I nod, not put off by his callousness because they’re words I’ve thought to myself hundreds, if not thousands, of times. Why should I feel bad when I’m merely doing as my clients request? “Do you ever think about going into any other line of work?”
He arches a single eyebrow. “Do you?”
“I didn’t. Not before I came to Heart Springs.”
“Thinking about opening your own bakery one day?” he teases.
I laugh and am somewhat surprised to find that it’s genuine. “Not hardly.”
But it would be a lie to pretend that being here, watching Emma’s struggle, hasn’t made me second-guess some things about what I’ve chosen to do with my life. Emma has put her whole heart and soul into her bakery; there was no one there to give her a boost or a financial bailout when she needed one. She’s spent her time and energy creating something where so much of my own time and energy has been spent tearing people down.
Noah leans over to refill my glass. “The way I think of it, it’s not my job to make life better for everyone I encounter. That would be impossible. What Icando is make life better for my clients. And that’s good enough for me.”
It’s a sound philosophy. Except when your clients are terrible people. As I suspect some of his are. As I know some of mine have been.
I swirl my wineglass and take another swig. “Well, that’s enough of that line of questioning. Tell me something interesting about yourself, Noah.”
“I once ate three whole pizzas all by myself.”
My nose wrinkles. “Wow, you really know how to impress the ladies.”
He shrugs, presenting me with a plate of bruschetta, tiny toasted bread rounds topped with bright red tomatoes and golden drizzles of olive oil.
I take a bite and flavors explode over my tongue. “Wow, you really know how to impress the ladies.”
He laughs and his smile brings one of my own to myface. And for the first time, I start to think this might not all turn out so bad.
—
Over the next couple ofweeks, life is so busy, it passes in a blur. But it’s the good kind of busy, the kind where I fall into bed each night tired but happy. Maybe even a little bit proud. The bakery continues to take up most of my days, my usual duties split with time working on the fundraiser, which is just days away. All the plans are falling into place and when I show Emma the list of RSVPs, a hint of hope is restored to her eyes.
That alone is worth the long hours.
Noah and I don’t spend every evening together—we’re both too busy for that much contact—but we see each other often enough. We don’t talk about business or lawyerly philosophies, our conversations instead revolve around getting to know the finer details about each other. And he’s not a bad guy, Noah Crenshaw, business practices aside. He cooks and he reads and he makes interesting conversation. Sometimes he makes me laugh. Sometimes I truly enjoy being in his company.
The only thing missing is the spark. That undefinable, little something extra that makes you want to spend every second with a person. That sexual attraction that makes you want to throw a person against a door and kiss them senseless.
I keep telling myself the spark can grow. So can the attraction. It’s not like I’m not attracted to him—the man is gorgeous. I just don’t fall asleep each night envisioning our first real kiss. And I don’t know that he does either,because he hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet. A fact that I’m so okay with, it should probably be alarming.
All the fizzy, happy sparks seem to have abandoned me as of late. Every time I see Ben, the only man who’s made me feel sparky since I arrived here, my stomach jolts, like I’m right on the edge of tossing my cookies. Luckily, I don’t actually toss my cookies (at least I haven’t yet), but it still doesn’t change the fact that the sight of one of my only friends has turned into something so uncomfortable, I avoid him at all costs. And he seems to be avoiding me too.
At least, he is until the night before the Save the Bakery fundraiser. I trudge up to my front gate, feet aching, mind whirling, but heart happy. Everything is set up and ready to go. The only thing to do tomorrow is prep our daters to get auctioned off and hopefully make a lot of money.
I’m so surprised to see Ben sitting out on his porch when I get home, I stand and stare at him for at least a minute, like if I look long enough, I’ll discover he’s really an apparition and he’ll disappear.
He watches me watch him, cocking an eyebrow and finally offering me a glass of wine. “I just opened a bottle of red.”
I shift over to his gate, my steps slow as I make my way up his front walk. Partly because I’m sore and partly because I want to delay this conversation for as long as possible. “Thanks.” I take the proffered glass and sink into my favorite chair with a contented sigh. “I missed this chair.”
A bemused smile pulls at his lips. “It’s been here the whole time.”
I turn my head in his direction. “I wasn’t aware I was welcome.”
“You’ve always been welcome here, sweetheart.” It could be me reading into it, but there doesn’t seem to be the usual trace of sarcasm laced through his endearment.
“It is your task to keep tabs on me, after all.” My words lack bite because I don’t mean them to be cutting, but that doesn’t stop Ben from flinching.
“I suppose it is.” He takes a long sip from his own glass of wine. “Everything ready for tomorrow?”
