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“Not exactly.” Laurie’s voice cracked on the last word.
Chelsea straightened in her chair. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“We had a fire this morning, Chels. A bad one.”
Now she shot to her feet. “Are you hurt? Is anyone—?”
“Everyone’s fine, thank God. We were closed for the holiday. But Babycakes is…” Laurie paused and took a ragged breath. “The bakery is gone. I’m standing where my shop used to be, staring at a burned-out shell of a building.”
“I’m so sorry, Laurie.” She sank into her chair. “I wish I was there.”
“Be glad you’re not. It’s a pretty sad sight.”
“You’ll rebuild. You’ll use the insurance money and open Babycakes again, even better now because you’ll take into account the things you learned the first time around.”
“I—I don’t think so Chels. Not anytime soon.”
“Why not? I thought you loved working for yourself?”
“I went cheap on insurance, trying to be smart with my money.” Her laugh was all irony. “Even if I get the maximum under my policy and throw every penny of my savings into the pot, I’m still a good seventy grand short of what I’d need to rebuild.”
“Seventy thousand?” Chelsea looked at her computer screen. Her eyes honed in on the bonus.
“At least,” Laurie puffed, and Chelsea pictured her friend digging through rubble. “Might as well be seventy million, because I don’t have that kind of money, unless a scorched mixer brings a lot more at a fire sale than I’m estimating.” A low thud signified the pitching of said mixer into a bin or Dumpster.
“Hold off on the fire sale.”
“What?”
She scanned the email again, and then hit reply. “I might have a way to get you a decent chunk of what you need. The Templetons made me an offer today, to take on a new role. I was kind of on the fence about it”—she crossed her fingers at the white lie—“but now I’m not. I’m going to accept. If things go as planned, I can send you fifty thousand in about six weeks.”
“Chelsea, I can’t. You’re my best friend, but I can’t take your money.”
“You have to. For me.”
“Chelsea—”
“You’re always there for me. Let me at least try. I can’t guarantee the funds yet, but I guarantee I’ll do my best.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say a thing right now. You can thank me when I come through with the money.”
She typed I accept and hit se
nd before her brain could reiterate all the reasons why she shouldn’t.
Chapter Eight
Rafe watched Chelsea emerge from the waves, tug her white bikini bottoms into place, and wring the water from her long, loose hair. The sunset turned the sky behind her pink and orange, but he had a hard time focusing on nature’s show because The Chelsea Show commanded his full attention.
She made her way up the beach, smiled at a pair of kids playing in the sand, and then strolled to the spot where she’d dropped her beach bag. When she bent and searched the bag for her towel, an almost painful bolt of lust shot through him. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so he let his eyes linger. Memories of her laid out for him, moving under him, coming around him, had predictable effects, and made it harder than it should have been to cross the sand to where she stood, still digging around in her bag.
Jesus, he needed to get her out from under his skin. Do what it took to scratch this incessant itch she stirred in him. The one only she could reach. Finding a mutually beneficial way to make it happen while accomplishing his primary goals was a stroke of genius, because he had to keep his sights on the deal.
Chelsea had cooperated, thank Christ, at least as far as the business goals went. She’d need some convincing to feel safe indulging in the rest, but he could offer her that security. This wasn’t going to blow up in their faces. She could trust him. A few days with her—a week, tops—and then they could both move on with their lives, satisfied and no worse for wear. He came around to face her at the same time she straightened, and her unsuspecting gaze collided with his.
All right, maybe a little worse for wear. It took every bit of discipline he owned not to let his eyes wander to where her tight nipples poked against her bikini top, practically daring him to look. Her eyes narrowed, as if she’d read his mind, and she draped her towel around her shoulders.
