Читать книгу Icing On The Cake - Laura Castoro - Страница 13

Who marries on a Friday? This is a mercy wedding. At least my attendance is.

With the Fine Arts and Crafts Show opening tomorrow I should be at the bakery taking care of a hundred last-minute details. But I promised Celia. And this is Jenna Harris’s wedding.

Jenna Harris is, by Celia’s account, a whippet-size baby-blonde, the ethereal kind found only in Manhattan. Celia is “baby’s mum” blond, meaning she’s often too busy to keep the roots touched up. If Botticelli drew her she’d be one of the Three Graces of ample hip and stomach curves. But a bigger psychological barrier is that Celia and John eloped while Jenna’s wedding is rumored to be the wedding of the season—even if it is being held in New Jersey. I say there’s something fishy in that, but what do I know?

“You look lovely,” I assure her for the fourth time. She’s wearing a champagne silk dupioni sheath. “I can tell you’ve lost weight.”

“And you. Sexy, sexy!” Celia seems as delighted as if she were speaking of herself.

What I’ve lost is my appetite. Hiring a lawyer I can’t afford to fight for my share of Ted’s will has me chewing my nails to the quick. Reason aside, I don’t really want any part of Ted’s estate. But I just can’t stand the idea of handing everything over to her! How juvenile is that?

“I like your hair lifted back off your face,” Celia continues. “Has anyone ever told you you look a bit like Jackie O?”

“No.” Embarrassed, I turn away. Sally looks like Jackie O. I look, well, like not Jackie.

If I’m looking at all sexy it’s the shoes. Periodically, Sally cleans out her closet and sends me pairs of last season’s got-to-have shoes. Shoe size is the only size we share. Lucky me! The right pair of shoes can make even a simple black sheath look couture. Tonight I’m wearing Jimmy Choo sandals with curvy red patent leather hole-punched straps. Sex on a stem!

The black tie wedding is being held in one of the swanky hotels in the area. A block-long white Hummer limo blocks the curved entrance while double-parked guests wait for valets. I park myself. In my pennies-count world, I can’t afford to show off.

When we finally break free of the crush entering the prenuptial cocktail area of the reception hall, Celia has parallel frown lines between her brows. Already set high, her envy meter is rising.

The theme of the wedding is “Under the Sea.” The tones are champagne and mother-of-pearl pink with traces of silver. From tabletops spilling over with shells and pearls to a ceiling artfully draped to resemble ocean currents, the room is a stage set of seascape luxe. Granted, it’s not as gaudy/tacky as it will sound when I describe it to Riley and Sarah, but my job tonight is to be biased on Celia’s behalf. And Celia’s turning an envious shade of green. Of course, it could be that she’s holding her stomach in too tight.

“Would you look at all this?” I hope I sound faintly disapproving. “Who but a cruise ship still does conch shell ice sculptures?”

“Jenna took the Michael C. Fina wedding workshop course.” Celia sounds positively subdued. “She must have made an A.”

“And he made a bundle. Anyone can buy inspiration. She bought too much.”

Celia gives me a funny look. “Don’t you like it?”

I look around with a sigh of so what. “Honestly? It’s as if Tiffany did The Little Mermaid in platinum and pearls.”

A bubble of laughter escapes Celia and she steers me over to a diorama of the bridal place setting. The elaborately scrolled and painted pieces of Butterfly Garden bone china by Versa are presented as works of art. “John had a cow when I told him how much a setting costs. Oh, but it is gorgeous.”

“Plates that decorative make it hard to tell when you have finished eating. And notice the size and weight of her silver. Elderly relatives will never be able to lift those forks to their mouths.”

Celia giggles again. “I had no idea you could be so catty.”

A waiter with tray approaches. “Have a Blue Bird or Abyssina martini.”

Celia grabs the pretty blue drink with narrow strips of orange peel curling over the rim. After a sip she smiles. “Yum!”

“Gin, Monin Orgeat and blue Curaçao,” the waiter offers in explanation.

I wrinkle my nose. “Nothing called a martini should be blue.”

“You might prefer the Abyssinia,” the waiter says. “It’s cognac, crème de cacao and grapefruit juice.”

“Have a lot of requests for that sort of thing?”

He shrugs. “It’s the bride’s selection.”

Celia looks at me. “I can’t wait to see what the appetizer plaza has to offer.”

I nod. If Celia’s ready to move on from sucked-in abs to self-indulgent grazing, my job, for the moment, is done.

I opt for the nearest bar station where I order a real martini. My limit is one before the wedding. Nothing gets me tight faster than a good martini. That tingling at the tip of my nose signals stop before all sense of decorum is lost.

There’s a side galley for those with the preceremony munchies. At one stop hapi-coated sushi chefs make bite-size delicacies. After a tasting, we depart for tables laden with mini crab cakes, tiny beef Wellingtons and bite-size ham biscuits with béchamel sauce. My personal favorite is the lobster ceviche served in a silver conch shell. Heaven!

Finally Celia glances at her watch. “When are we going be seated?”

That question is being murmured in variation all around us when the doors are thrown open on a room with rows of velvet chairs and a wedding canopy at the far end. The throng rushes through to vie for the best seats.

As I would follow, Celia catches me by the elbow. “I wonder what that’s about.”

I follow the jerk of her head and spot a bridesmaid in a platinum silk chamois fishtail gown. She’s waving to get our attention as she swims toward us.

She doesn’t even introduce herself, just whispers, “Which of you is Celia Hart?”

“I am, was Celia Hart,” Celia answers. “Now Celia Martin.”

“Thank God!” She grabs Celia by the arm. “Jenna’s locked herself in the dressing room and says she won’t talk to anyone but you. Hurry!”

Celia must be doing marathon girlfriend counseling. It’s been half an hour since the groom’s mother announced that the wedding is off. After that, the hotel bar seemed a better location to wait than standing around at a celebration gone fractious. As I slipped out I overheard a guest refer to the bride as a “schizoid drama queen.” No doubt from the groom’s side of the aisle.

I’m gratified that my strapless black sheath with illusion yoke has earned me a few glances of approval. Possibly it’s the Jimmie Choos. But I’m not interested in fending off upscale barflies. With a soda and lime in hand I chat up the bartender, Mitch, though he isn’t above asking snoopy questions about the wedding. I’ve tried to divert him by talking about my favorite topic, bread, but he keeps coming back to the wedding.

“What’d you wager they spent on that shindig?”

“What do you think of the idea of pomegranate seed bread?” I respond. “I can’t decide, does it sound like breakfast bread, dessert bread or a cheese-and-wine bread? I suppose it depends on how sweet it is, and whether or not there’s a glaze.”

“The kitchen staff has a pool going. My bet is three hundred thou.”

Talk about a one-track mind.

“Excuse me,” the man to my right says. “Are you here for a wedding?”

He sat down a few minutes ago, leaving a stool between us. I don’t glance at him but I suppose there’s no reason to be rude. He could be another stranded wedding guest. “Yes, the wedding that wasn’t.”

“Really? Tough break. So who called it off?”

I look over with every intention of telling him to mind his own business. But whatever I was about to say takes flight as I’m left just looking.

He’s dressed in sport coat and open collar, definitely not a wedding guest. The rest of his assets click off in my mind: high forehead, cropped dark hair, bold nose and jaw set off by deep copper skin that no bottle, spray, oil or butter produced. Yet it’s not his mature urbane looks that shut down my annoyance. It’s his city-block smile. It’s a smile of recognition, the kind you get from a long-ago friend who’s eager for you to place him.

But I don’t know him. Trust me, I would remember. The expectant look in his dark eyes only reminds me that I’m a single woman in a nice dress with time on her hands. So, um, what did he ask me?

“I’m here as moral support for a friend of a friend of the bride.”

That smile widens a notch. “What kind of support does a friend of a friend of the bride give?”

The female response is a finicky business. One gorgeous male can leave a woman cold while the next average guy can have her crossing her legs and running a hand suggestively through her hair. I’m doing both before I realize it.

Not that I’d call him average. Actually, he’s a really big guy. Like professional-athlete big. And he’s talking to me. So why not keep the conversation going? The subject was? Oh yes, friendship.

“Oh, the usual. ‘You’re so lucky to be married to a great guy, and have two sets of twins, and a job with flexible hours. Look how long it took your boyfriend-stealing girlfriend to find a man to marry, even if he is a zillionaire.’ As it turns out, she’s had a change of heart about the zillionaire.”

He nods, then says, “Excuse me,” and pulls out his cell phone. “Hey. Yeah, I’m waiting in the bar.”

I turn away, surprisingly disappointed. Of course he’s waiting for someone. She’s probably running late, to ratchet up his anticipation.

Mitch catches my eye, and I know he knows what I’m thinking. “I’m ready for that martini now.”

“Try a perfect martini.” He’s talking to me again.

“What’s your definition of perfect?” I say coolly.

He smiles and, yep, the eyes have it, deep-set and long-lashed. Girlfriend better hurry up. This is not a man who should be left waiting. “Four parts good gin, one part Chambery dry and one part Noilly Prat sweet, shaken with ice.”

“Sounds interesting. But aren’t you waiting for someone?”

He shakes his head. “Not anymore.”

“You recover quickly.”

“It wasn’t a date. It was business.”

“Sure it was.”

He shoots me a knowing grin. “About that martini?”

“I’m paying,” I say quickly. Hope it won’t cost more than the twenty I stuck in my evening bag.

“Wait until you taste it.” The deep grooves around his mouth become dimple trenches. “So, what do you do?”

“I’m a baker. I bake bread.”

I watch closely for signs of a shift in his interest. Much as I hate to admit it, that “blue collar” comment from Ted has proved true for some.

“Why bread?”

“You know how some people crave chocolate? And others live for the next good vintage? Bread does it for me. A good loaf can satisfy all the senses.” I stop, chagrined. “I know. I’m talking about a food most people use as bookends for meat and cheese.”

“Not at all.” He leans an arm on the bar and says, “Tell me more.”

“Okay, but remember, you asked.” Suddenly I want to sound fascinating, entertaining and sexy as hell.

“First off there’s the form of the classic loaf to seduce the eye. Some are round and firm, others long and lightly ridged.” I make the appropriate hand gestures. Shemar has rubbed off on me!

“The crust is paramount. Personally, a rich medium brown really does it for me.” He smiles and I smile, and feel my pulse kick up a notch.

“What else?”

“There’s how a loaf feels when you slip a knife through it, or tear it open. A good brioche or roll will open like a flower when you pull it part. A well-proofed loaf will fall open in firm slices before a blade.”

He props his jaw on his fist. “Go on.”

“The aroma of bread still warm from the oven.” I close my eyes briefly in remembered delight. “It’s one of my all-time favorite smells.”

“Three senses down, you’ve got two to go.”

“Okay, I love the tantalizing taste as a slice of bread reveals its nature as sourdough or poolish-based. Oh, and the crunch it makes when you take a bite.”

He looks amused. “I never thought of something as simple as bread delivering an orgasmic experience.”

What the heck? I lean close and touch his arm. “There are those who suspect that it was a pomegranate not an apple Eve plucked from the Garden of Eden. Imagine the possibilities of the pomegranate-seed loaf I’m working on.”

As he chuckles, I look over at the drink set before me and frown. “There’s fruit in my martini.”

“You’re a passionate and adventurous woman. Consider the possibilities of the cherry.”

He snags the cherry in my glass by the stem and jerks it out. “Observe the color—red. The texture—smooth. The shape—round.” He pops the cherry between his nice lips and rolls it around with the slow-motion deliberation, and then he chews as if he’s relishing every bite. “The texture is crisp, the taste sweet yet with a touch of…je nais c’est quoi.”

When he’s done I point and say, “You left the lemon rind.”

He reaches out with two fingers, as if to dredge my drink, but I move it out of his reach. “Okay, you win. I’ll taste it.” I close my eyes and take a sip.

“Well?”

“It’s all right.” It’s great! Of course, his demonstration with the cherry has me thinking more about what kissing him would taste like. A second more considering sip brings out the blend of flavors. “Very smooth.”

“To the perfect evening!” We clink glasses.

Might as well get the preliminaries over with. “Married or divorced?”

“Divorced.” He shakes his head. “That sounded bitter. I’m not. Make that not anymore.”

“You don’t have to explain. I’ve been there.”

“Was yours acrimonious?”

I pick up my glass. “What’s your definition of acrimonious?”

“Did it include defamation of character or destruction of property?” His tone is light. “Were weapons involved?”

I contemplate the slightly oiled surface of my martini with a small smile. “What’s your definition of weapons?”

His change of expression cracks me up. “Just kidding. So, what do you do?”

“Does it matter?”

“Actually, I couldn’t care less.” I finish off my perfect martini in two large swallows.

“Want to try another combination?” He points at my glass. “Or do you prefer more of the same?”

I meet his gaze and it’s like looking over the edge of a high cliff. Is this the next great man? If so, “More of the same please.”

“My pleasure and my treat.”

After that we chat about nothing in particular. He’s so easy to talk with. He tells a long story about his visit to a gin distillery. I listen only enough to make the occasional “Really?” or “You’re kidding” interjections. I’d rather admire the way his ears lie against his skull. And imagine how much fun it would be to follow with a finger the wave of his hairline from the temple to where it swoops up over an ear and then slips razor-edge perfect down the column of his neck. Something about the smooth, hairless slope of his nape makes me weak-kneed.

When I reach out and touch his wrist to emphasize a point, he flips his hand over and captures my fingertips and gives them a quick squeeze. Our gazes meet and hold just long enough.

“Have you considered broadening your business?” he asks after the third set of drinks arrives. I’ve been regaling him with tales of the No-Bagel Emporium.

“Only every other day.”

“What’s stopping you?”

“Lack of capital. Lack of investors. Lack of distribution mechanism.”

“Ever think about doing a deal with a corporation for distribution?”

I make a face. “Tried that.”

“What happened?”

“Low-carb mania.”

I rest my chin on my hand, only inches from where his rests, and am delighted by how daring so simple an act seems. The slight tingling in the tip of my nose signals that we’re kissably close. Or, I’ve reached my martini limit.

He twists on his stool to fully face me. The result is my knees become nestled between his spread legs and I find it a little harder to keep my expression bland. “Is your product any good?”

“I’d match my bread against any bakery in the tri-state area.”

He laughs and it’s the most seductive thing. I feel this out-of-character-but-urgent desire to put my arms about his neck, and French-kiss him until we melt into a puddle on the floor.

A little perplexed by the force of my emotions, I look away from him. The truth is if I could have wild anonymous monkey sex with this man right this minute, I’d go for it.

I look up guiltily. “Did I just say something?”

He shakes his head. “But I’d give a dollar to hear what you’re thinking.”

Our gazes meet and I watch his pupils expand with the force of the desire in my expression. He’s going to say something, do something, I just know it.

Instead he picks up my glass and waggles it at the bartender. “I’m going to buy you one more, and then we’re going to say good night.”

I glance toward the door. Has the girlfriend arrived, after all? I don’t see anyone in particular, but then things have taken on a warm fuzzy glow. When I turn back he’s staring at me, and it hits me. I want this guy. “Why break up a nice evening?” I hope I don’t sound as giddy as I feel.