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He stopped chopping and gave me a pointed look. “And where did you get the money?”
“You’re not going to let that drop, are you?”
He shook his head.
“If you must know, I’m a trust fund baby.” It sounded so pretentious, but it was true. “My father came from a wealthy family. Unfortunately, they died when he was young, and he was left the sole heir.”
“How did they die?”
“Are you going to pull their coroner’s reports too?” I cracked another egg into the bowl without looking. My eyes stayed fixed on Eric’s.
Eric leaned in. “Perhaps,” he said. But the way his eyes lit up said he was teasing me.
I rolled my eyes and finished the task at hand. “Honestly, I don’t know a lot about my grandparents. My dad didn’t like to talk about them. I got the feeling they weren’t the best people.” Which was sad, because my dad was perfect in every way.
“I can relate,” Eric admitted quietly.
Before I could stop myself, there I was touching him again. My hand landed on his defined arm. The smooth feel of his olive skin made my body sing like Aretha Franklin doing her rendition of “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman.” My mom used to listen to that song all the time when I was younger. I remembered the coy smile she would give my dad every time she turned it on. Now I knew why, and it kind of grossed me out. I wondered, though, if my mom had ever wanted to shout out to my dad, “You make me feel so alive!” Because that’s exactly what I felt like doing in that moment. Instead I said something just as dumb. “Do you want to talk about it?” Of course he didn’t. He just said he could relate to my father’s feelings about not wanting to talk about his parents. But when I touched him, I got the feeling he wanted to tell me something.
Eric’s gaze fell on my hand, then smacked me square in the face. “Yes.” He blinked several times. “I mean no.”
I dropped my hand, severing our weird connection. Mad at myself for not being able to keep my hands off him. Maybe Josie wasn’t the only person with a problem. Did they have self-help groups for that?
Eric turned from me and started chopping the asparagus again, this time with a vengeance. “It was your mother who taught you how to bake, right?” he asked, flustered.
“Wait.” I needed a second to compose myself and think. “I don’t want you to mention my money in your article. I don’t want my friends to see me any differently.”
“Fine,” he hastily agreed.
“I’ve upset you.”
He laid the knife down and pressed his palms against the granite, closing his eyes. “You vex me.”
“That’s a strong word.” I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice but failed.
He opened his eyes and turned toward me. “That wasn’t meant as a slight. It’s just ever since I’ve met you, I want to . . .”
“You want to what?”
He let out a heavy breath. “Never mind. Who taught you how to bake?”
“Like I told you before, my mother. And a phenomenal pastry chef by the name of Gaston Ansel, from New York City.” I shouldn’t leave Gaston out. I still used many of his decorating tips.
“I thought you said you didn’t go to culinary school?”
“I didn’t. I met him when my mother and I stayed in New York the summer I turned seventeen. My mom loved the art museums there. She made me write a research paper each week about every artist from Manet to Picasso. As a reward for a job well done, we took private lessons from Gaston. The man made a chocolate framboisier that could make a grown man cry.”
Eric chuckled. “You’ve lived quite the life, Sorrel.”
For being so cursed, I knew how lucky I’d been. “I suppose I have.”
“Riverhaven must seem tame to you.”
“Not at all. Just the other day, Clive Jones brought his prized pig into the bakery for a birthday cupcake.” I giggled thinking about the pig with a big red bow on her head.
Eric joined in and laughed deeply. “I’m sorry I missed that.”
“It could have really added something to your story.”
Eric’s laughter ceased. “You’re all this story needs,” he said under his breath.
“I’m interested to read what you write about me. To see how you see me.”
Eric set down the knife and hesitantly tucked some tendrils of my hair behind my ear. “If only you could know how I see you.”
Aretha Franklin was going off in my head again. “Then what?” I whispered.
“Then there would be a much different ending to this story.”
I had a feeling that was a story I would want to read.Chapter ElevenEric
The last thing Eric wanted to be was holed up in his car in front of the Gold Phone Booth—one of Atlanta’s most exclusive nightclubs—waiting for Ivy Davies to arrive. She was the executive vice president for the upscale Palmer department stores that dotted the south. She was also rumored to be the mistress of Clayton Palmer, the owner and CEO. Eric’s skin crawled just thinking about the man. Clayton Palmer painted himself as a family man and upstanding citizen. He was one of the most admired and respected businessmen in the city. In reality, he was the scum of the earth. And Eric’s ticket to protecting Sorrel. After Eric got the scoop on the illegal sweatshops being run by Clayton Palmer, his editor would forget Sorrel had ever been on their radar.
