela turned abruptly. Customer. She hadn’t heard the chime? It meant a lot to her when people first entered the shop to be waiting attentively, welcoming smile in place. “Hi, there. May I help you?”

Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness. Had they opened the gates to Olympus and shooed a demigod into her shop?

Clear blue eyes. Strong chin. Sandy hair, kept short. Golden skin. Mouth with clean lines, slightly fuller lower lip—she must be staring like a crazy person to notice all that.

And he was staring back. Expectantly. Had he answered her offer of help? Had she missed that, too? Had she gone suddenly deaf?

She scooted to safety behind the counter to stash the cleaner and regain her composure, then tried again. “May I help you find something?”

“Oh. Sorry. Yeah.” He laughed awkwardly, a surprising contrast to the masculine-warrior aura he gave off. “I guess I was in another world.”

Whew. So she wasn’t the one who had taken that trip. “I understand. Sometimes this world is hard to take.”

He looked wary, as if he thought she were about to recommend a specific alternative. “Very true.”

Silence.

She could not ask him again what he wanted. So she’d stand here gazing her fill while he scanned the cases until he figured it out. Now that she looked past the initial impression of “hot damn,” she saw his eyes were haunted, dark circles under them; a vertical line bisected his brows; the stunning lips were set tightly. Not a happy man.

As usual, when she encountered someone in pain, Angela wanted to help. Stuffing a person with baked goods wasn’t always a healthy way to deal with grief, but sometimes short-term sweetness went a long way toward curing what ailed a person.

“If you have any questions …”

“I am here to buy something, not just to stand gawking.” He tore his eyes away from her bread shelf, mouth quirked in a self-deprecating smile that didn’t reach his eyes, but softened his features enough that Angela’s heart skipped a beat. Not so much the wounded warrior when he smiled. More like a man she’d like to get to know. As a friend. A very sexy friend …

“All gawkers welcome.” She returned his smile, feeling as if some internal light fixture, which had been dark for ages, was sparking signs of life. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Bread?” She gestured to the loaves he’d been ogling. “All made daily on the premises.”

“No, actually.” His voice broke. “I’m here for cupcakes.”

Cupcakes. So much emotion in that word. What was the significance? She was dying to ask, but gestured instead to the case on her right, where rows of them, somewhat depleted by the day’s purchases, were displayed. Angela decided impulsively that this particular demigod was a chocolate guy. Not devil’s food or German sweet, but dense, moist, bittersweet. Possibly with coffee frosting, or caramel, but more likely chocolate sour cream. “Flavor?”

“White with white frosting.”

No. No way. She was so sure, she found herself having to stop from shaking her head at him. White-on-white? He didn’t get that lean, muscular body by inhaling sugar. That lean muscular body, which she had noticed keenly, was displayed to advantage in a tight athletic shirt. Below the counter she could glimpse black biking shorts hugging powerful thighs. In large, strong-looking hands he held a biking helmet.

Times like these she was very glad her cases were see-through.

“White-on-white?” She put her hands on her hips, regarded him doubtfully. “I would have said chocolate.”

“Yes, usually.” He glanced at the chocolate flavors, then back to her, causing a renewed buzz in her internal circuitry. “Today white.”

“A gift?”

“Sort of.”

“Special occasion?”

“Birthday.” His words became clipped, lips thinning.

Angela nodded, wanting nothing more than to continue her interrogation, but recognizing the signal to back off. “How many would you like?”

“Six.”

“Six white-on-white coming up.” She grabbed a flat box and pulled it into shape. “Is it your birthday?”

“No.” He spoke as if he were strangling on the word.

Hmm. She glanced at him after the first cupcake, feather-light under clouds of sweet icing, had gone into the box. She wasn’t going to pry if it made him uncomfortable, but she wished there was something she could do or say to help. Tom’s very sensible voice spoke again in her brain—Why are you always wasting energy taking on problems that aren’t yours? Yes, yes, he was right. But …

“Would you like a chocolate cupcake for yourself right now? On the house?”

“I’d …” He frowned, seeming to deliberate. “No. No, thanks.”

As if he were tempted, but shouldn’t. Diabetic maybe? With a bod like that he certainly couldn’t be concerned about losing weight. Whomever’s birthday he was celebrating with cupcakes he didn’t care for must have power over him. Though he didn’t look like the kind of man a woman could dominate.

Listen to her. She knew nothing about this guy and was already inventing an overbearing girlfriend and hating her. It could just as easily be true that his woman was a total sweetheart and he was a rat bastard who’d done her wrong. Cupcakes could be his way of trying to squirm back into her good graces.

“I’m Angela by the way.” She put the fourth cupcake in the box.

“Oh.” He looked confused. Then wary again. “Uh, hi.”

Not going to tell her his name apparently. Angela put cupcakes five and six in the box, slighted by the rejection. “You live around here?”

“Not far.”

She glanced pointedly at the helmet, feeling reckless now. The guy didn’t want to talk to her? Too bad. She wanted to talk to him. And until he got what he’d come in for, he was her prisoner. “You ride a lot? On all these hills? Our neighborhood has some of the city’s worst.”

“Biking clears my head.”

Cleared his head. That was progress. Practically an intimate confession. “Your head needed clearing today?”

He blinked, eyes losing their blankness and fixing on her vividly. “Something like that.”

The old sputtering bulb inside her started a steady glow. This man was truly delicious. His combination of ultramacho body and vulnerable demeanor …

Apparently she was a sucker for a fixer-upper.

Her demigod gave the boxed cupcakes a pointed glance.

Right. She started to close the lid, then hesitated. White frosting, white cake, white box, bleah. “Would you like these gift-wrapped?”

“No, I’ll just take them.”

She frowned. For whatever reason she wanted to give him something with color. “Even a ribbon?”

“No, not a ribbon, nothing. It’s fine as is.” He spoke calmly, wasn’t impatient, which gave her courage to look up again.

Their eyes met and held, and her heart gave a lurch of sympathy and, yes, attraction. He looked half-broken, and even more masculine for the pain.

He looked away first; Angela picked up the box, cheeks flushing. The last man she’d been instantly drawn to like this was Tom, and look what poison he’d turned out to be. Though Tom’s look had been cocky, sexual, beckoning. The haunted look in this man’s eyes was entirely different. And much more powerful.

“I’ll be right back.” She fled to the back of the shop, grabbed one of the overflow chocolate-on-chocolate cupcakes, wrapped it in bright red paper and tucked it neatly in the center of the box, which she tied with a length of rainbow ribbon.

Maybe he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture. Maybe she was spoiling some birthday surprise for a woman he loved, maybe he’d come back furious and cause a scene. Maybe. But this guy was miserable, and he wasn’t a white-cake eater, and Angela wanted to give him something that might also make him smile.

More than that, after he left her shop, got on his bike and pedaled away, she wanted him to have something that would remind him of her.

2

DANIEL FLYNN climbed the newly carpeted stairs to his second-floor apartment, carrying his bike in one hand, his riding bag with the box of cupcakes in the other. At the landing, he rolled his eyes at the new gold and ivory cherub figurines his landlord apparently decided would look good on the windowsill, and kept climbing, legs leaden and shaky after his thirty-mile ride on Seattle’s hilly streets. A longer ride than usual, but he’d been in one of his self-punishing moods, trying to use physical pain to squelch the emotional.

Today was Kate’s birthday, exactly two months before his. She would have been twenty-nine. She would have completed her first year of graduate school and be into her second. They would have been getting married in six months, right after she graduated.

Over and over, around and around, like a merry-go-round made of spikes, the emotions tore into him as they had for the past year. Granted, in the last few months there had been minutes, then hours, then finally whole days that were easier here and there, and the intensity of the pain had lessened on the whole, but significant occasions like today brought his Kate roaring back, her image, spirit, even her scent … her. How could he ever get over someone who was so much a part of him? The final stage of grief was supposed to be acceptance. Did that mean at some point a loss like this would be okay with him? Impossible. Kate had become the anchor of his world from the moment he met her when they were both at Highland Park High School outside Chicago. They’d started dating almost immediately, and in her he’d found all the love and stability his feuding parents were too busy to remember he needed. Without her, he would have taken a seriously self-destructive turn in order to cope.

Outside the bachelor apartment he shared with his co-worker, Jake, he set the bike down, grimacing at the volume of music coming through the door. Coldplay. Not his favorite. He fumbled in the zipped pocket of his bag for his key, feeling the sharp corner of the bakery box inside. Kate’s weakness, white cupcakes with white frosting, the more sugary the better. Daniel had always been a chocolate guy. Funny how the woman at the store guessed that. She’d seemed very perceptive. Her eyes—beautiful eyes, brown and widely spaced, friendly and bright—had seemed to peer right inside him.

Daniel’s fingers touched the key, closed around it and held still. She’d had nice hair, too, brown with reddish tints, cascading and shiny, falling from a widow’s peak at the crown of her wide, pale forehead. Odd how he remembered her so vividly. The quick smile, the cheerful energy she brought to her movements …

He drew out the key abruptly and jammed it into the lock. Today, he’d honor Kate’s memory by eating the treats she loved. Earlier he’d also bought the ingredients for her favorite meal: rib-eye steak, creamed spinach and brown and wild rices mixed together, though right now the idea of eating made his stomach churn. Small wonder he’d dropped nearly ten pounds in the past year and a half.

Inside, he wheeled his bike through their front hallway into his bedroom and leaned it against the wall, which was already marred with scuff marks from previous handlebar encounters. He dug out the cupcake box from his bag, and yanked his empty water bottle from its cage on the bike, feeling restless, grimy and stuck in a cage himself, from which the ride had liberated him only temporarily. The small apartment with gray carpet and his room with bare, white walls—his own fault for not hanging pictures—didn’t help.

A shower got rid of the grime, but didn’t help his mood. Pounding on Jake’s door quieted the music, but underscored the painful fact: some days he just had to get through. Luckily Jake understood. The two men had met at Slatewood International, where they designed software to stay ahead of increasingly sophisticated hackers, and had formed a fast friendship. After Kate’s accident, Jake had been solid, taking Daniel in, and developing an uncanny sense of when to kid him out of a scowl and when to back off, when to prod him into talking and when to leave him alone.

Sometimes Daniel felt he owed Jake his sanity—however much of it he still had left. Kate would approve. Sort of. She and Jake got along like fire and ice. She thought Jake was a shallow butthead; he thought Kate was an uptight bitch. Daniel had sat in the middle, rolling his eyes at both of them.

In the kitchen, he pulled the steak out of the refrigerator to warm up, and put the brown-and-wild rice mixture on the stove to cook. Daniel was a bread man, always preferred it to rice or potatoes, preferably fresh the way it had looked at Angela’s bakery, thick slices spread with softened butter.

Did she get up early every morning and make it herself? He pictured her, drawn-back hair emphasizing her heart-shaped face, flour dusting her high cheekbones, room warm with the fresh, yeasty smell of dough.

But tonight, for Kate, he’d eat rice.

With leaden movements, he pulled down the bottle of her favorite Washington State cabernet from Donedei vineyards, got out the fancy corkscrew she’d bought him and hesitated. Before he met Kate, he’d been a beer guy, and reverted to being one after her death, since he associated wine so strongly with their relationship.

The bottle went back up on the shelf for another, easier day. Too many triggers. Fine line between honoring her memory and needlessly torturing himself. Kate of all people would understand. He opened the refrigerator, grabbed out a Mack & Jack’s Serengeti Wheat beer and felt himself relax a little.

“Hey.” Jake ambled into the kitchen and gestured at the steak. “Nice piece of meat. What’s the occasion?”

“Kate’s birthday.” He answered automatically, robotically. “Her favorite meal.”

“Oh. Yeah, um. Okay.” Frowning, he grabbed a beer, popped off the top and took a long swig. “So. How are you doing on all that?”

Daniel took a long swig himself, wanting to laugh at the perfect sitcom moment. Two guys drinking beer, trying to talk about emotions. “Okay.”

“You’re celebrating her birthday tonight.” His tone made it clear he thought the idea was beyond moronic. Jake was not exactly the sentimental type. “You gonna eat that all yourself?”

Daniel shrugged. “Unlikely.”

“Excellent.” Jake pulled up a chair to the table in their bland kitchen, gray on white on black. “You have yourself a dinner date.”

“I guess I do.” Not exactly his plan, but now that Jake was here, the idea of sitting alone miserably thinking about Kate felt like a direct route to unnecessary pain, pain he was tired of having to battle.

“I met this girl last night.”

“Yeah?” Daniel got up and grabbed a bag of pretzel twists from the counter, brought it back to the table. Jake had a genius for interacting with the opposite sex. Women found his puppy-dog dark eyes brimming with humor and short stocky body unthreatening. Before they knew it, he’d literally charmed the pants off of them. Few relationships lasted longer than a month or two, but Jake kept trying, claiming he’d eventually stumble over the great love his parents had. “How come you slept here last night, you strike out?”

“She’s not for me.” Jake tipped his beer bottle toward Daniel. “Your type. Brainy, petite, high-energy.”

Daniel’s grin faded abruptly. “You know I can’t—”

“Yes, I know.” He rolled his eyes and made his fingers “talk” like a sock puppet. “You promised Kate you wouldn’t date until your wedding date, which, after a year and a half of celibacy is still six months away.”

“Jake …” Daniel warned.

Jake put down his hand. “Cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Punishment.” Daniel chuckled bitterly, shaking his head. He and Kate had been looking toward their wedding day for so long, planning, dreaming, fantasizing. How could Daniel even think about another woman before that date had passed?

Okay, maybe he could think about other women. Once in a while. Like now, when Angela’s luminous face had come into his head again. “You don’t understand.”

“Why wouldn’t she leave it to you to decide when you were ready to move on? Wouldn’t you know better than she would?”

Daniel narrowed his eyes, tamping down the instant flash of temper. “Lay off Kate.”

“Someone needs to say this shit, Daniel. She had you by the testicles while she was alive, now you’re moping around like you buried your balls with her.” He leaned forward, eyes earnest, dark hair falling forward, in spite of the gel he tried to keep it combed back with. “Dig ‘em up, dude! Start living again! Go out with a woman, or two, or three. You’re not being unfaithful, Kate is gone.”

“I know she’s gone.” Daniel spoke through his teeth. “I feel it every day.”

“Because you haven’t tried to get past it.”

Anger rose so fiercely Daniel had to white-knuckle his beer to keep from punching Jake in the mouth. “What the hell do you know about it?”

“Everything.”

His answer shocked some of Daniel’s anger out of him. “How?”

“My high school girlfriend. We dated three years. Aneurism. She was there—” he snapped his fingers “—then she wasn’t. But you know what? That was her life ending. Mine went on.”

“So you climbed on top of the next babe who came along and that fixed everything?”

“Yes, I did and no, it didn’t. But dating after her death didn’t mean I never loved her or that I didn’t miss her. I still do sometimes. But I sure as hell didn’t serve some bullshit two-year sentence crying over my dick in my own hand.”

“Shut the f—”

“I’m telling you, you bury yourself in that shit, your life might as well be over, too.”

“Stop.” Daniel stood abruptly, chair scraping over the hardwood floor.

“Okay.” Jake held up both hands. “Okay. Calm down.”

“Don’t ever say that crap about Kate again.”

“Okay. I was out of line. I was right, but I was out of line.”

Daniel stayed where he was, trying to get his breathing under control. Most of the time he believed strongly that people could think and say what they wanted, it was no skin off his ass. But Jake’s words had cut deep. “You want this steak or not?”

“Sure, man.” Jake nodded. “Sure. You need any help?”

“No.” He turned to the stove and started a pan heating. By the time the steak was ready to be turned, he’d calmed down some. After they’d finished it—Daniel had more appetite than he expected, and the steak was damn good—he was tired of Jake’s apologetically cheerful conversation, and just wanted to retreat to his room and reconnect with Kate over the cupcakes.

“I’m going out with Mark tonight. You want to come?”

“No, thanks.” Daniel took his plate to the dishwasher.

“Do you good. Take your mind off the bad stuff.”

“I’m staying in.”

Jake shrugged. “Okay. Your choice.”

“Yeah, how about that.”

Jake chuckled. “I won’t say another word.”

“I doubt that.”

“Not tonight anyway.” He put his own plate in the dishwasher and slapped Daniel on the back. “It gets better.”

“So I hear.”

“And it will get better a lot faster if you—” He saw the look on Daniel’s face and backed up, hands lifted again. “Right. I’m going. I’m gone.”

A few minutes later the kitchen was clean, the front door closed behind Jake. Daniel went into his room with the cupcakes and put on Kate’s favorite CD, Little Earthquakes by Tori Amos.

The music filled the room, poignant and throaty, gut-wrenchingly evocative. Daniel drifted back toward the desk, throat thickening, remembering Kate singing along, horribly out of tune, which had grated on his nerves. The memory seemed so endearing now. In a trance, he carefully untied the burgundy and gold ribbons he hadn’t wanted on the box and lifted the lid.

What the—

Chocolate. There was a chocolate cupcake nestled in red paper in the center of the white ones he’d asked for, devil amidst the angels. Angela. Her face rose in his mind again, pretty mouth curved in a smile, eyes brimming with mischief as she handed him the box after her mysterious disappearance into the back room.

The tiniest burst of light skittered through his chest. He found himself half smiling. Angela had guessed he was a chocolate guy, and made sure he got what she was so sure he’d like. The gesture was a little weird. But also … oddly sweet.

The light in his chest burst again. She’d been tall, as he remembered. Maybe five-seven or five-eight. Kate had been tiny, five-three to his six feet two inches, but with wiry strength that continually astounded him. Any and all obstacles buckled from the sheer force of Kate’s determination.

And she’d been determined he not date until their wedding day had passed. Her last wish, whispered as her young, promising life left her. Daniel had been so devastated he would have promised her anything.

He pulled up his desk chair and sat, rubbing his hands on his jean-clad thighs. He could smell the chocolate, wafting up like temptation from the innocent vanilla surrounding it.

His finger swiped through rich, dark frosting, lifted it to his mouth.

Ohh, man. Real chocolate, killer chocolate. Bitter and sweet, with a tang of some kind—sour cream?

He tried the white frosting.

Mmm. Cleanly sweet with an appealing vanilla-marshmallow flavor. Fresh, real ingredients there, too.

His hand went back down on his thigh. He pictured Kate in the hospital, head raised painfully toward him, her pretty features bruised, contorting with the effort to speak. No other women until after our wedding day. Please. Do that for me. And for you. For us …

Throat on fire with the impossible task of trying to choke back tears, he’d answered in a voice that barely sounded. Yes. I promise.

In his lonely room now, the first song ended. The next one came on.

He saw himself suddenly through Jake’s eyes, spending the evening alone in his room, listening to music he wouldn’t have chosen, about to eat food he didn’t much care for.

Daniel shook his head. It was Kate’s birthday. He was honoring her. Tomorrow he’d think about what Jake had said. But tonight …

If you bury yourself in that shit, your life might as well be over, too.

I would definitely have pegged you for a chocolate guy.

His hand hesitated over the box.

Kate …

He dug out a cupcake, peeled off the paper and took a huge bite, with more enthusiasm than he’d had for any food in a long, long time.

The cupcake was as amazing as the frosting, light but moist, and incredibly flavorful. The best he’d ever had. Or maybe it was the release and relief of letting himself enjoy it.

The beautiful fresh-faced Angela had been right. Tonight he’d been ready for chocolate.

3

“SHE’LL LOVE THEM.” Bonnie handed over a bouquet of mixed blue, purple and yellow to the grinning teenage boy who’d come in and dubiously asked for roses, but was leaving much happier. Bonnie had listened to his tale with sympathy: he’d been peer-pressured into asking The Wrong Girl to the homecoming dance, then realized he really cared for The Right Girl all along, and wanted a gesture of combined apology and affection that wasn’t too intense or expensive…?.

Sometimes Bonnie thought she was more of a psychologist than a saleswoman. People might tell hairdressers more of their troubles, but they’d be surprised how many emotions went along with flowers. Not just wedding, funeral, birthday and anniversary. Also apology, seduction, guilt, renewal …

Bonnie was a firm believer in the healing powers of floral arrangements. Maybe that sounded crazy, but she’d seen it over and over again, customers coming back in to thank her, telling her how much the plants or bouquets or blossoms had been appreciated, how they’d helped cheer or heal, intensify or diffuse.

She wiped water drops off her counter and leaned on it, surveying the riot of fresh color around her proudly and a little wistfully. Proud, because she hadn’t wanted her stock isolated away from the customer, refrigerated behind glass; her flowers bloomed all over the store in buckets carefully arranged on multiple levels as to color and size. The effect, she hoped, was like walking into an English garden in full bloom. Wistful, because not enough people had been walking in, to the point where she was having to consider drastic measures. Not selling the store, not yet, but … yes, drastic. Like giving up her apartment upstairs and dragging essentials and a cot into the shop’s back office.

After a year of lukewarm sales, she was getting to where she needed to be realistic and face the possibility of failure. In the meantime, she was looking around for marketing tips, tricks and gimmicks wherever she could get them, hoping to find ways of luring in more buyers. And constantly fighting off panic and a heavy sense of doom … and of shame.

Just another super fun year in the game of life.

Through her window onto the building’s foyer she noticed a guy dressed in biking gear, and holding a helmet walk in and stop, as if he weren’t sure where to go. Bonnie frowned. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him?

Aha. Déjà vu. She’d seen him pause in the same spot the previous day. Hard to miss a hard-body hottie like that. But when she’d glimpsed his face, she’d wanted less to seduce him than to offer hugs and mugs of coffee, maybe give him an air fern from her shop, so he wouldn’t have to take care of anything but himself.

She craned her neck to get a better view. He was still hesitating. Maybe she should ask if he needed help? Yesterday he’d gone into Angela’s. Bonnie meant to ask her about him, but A Taste for All Pleasures had been crazy busy and then Angela had gone out with friends last night.

A group of students, on a weekend break from classes, came out of the bakery, clutching paper bags of treats and cups of coffee. Hard-body Hottie stood aside to let them pass, then walked, without hesitation this time, into the bakery.

Ooh, interesting. Waiting to go in until Angela was alone? Bonnie hoisted herself onto her counter and leaned over shamelessly to catch Angela’s reaction. A nice, wide smile, her usual greeting. But maybe this smile was wider? Nicer? Bonnie leaned farther, but couldn’t see the guy’s face. Was he after the buns or the baker? And would Angela let him taste the latter along with the former? Bonnie would love to see Angela happy again after that jerk ex of hers. Though they’d all fallen for Tom. He was impossible not to love, until you sensed the dry rot in his soul.

“Spy alert.”

Bonnie nearly fell off her counter. “Damn it, Seth, you scared me to death.”

“What did I miss?” Seth Blackstone sauntered up to her, grinning, making her shop look all the more colorful and feminine next to his tall, black-clad, self-assured masculinity. “Hot times at Angela’s?”

“She’s got a cute guy in there.”

“Yeah?” He peered toward the bakery. “What’s she doing with him?”

“Talking.” Bonnie told her heartbeat to calm down. It was Seth, not the Pope.

“You know this guy?”

“No. But he was in yesterday, and she seemed glad to see him.”

“Angela’s glad to see everyone.” He leaned against Bonnie’s counter, poked at her neat pile of brochures until they fanned to one side. “She’s a sweetheart.”

“True.” Bonnie sighed and jumped down behind her counter again. “I’d love to see her dating.”

“Why would you wish something like that on a friend?”

“Ha. Ha.” She turned a withering glare on him, which threatened to melt into a giggle at the smiling mischief in his hazel eyes. Oh, those eyes. Narrow and fiercely masculine, as was the strong square set of his jaw. But she couldn’t start thinking that way again. She’d keep up the prickly banter—it seemed the only way they could get along was by constantly disagreeing. So she glanced at her watch, maintaining the frown of disapproval. “Well, look at that. Nearly time for lunch. You just out of bed?”

“Ha. I’ll have you know I’ve been up for hours.” He took her wrist and turned it so he could see the time. “Okay, hour.”

Bonnie snatched back her arm as if his touch annoyed her, when five years after this man broke off their junior-year romance and smashed her heart, he could still make her shiver. Somewhere along the way she’d managed to make uneasy peace with the fact that she’d most likely always feel something for Seth, even having dated other men since then. The trick was keeping those emotions under control so they didn’t ruin her friendship with him or her sanity. Or, God forbid, screw up the perfectly balanced friend-dynamics of the owners of Come to Your Senses.

“What’s new?” She straightened a group of pencils, picked up the brochures and tapped them on the counter, aware the busy work would look as ridiculous as it was.

“Got a possible job with an independent director who needs a film scored.”

“Really!” Bonnie grinned at his look of utter indifference, seeing straight through to the celebration going on inside him. Seth might hold secrets for most people, but he held few for her and she still treasured that.

She was happy for him. His piano studio seemed to be thriving, and he’d been getting good commercial work, too. Not that he needed the income—the Blackstones had made a fortune many times over, starting with great-great-grandfather Blackstone’s shipping company right there in Seattle. But to Seth’s credit, he didn’t sit back and spend family money. He’d been actively pursuing his passion, striving for a career in the music business—songwriting, scoring commercials and/or films, and teaching piano.

“So what’s going on with you?” He squinted at her. “You look like hell.”

“Oh, you are so sweet!” She shoved at him, then immediately wished she hadn’t. That place in the center of his chest, the flat plane between the hard swells of his pectoral muscles, where dark hair curled—she missed that place, as if it were a whole person. Missed pillowing her head there, missed stroking, kissing, biting, the scent of his skin.

Yikes. She was being extra sappy and nostalgic today, what was with that? Reigniting those particular embers of passion was about as smart as playing tag on the highway. She had more important things to think about than the sternum of a guy who dumped her.

Most likely the new-old feelings were a result of extra vulnerability over her business, and missing the steady support of a romantic partner. Perfectly understandable when times got rough.

Well, guess what? Seth’s support might have been steady at first, but as Bonnie had started feeling more comfortable mentioning the future, Seth had started drawing back, further and further until he bumped into a surgically enhanced bimbo and stuck there.

“You still with me? I asked why you look so terrible.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off her, eyes that showed real concern. Worse, when she shoved against his chest again, he took her hand and held onto it. “Seriously, Bon-bon, what is it? Something’s really bugging you. Has been for a while.”

She shrugged, hating his sympathy and the way it still made her want to melt. “What makes you think that?”

“You’ve lost weight. You’re holding your body tense. You have dark shadows under your eyes and that worry-groove going full-force.” He traced a line from the center of her forehead between her brows. “Right here.”

Bonnie held her breath, telling herself his touch meant nothing, that Seth practiced charm on women the same way most people used oxygen: involuntarily and 24/7.

“I’m fine.” She held his gaze defiantly. “Great, in fact.”

“Good.” His face turned stony and he pushed away from the counter. “Glad to hear it.”

And there they stood on opposite sides of their post-relationship chasm. He kept pushing and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of intimacy without … intimacy. Though damn it, he hadn’t spoken to her with that much tenderness since before they broke up. Hadn’t used her “Bon-bon” nickname in quite a while, either.

So! She should call Greg, the last guy she dated, whom she’d broken up with amicably, to see if he wanted to hang out. Maybe in bed. She needed to shake both this silly renewed vulnerability to Seth and her dark mood over Bonnie Blooms.

“Ah, here she is.” Seth turned abruptly and strode out into the wide corridor outside her entranceway.

Bonnie followed him with her eyes, which had the enjoyable task of watching him greet a woman with obvious affection. Not just any woman. Not a woman Bonnie could look at and think, “Oh, how nice, Seth is meeting a good friend.” No. This was one of those women men dream about having their whole lives. And thank God Bonnie knew Seth well enough not to have unbent just now, not to have leaned on him, not to have let him back under her skin even the tiniest fraction of an inch, or she’d be feeling humiliated and rejected. Again.

Seth caught the goddess’s hand and pulled her into the shop after him. “Hey, Bonnie, this is my friend Alexandra.”

Of course it was Alexandra, which he pronounced Alex-ahn-drah. Names like Matilda or Priscilla were entirely out of the question. She was tall, exotically dark, Selma Hayekish, wearing a dress—black cap sleeves, red lace-up corset and a black tutu skirt—over stiletto boots, and not looking at all stupid. Looking, in fact, like the Goddess of Fashion Elegance. If Bonnie put on an outfit like that people would fall over laughing in the street.

Goddess looked eagerly around and parted her beautiful mouth to exclaim, “Oh, what a great shop!”

Bonnie suppressed a chortle of satisfaction. Alex-ahn-drah’s voice brought to mind angry chipmunks. See? No one could have everything. Though this woman did have an unfair number of the characteristics particularly dear to Seth. Namely big boobs and long legs.

“Ooh!” Alexa glided—yes, glided—on heels that would make Bonnie walk as if she were drunk, over to the bucket of cut jasmine sprays, where she bent down to sniff. “These are sooo pretty! And they smell sooo nice.”

“They’re one of my favorites.” In a faintly bitchy gesture, she made her voice as smooth and throatily sexual as possible, and got a satisfying double take from Seth.

“How much are they?” Alexandra bit her lower lip anxiously.

“Allow me.” Seth plucked out several stems and handed them to Bonnie, not taking his eyes off of Alexandra’s assets.

“Oh, wow. Thank you, Seth,” the Goddess squeaked. “Those are so beautiful.”

“How about roses, too? Red?”

“You are just too nice. Those would be perfect.”

Seth turned to Bonnie, chest puffed like a knight who’d just rescued his lady. “We’ll take these and a couple of—”

“Yeah, I’m on it.” She was already heading for the red roses, rolling her eyes. She’d been standing three feet away. Did they think she couldn’t hear?

Still gritting her teeth, she arranged the jasmine and roses with greenery and wrapped the bouquet while Seth led Alexandra around the shop and got to hear her chipmunking over everything. Bonnie wanted to charge him triple. He and Bambi were probably on their way to his studio to make beautiful music together. Nice of him to flaunt that in front of her.

No. No. She took a deep breath. Another one. Seriously, Bonnie … think.

Seth didn’t owe her that kind of consideration after five years. Not his fault he didn’t know she couldn’t quite put out the lame torch she still carried for him. Bonnie couldn’t punish him for moving on to live his life the way he wanted, or for assuming she’d done the same.

She’d tried to move on. Truly. And in many important ways she had. But what had made her believe junior year with all her naive little heart that she and Seth were meant to be together was the way he opened up to her, the way he became unguarded and warm around her. Only her. The way they shared stories, sometimes vulnerable painful stories, about their origins and paths, noting how many of the emotions and the resulting damage were the same in spite of their radically different backgrounds. Seth’s parents had been too caught up in their globe-trotting and social life to spend time with him, and Bonnie’s were too busy just trying to cope with six kids and a mortgage.

Similar as their experiences had been, as adults they processed the reaction differently, and that was where she felt she could be the most help to him. Bonnie had craved the intimacy she’d been starved for during her childhood, surrounding herself with close friends and lovers. Seth had withdrawn into his music and let only a few trusted friends near him, but no one ever as close as she’d gotten during that blissful year they were together.

“Here you go.” She handed the flowers to Alex-ahn-dra with a warm smile, determined not to act the pathetic hangeron ex-girlfriend.

“Thanks.” Alexandra buried her perfect nose in the bouquet and sent Seth a whitened smile under eyes glistening with gratitude. “Really, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Sir Galahad’s voice oozed humble nobility.

Bonnie was ready to hurl into one of her buckets.

“Ready?” Seth put a hand to the spot on Alexandra’s back where the red corset met the sudden flare of black netting, and gestured toward the exit. They left together, Seth sending Bonnie an unreadable glance as they passed. She watched them go, unable to keep herself from hoping they’d turn left, head out of the building and into the city.

They turned right. Maybe to pay a visit to Jack’s photography studio down the hall? Or Demi’s physical therapy studio?

Bonnie came out from behind the counter and nonchalantly strolled toward a potted ficus, which she examined closely for yellowing leaves, keeping the couple in her peripheral vision through the line of windows across her storefront.

Her heart sank. No. They were waiting for the elevator. Going up to Seth’s apartment.

She turned and stalked back to her counter. That was it. Bonnie could not spend the rest of her life skulking around ficuses spying on a guy who broke her heart five years earlier and hadn’t shown any sign of any desire or even awareness that he had the power to change into someone looking for a serious, healthy relationship.

How many times had she told herself she had to let him go? Too many. This time she had to dig down really deep, face really hard truths and make damn well sure she meant it.

4

ANGELA SMILED AT the group of moms leaving her shop, laughing and chatting, pushing babies in strollers, holding sticky hands of cookie-finishing toddlers. Adorable. If she and Tom were still married, Angela would probably be pregnant by now. They’d wanted kids, boatloads of them, but had decided to wait a few years before trying—thank goodness. Maybe he’d have that boatload now with the Princess of Perfection.

The thought still managed to hurt.

It shouldn’t. Tom was not worthy. Angela would meet someone else, someone who wanted her for herself, not in order to rebel against his parents. She and Mr. Wonderful would have perfectly flawed children and a perfectly flawed marriage like real, perfectly flawed people were supposed to.

Of course to do that, she’d have find Mr. Wonderful, and to do that, she’d have to start dating. Yesterday when she told Bonnie she wasn’t ready, for the first time the response had felt more like reflex than truth. Angela had lain in bed last night and thought about how when the sexy bicycle guy came in for white cupcakes, she’d felt not just ready, she’d felt ex-treme-ly ready. Ready to drag him into the back and show him how hot her ovens could get. So maybe it was time to start? Maybe. She could always take refuge in delay if the reality proved even more terrifying than the thought. Just because Bike Guy happened to send her to the moon and back didn’t mean she was ready for a relationship. After such a spectacular failure with her marriage it would be hard to trust any man again.

The pack of moms cleared the entrance and Angela’s eyes snapped into focus on the devil himself. She did a cartoonish double take, her system burning with that exhausting and all-too-familiar combination of pain, anger and lingering tenderness.

Tom.

What was he doing here?

He looked good. He’d lost weight, had color, probably from a vacation with what’s-er-name in St. Thomas, his favorite destination. Had he made love to her out on the warm sand at sundown? Watched the stars come out, more than Angela had ever seen before? Had the cooling air washed over their naked bodies? Did he tell her she was and always would be the only woman for him?

Angela wanted to cry. And she wanted to find a large blunt object to brain him with.

Divorce was so peaceful.

“Hi, Ange.”

There was nothing she hated more than the sound of that nickname on his lips. “Hi, Tom. I’m surprised to see you.”

“Yeah, well.” He looked around, dark eyes taking in her shop, the tables and chairs she’d bought secondhand and painted black and burgundy herself, the counter and stools, the display cases of pastry, cakes and cookies, the racks of bread and rolls. Angela found herself holding her breath, awaiting his judgment, and told herself to grow a pair. What did she care what he thought?

Too much. Much too much. She could not wait for the day when he no longer mattered, when his opinion was so much blah-blah-blah fouling the air. Three years since they divorced. How much longer would she have to wait?

“Nice place.” He nodded, hands perching on his hips. “You’ve done well.”

Ah, there it was, the royal seal of approval. She hated herself for even the small swell of pleasure. “Thanks. Did you want something?”

“I came to talk to you. But while I’m here …” He stepped closer to the case, examining the neatly arranged goods, which Angela was satisfied to note had been healthily depleted by a solid Saturday morning of business.

She walked a few steps to her left and gestured proudly to the assortment of international pastries. Here was someone who’d definitely appreciate what she’d done. “Would you like to try an éclair? These are filled with chocolate lavender pastry cream. Those there with hazelnut coffee cream and cocoa nubs. Or I have black-pepper fruit tarts, passion-fruit—”

“I’ll try an éclair. Chocolate lavender. And a chocolate chunk cookie.” He reached for his wallet and she waved him off.

“My treat. You want a box?”

“I’ll eat them now.” He patted his stomach. “Annabel and I are training for a triathlon this summer. I can manage the calories.”

Triathlon. Of course. The Princess was in perfect shape, too. Angela would rather walk on live coals.

“You look great.” She picked out the prettiest éclair and put it on an extra round of waxed paper and a napkin before handing it to him. Tom had a horror of getting his hands sticky.

“Thanks. I don’t have you around to tempt me with bakery stuff anymore. It’s been easy keeping the weight down.”

Ah, there it was. His weight problem had been her fault. “Annabel isn’t a cook?”

“We go out most of the time.”

“Nice.” He loved going out. Some evenings Angela had practically begged him to stay in. What kind of married couple ignored life at home?

It was good he found someone who fit him better.

There. That was about as charitable as she could be right now. Someday she’d do better.

“Not bad.” He was chewing his first bite of éclair. “Interesting taste.”

Interesting. That wasn’t quite the rapturous response she’d hoped for. “Did you come for something other than calories?”

“Yeah.” He wiped his fingers on the napkin. “Is there somewhere we could talk?”

“We’re not talking now?” They were alone in the shop. Scott wasn’t due for another half hour. Alice was back in the kitchen finishing a batch of baguette dough. Angela didn’t want Tom in the tiny intimacy of her office.

“Okay.” He took another huge bite of éclair. When he ate like that, as if he’d been starving for weeks, it meant he was nervous. Whatever Tom had to say, he didn’t think she’d like hearing it. She didn’t, either.

“You know Annabel and I have been dating for a while …”

“You’re getting married.” Pain shot through her. She-succeeded-where-I-failed pain, which was infuriatingly irrational. Not like Angela would ever want Tom back.

“Yes.” He wolfed the rest of the éclair, wiped his fingers again and picked up the cookie while he was still chewing. “We’re having a fall wedding.”

“Congratulations, Tom. I’m happy for you.” She was happy for him. And also still wanted that blunt object.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. But I wanted you to hear it from me.”

She nodded, managing to keep her gaze calm and steady. “That was nice of you, Tom.”

It was nice. And nice to be reminded that there was a good person inside somewhere, and that she hadn’t been a total idiot marrying him.

Only three-quarters of one.

“Good. Well …” He bit into the cookie. She could feel his relief having gotten through that errand of mercy without having to endure a scene, and could feel his need to flee as soon as possible, having gotten through it. Fine by her.

“Thanks for coming by, Tom. I really—”

“Mmm.” He held up the cookie, nearly halved by the size of the bite he’d taken. “This is where you should be focusing. This is your business’s future. Leave the fancy stuff to someone who can really manage it, someone who really lives there. That’s not you.”

Somehow she kept the smile that had invited itself onto her features during his praise of the cookie. “I don’t think—”

“Are you doing sales calls? Lots of them? Every day?”

Immediately she felt defensive. She hated sales calls, and while she knew they were important for growing her business, she tended to avoid them. Which he’d know, because he knew her, and because she wasn’t answering his question right away. “I’ve done enough for me. I have a few restaur—”

“With these?” He held up the cookie.

“Right now I’m concentrating on the international pastry side of the bus—”

“Mistake. You’re all-American and should stay in this country. Don’t reach beyond yourself, Angie. You’ve always done that. You’re doing it with this bakery, you did it by …” He stopped, looking trapped.

“Marrying you?”

“No. No, of course not.” He shoved the rest of the cookie into his mouth, chewed furiously. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.”

“No.” He swallowed and sighed. “I don’t think you do. We never could communicate. That was our problem.”

Yeah, they had trouble communicating. He told her what she should be like, and if she protested, he’d roll his eyes as if he’d been saddled with defective merchandise. When she did try to change, he’d cut down her every effort, exactly as he’d just done, with the result that she felt hopelessly inadequate through their relationship and short marriage. And was still working to get out from under the weight of his disapproval, damn him. And her.

“Well, I guess it’s better we’re not together anymore.” She spoke flatly, struggling with anger and regret. “I hope Annabel will make you happy.”

“Thanks, Ange.” His features softened, he took a few steps toward her.

No, no hugging. Go away. “‘Bye Tom! Have a great wedding!”

He took the hint, gave an awkward wave and left the shop.

Relief. More than relief—sudden satisfaction—because as she stared at his retreating figure, Angela noticed a hairless circle on the back of his head, perfectly natural, but something Tom had dreaded with near terror. Imagine that! Something in the world not obeying Tom Hulfish’s wishes.

Angela managed a giggle and the giggle lightened her mood some. This was good. Recovery this soon after seeing him was a big step forward. Last time she’d bawled like a baby the minute his back was turned. This time she was only slightly shaky.

Progress.

She bent to pick up a dropped napkin; her doorbell sang out. A group of college kids, probably just awake, looking for breakfast at lunchtime. She served them, happy for further distraction. By the time they left, she was practically herself again—until she glanced out her door into the hallway beyond and for the second time that morning, did a double take.

The bike guy. Back. Striding into her shop. Looking severe.

Uh-oh. Was he going to yell at her about the chocolate cupcake? Tell her she’d ruined the perfect surprise he’d planned for a special lady?

That would suck.

She put on her usual welcoming smile, nerves making her mouth stretch with the effort, while the rest of her noted that he was still the hottest man she’d seen in a long, long time.

The hottest man she’d seen in a long, long time did something completely unexpected then. He smiled back.

Oh. My. The lingering emotions over the encounter with Tom were gone. Smashed. Obliterated.

In fact … Tom who?

The grin turned Bike Guy into a different person. Friendly. Boyish. Vital. And so sexy she practically had to grab for the counter to stay upright. Wind-tousled hair, light blue eyes, sexy indentations at the corners of his mouth, good strong chin with just the barest hint of a cleft …

“Hi, Angela.”

“Hello …” She trailed pointedly, cuing him for his name.

“I got my cupcakes home last night. But …” He looked comically perplexed. “Apparently there was a mistake. I ordered six white-on-white and I got seven.”

“Seven!?” She was all sweet innocence. Well, no, not all innocence. Just the parts he could see. “That is terrible.”

“It gets worse. The seventh cupcake was chocolate.”

“Chocolate.” She faked astonishment, then frowned. “That’s not like me, to get an order wrong. I’m pretty sure you’re mistaken.”

“No, mistake. Six white, one chocolate.”

“I really don’t think …” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait, what proof do you have? Pictures? A notarized statement? Crumbs?”

He put his hands to his hips, drawing attention—her attention anyway—to his broad chest. “The evidence has been tampered with. Destroyed. In fact, eaten.”

“No evidence, case dismissed.” She mimicked a gavel banging, then tipped her head to one side and realized with a thrill that he was fun as well as hot, and that she was flirting with him, which felt really, really good. “Did you enjoy it?”

“I did.”

“Well, good.” She gave a nod of satisfaction. “That’s what you were supposed to do.”

“Aha.” He took a step toward the counter, blue eyes fixed on her. “You admit it.”

She made herself look sweetly blank. “Admit what?”

Oh, it had been way, way too long since she’d done this. Her flirt muscles were unfurling, stretching, shaking off the dust. This was totally fun. Now she had to get Bonnie out flirting with her. Someone other than Seth.

“I came back to thank you.” He pulled restlessly at the zipper on his bike shirt. “You were right. I’m a chocolate guy.”

“I knew it.” She smiled, wishing rather carnally that he’d yank the zipper all the way down, contenting herself instead with taking in the lean physique, displayed so beautifully in skin-tight, black, red and blue material. Tom might have lost weight, but next to this graceful Titan, his stocky build looked stunted.

“So how did the birthday boy, or—” she mixed a meaningful pause with a sidelong glance “—girl, like the white cupcakes?”

His face shut down again. “It was a celebration in absentia.”

“Oh, I see.” No, she didn’t see at all. Someone was away? Gone? Dead? Was it a family member? Friend? Girlfriend or ex-girlfriend? Wife or ex-wife? She’d ask, but he was looking miserable again, and she wanted the sexy smiling guy back.

“What’s your name?”

He brought his eyes back to hers. Somehow she managed not to pass out. Or giggle. Or shriek and clutch her chest. God he was gorgeous.

“Sorry. I’m Daniel.” He stepped forward and extended his hand across the case. “Daniel Flynn.”

Daniel. Good name. She loved when people didn’t shorten good names to one-syllable nicknames. Christopher. Benjamin. Alexander. And Daniel …

She took his hand, warm and strong with nice long fingers. Men’s hands turned her on. And men’s shoulders. And biceps. And butts. Chests were nice, too, and there was nothing wrong with strong thighs or decently shaped feet.

From where she was standing it looked as if Daniel might have it all.

“It’s nice to see you again. I’m glad you liked the chocolate cupcake. Anything I can get for you today?”

A long, naked back rub?

“Oh.” He glanced around the cases. “I wasn’t really planning …”

“Greek pastry? Italian? French?”

His eyes wandered to her bread shelf. “Maybe a loaf of something.”

“What’s your favorite?”

“Oatmeal.”

“Mine, too.” She glanced quickly at the loaves. “I’m out here, but I have more in the back, can you wait a second?”

“Sure.”

Angela started to turn, when an idea occurred to her. If she got the bread, came back and sold it to him, he’d have run out of reasons to be there. Which would give them maybe five more minutes to talk before he left her with no idea when or if she’d see him again. She needed more time to work around to asking if he was involved with anyone. Maybe not the greatest move—asking out a customer—but Daniel had finally woken her long-dormant interest in dating, and well … here he was. She didn’t know any other guys she’d want to date. Jack and Seth were both sexy, but Seth belonged with Bonnie, though he was too dense to figure it out, and Jack wasn’t her type, nor she his. Besides, going after either of them would be like trying to date one of her brothers.

She turned back to find Daniel studying her curiously. Not surprising since she’d taken one step toward retrieving his bread and then had frozen as if she’d gone into a coma.

“Would you like to come back and see what goes on in a bakery kitchen?” She gave an awkward laugh. Oof. The invitation came out sounding even lamer than it was. A bakery kitchen? Like she was offering him a glimpse of the Holy Grail?

“Sure.” He walked around the counter and joined her without hesitation.

Oh, my. Oh, gosh. He smelled really, really good, and given that she worked among some of the best smells in the world, that was really saying something. She wanted to touch him pretty much everywhere, but mostly she wanted to run her hands down his arms, shoulder to wrist, to see if they were as rock hard as they looked. Not since Tom had she had such a strong physical reaction to a man. And if that weren’t a huge red flag right there, she didn’t know what would be.

Except this time, she was just going to enjoy the attraction as the primal sexual response it was. This time she was not going to start dressing up simple lust with emotions it didn’t deserve, not assign to basic animal reaction any happy-ever-after importance or expectations of True Love. Fool her once, shame on her, fool her twice, she was a total moron.

She led him into her kitchen, feeling a swell of pride, hoping he could see its beauty the way she did. Sacks of flour stacked two and three feet high. Bags of seeds, sugars, specialty flours and containers of nuts and dried fruits. Her fifty-kilo dough mixer, which Alice would be bent over later in the day; the gleaming metal work table where José shaped loaves; her triple-deck oven; tall metal cooling racks where Frank did the baking—all secondhand, but working perfectly.

“This is great.” He stood in the center of the room, tall, vividly dressed, masculine, looking foreign. Angela had gotten so used to seeing everyone in flour-dusted aprons and jeans. “How does it all work?”

“I have a great staff.” She counted on her fingers. “Alice mixes the doughs, José shapes them, Frank bakes and Scott comes here and there to do random cleaning and help man the counter when he’s not in school.”

He turned from perusing the bags of specialty flours. “And you slack off all day.”

“I do. But when I’m not doing that, I develop new recipes, do most of the pastry baking, make up the schedule, balance the books, maintain inventory, try to get new accounts, put out fires …” She knocked wood. “Figuratively speaking.”

“Is this what you always wanted to do?”

“I’ve always loved baking. But it wasn’t until my honeymoon …” She practically choked on the words, then noticed his glance flicking to her left hand and realized what that sounded like. “I mean my ex-honeymoon. I mean my honeymoon with my ex.”

Smooth, Angela.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve moved on.” Though from the sound of her voice she was still bitter, a sound she needed to change if she were going to do this dating thing again.

“So you decided to be a baker during your honeymoon …”

“I was always a baker. Always had a dream of owning my own place. But in Europe I became really obsessed. I couldn’t go to enough of the shops over there. When we got home, I got a job at a bakery and learned the business. When Jack came to the rest of us with the idea of buying a building together, I jumped at it.”

“Jack? Rest of who?”

Angela made herself slow down. “Jack Shea has the photography studio down the hall. All the business owners at Come to Your Senses went to the U of Washington Seattle and graduated four years ago. We live in the apartments upstairs.”

“Okay, I get it now.” He ran his hand along the edge of her work table. Such great hands. “Must be nice to have friends around. Starting a business is tough.”

“Yes, it’s a huge plus.” She gave a little laugh. “I guess that makes us friends with benefits.”

This attempt at a joke fell as flat as her first croissant. Now he probably thought they were all sleeping together. So much for trying to let him know she was available. “How about you? What do you do? Oh, here, try this.”

She handed him a piece of her chocolate-orange pistachio baklava, a new recipe she had high hopes for.

He bit, chewed. Both eyebrows went up. “Hmm. Nice. Thanks.”

Nice? She wasn’t after nice, she was after wow. But maybe he was shy about being effusive, or thought it wasn’t manly. Tom had barely ever let a compliment pass his lips, as if he were afraid strengthening someone else would weaken him.

“Glad you like it.”

“I work at Slatewood International.”

Angela’s ears perked up, even as she hated herself for letting Tom’s words get to her. Slatewood was a huge manufacturing conglomerate headquartered in Seattle. She’d tried, admittedly lamely, to get noticed at some of the larger local companies but without luck. Maybe having an employee to get her in the door would help. Landing a corporate account would be a coup even Tom couldn’t sneer at. “Really. Slatewood. Doing what?”

“Security specialist. Trying to keep one step ahead of scammers, hackers, phishers and so on.”

“That’s a big job.”

He shrugged modestly. “I enjoy it. Kind of a good vs. evil battle.”

“And you get to be the superhero. One of these?” She passed him one of her most popular cookies, based on the lowly oatmeal raisin, changed by supplementing the cinnamon with allspice and cardamom, and substituting dried currants and cranberries for raisins. Pretty basic, but good.

Another bite. More chewing. His jaw slowed. His eyes closed in bliss. “Oh, my God, that’s amazing.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Angela plunked her hands on her hips, forcing herself to look pleased. So he wasn’t afraid to compliment. Apparently for some tastes the baklava recipe wouldn’t fly as is. She’d need to do more fiddling. “Would you like to take some home?”

“Absolutely.”

“Just for you or is there someone … living with you?”

“I have a roommate.”

A roommate. “How many do you think he—” deliberate pause “—or she can eat?”

“He can eat a lot.”

He. She hid a grin as she packed a dozen cookies, freshly baked, into a box. “That’ll last an hour or two. Those are on the house, by the way. You can always come back for more.”

He took the box. “Thank you, Angela.”

“You’re welcome.” They stood there for way too long, both holding the box, gazing at each other until it got really awkward and embarrassing.

“Um. My oatmeal bread.”

“Right. Yes. Okay.” She didn’t move or look away. He didn’t, either. He was so beautiful….

Oatmeal. Right. Let go of the cookies, Angela.

She made herself relinquish them, forced her eyes away from his. Headed for the wrong rack. Had to stop and change direction. Picked up a multigrain loaf. Had to put it down. Picked up another. Oatmeal! Her brain had apparently rebooted.

She slid the fragrant fine-grained loaf into a paper bag, aware that she was ostensibly handing Daniel his walking papers. If she were going to suggest they get together again, she would have to do it now, and make it clearer than a general invitation to come back for more cookies. Otherwise she was going to stand behind the counter all day, every day, for the next who-knew-how-long hoping he’d come by again, which was pathetic.

Angela slid the bread on top of the box of cookies he was carrying, stood too close and looked up coyly. “Daniel. I was wondering …”

His eyes widened. He took a step back she could only hope was involuntary. Not a confidence builder. Had she only imagined the pull between them?

She let the sentence hang, nerves fraying. If he turned and left now, if he changed the subject, if he took another step back, she’d drop the idea entirely.

He didn’t. He stood, somberly, waiting, apparently, for the ax to come down.

So be it.

“I don’t usually do this. I mean I’ve never done this. It’s not really my habit … I mean you’re a customer and it’s not really right for me to … that is, I was wondering if you’d like to get together sometime. Somewhere. For … something.”

Oh. My. God. The all-time worst invitation that had ever been issued since the dawn of time. Why couldn’t she be cool and collected, say something like, “Hey, wanna catch a movie sometime?” Or, “I hear the bartender at such-and-such makes a mean mojito, care to join me?”

No. She’d asked the most exciting man she’d met in years, if he’d like sometime, somewhere to do something.

Shakespeare, eat your heart out.

“Angela.”

She was annoyed now. At herself, and perversely, illogically, at him. “That’s me.”

“I really can’t.”

Big surprise. “You’re involved with someone.”

“No.”

“Gay?”

He looked appalled. “No.”

“Not interested?”

“Definitely not that.”

Oh, my. Her once-mighty irritation turned tail and ran. That was nice. Really very nice.

“Your mom won’t let you?”

That incredible smile broke free again, accompanied by a deep laugh she could curl up in all night long.

“Nothing like that. The truth is …” He shuffled the bread and cookies, shifted his weight, then back. “The truth is, Angela, I promised someone a long time ago that I wouldn’t date anyone. For a while.”

She blinked. Blinked again. What? “How … long of a while?”

“It’s been a year and a half so far.”

She nearly choked. A year and a half! “And … this is supposed to go on how much longer?”

“Another six months.”

Good God. Two years of celibacy? What kind of person would extract a promise like that? “Is this a possible priesthood thing?”

“No, no, it’s not about religion.”

She simply stared.

Daniel glanced impatiently at the ceiling and sighed. “I guess I better tell you the story.”

“You don’t have to.” Of course he did; she was dying to hear. “It’s not really any of my business.”

But tell it anyway.

“I was engaged. She passed away. And I promised her …” He had the grace to look sheepish. “Okay, it sounds odd now.”

Angela was pleading the Fifth on that one.

“But it was … she asked me not to date until our planned wedding date passed. Which is six months from now.”

Good God. Angela’s first try at dating and she’d managed to stumble over an unbelievably sexy, magnetically masculine, completely dysfunctional weirdo who’d engaged himself to a controlling, selfish horror of a person whose hold on him was even more diabolical than Tom’s on her.

Though he was in one way, at least, the antithesis of Tom, who didn’t let marriage vows even slow him down screwing the first woman he wanted. This guy had honored a vow that denied him a basic human need, a vow the woman he’d made it to wouldn’t even know or be able to care if he broke. Zero repercussions except from his own guilt and damaged sense of honor.

She couldn’t help admiring that quality. On some level this was a noble and romantic sacrifice for the woman he’d loved.

On the other hand … what a colossal waste. And what was this woman thinking when she extracted such a promise? That the sun rose and set on her and he needed to keep it that way even after she was gone? Angela tried to put herself in the same position and couldn’t imagine saying to a man she loved anything but, “Go out there and be happy. Keep living your life as fully as you can. I am not and never should be your entire world.” Maybe she’d be selfish enough to ask him not to forget her, but that was it.

It might not be polite to disrespect dead people, but Angela was pretty sure she wouldn’t have liked this chick. Not as a friend for herself and not as a match for Daniel. White-on-white should not be paired with a chocolate guy.

“Well.” She tried to speak brightly, but disappointment was deeper than she’d expected. “I guess that’s a no, then.”

“I’m sorry.” He had a funny bewildered expression on his face, as if he were finding out he really was sorry, and it surprised him. Sorry and embarrassed and maybe a bit wistful.

His expression gave Angela permission to have a really wonderful and slightly devious idea.

She’d need to do this carefully and make sure she wasn’t stepping over sacred boundaries, but what if she used the power of their attraction, which she was sure now she hadn’t imagined, for a good purpose? Something more selfless than satisfying her hunger for touch and physical intimacy, which frankly Daniel had wrenched awake—a greedy, cranky, post-hibernation bear of a hunger. Something that would set him free from the unnecessary trap he found himself in, that would strike a blow for men and women everywhere who were unable to break free of ex-lovers, fiancés and spouses. Something that would make Daniel realize that he might owe this woman his past love and fond memories, but that he absolutely did not owe her from-the-grave dictatorship over his actions or his feelings or his body, and especially not over the pursuit of his own happiness, which was a constitutional right.

Something like Angela getting to know him. Becoming friends with him. And when he least expected having his unreasonable and unnecessary sentence commuted …

Seducing him.

5

SETH TOOK A long swig of beer, burped at a healthy volume and set the bottle back on the scratched, wobbly coffee table he and Jack had carried up from the street where someone had abandoned it. “We should do this more often.”

“What, belch?” Angela sent Seth a disapproving look. Boys would, unfailingly, be boys.

“You’re a pig, Seth,” Bonnie said mildly.

“But I’m the best darn pig I can be.” Seth gestured around the room. “I meant how we’re here talking about something other than mortgages and business plans and profit margins.”

“You’re right.” Jack helped himself to a handful of Cheetos Puffs. “This venture turned us into grown-ups too soon. We need to reclaim our inner frat boys.”

“And girls,” Bonnie said.

Seth held up his Elysian Fields Pale Ale in a toast. “I vote we do this once a month at least. For our sanity if nothing else.”

“Hear, hear.” Angela looked up from her busy job coveting Cheetos. Given how many baked goods she needed to sample, she tried to limit her snack intake. “That’s actually an important point, Seth.”

“Actually? Like I don’t usually have important points?”

“Just on top of your head.” Bonnie blew him a kiss.

“I meant that we’ve had some rough times and will probably keep having them.” Angela held up her bottle, too. “Here’s to continuing to keep our sanity. Which in the last year I’m convinced would have been long gone without you guys.”

Jack hoisted his ale. “And then some.”

The four of them were sitting in the living room of the building’s vacant sixth apartment, which they’d agreed to use as a common area. Each of them had donated whatever leftover odds and ends of furniture and kitchen equipment they didn’t need in their own places, and regularly contributed toward keeping the refrigerator and cabinets stocked with wine, beer and snack foods for times when they needed to meet, or, as Seth pointed out they did all too rarely, get together and unwind.

Tonight Bonnie and Seth shared the hideous olive-green couch they’d scored from Seth’s parents’ basement, each sitting rather pointedly, Angela thought, at either end. Jack sprawled in an overstuffed, worn rust-colored easy chair from Bonnie’s grandmother, and Angela perched in the graceful wooden rocker she inherited from Aunt Dorcas, which hadn’t fit anywhere else in her apartment. Demi Anderson, Caroline’s friend, who’d taken over her massage therapy studio, and whom none of them knew well, had donated the black-and-white leather love seat that looked as if it belonged on the set of a futuristic movie. The four of them rarely sat on it. Silly, because it was in perfect condition and comfortable. Somehow they felt as if they were trespassing. Kind of how Demi seemed to feel around them.

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