it’s on Main Street? That it’s a bakery?”
“It says no imagination. Dull, dull, dull, is what it says. The new name is Heavenly Treats. Don’t you think that plays well on the miracle part? Of Miracle Harbor?”
“I guess,” he said doubtfully. “Though I’m not sure that’s what people go to the bakery for. Miracles. I think they just want a loaf of bread, or a doughnut and coffee.”
She ignored his pragmatism. What place did that have in the spinning of dreams? “I’m introducing specialty coffees, and some European-style treats. Doughnuts and coffee are so passé.”
“Passé,” he agreed. There was really no doubting the mocking edge to his voice now.
“There’s a place in Los Angeles called The Chocolate Bar that sells specialty desserts for five dollars a pop!”
He still looked unimpressed.
“And of course, I’m going to get some little café-style tables, and put them outside, facing the beach. Red-checked tablecloths.”
“That sounds interesting,” he said, as if it sounded anything but.
“You don’t think I’m going to be able to pull this off.” She realized this suddenly, and felt deflated, and then annoyed with herself for caring what he thought.
“I never said that.”
“I can tell what you’re thinking.”
“In that case, you might want to offer a little mind-reading business on the side. Madam Brittany. Do you do palms?”
“You’re making fun of me.” What was it with her? Did she have a big sign on her head that invited people not to take her seriously? Is that why she’d had no response to her job applications?
She’d show them all. Heavenly Treats was going to be a huge success. The painting might not be going as planned, but that was a minor glitch. The real job began when the bakery reopened on Monday.
She could already see herself, standing there in the nice little Caroline Herrera sundress with the keyhole neckline. She had decided ages ago it would be perfect for this occasion. She could picture herself greeting customers, telling them about the day’s specialties, going from table to table at her outdoor café refilling cappuccino cups and taking orders for more slices of five-dollar tortes.
She could picture herself being admired for her panache, and her imaginative approach to business and her delightful light touches.
Not one single person would know she was scared to death.
“Are you scared?” he asked her, suddenly, regarding her with unsettling intensity.
“Scared?” She laughed. “Now who’s playing at mind reader? You don’t know the first thing about Brit Patterson, do you? And if anybody, including you, thinks I’m going to put my heart and soul into Heavenly Treats, and then lose it over a little detail like the fact I’m not married, they can think again.”
The speech, she realized would have been more effective without the embarrassing hiccup in the middle of it.
She managed to restrain herself from blurting out the rest of her plan. After all the hard work she’d already invested in the place, her ad was going in the paper next week. Husband Wanted.
“I think it’s our turn.”
His voice was deep and sexy and full of authority. He was standing, his hand held out to her. He was such a commanding figure. He had loosened his tie, and she could see the strong column of his throat, the beginning of springy, dark hairs on his chest.
It would be nice if he was asking her to dance out of anything but a sense of duty, but of course that wasn’t the case. The rest of the wedding party was joining the bride and groom on the dance floor.
Brittany put her hand in Mitch’s.
Another shock of awareness shivered through her as his hand, warm and dry and infinitely strong, closed around hers.
A moment later they were on the dance floor. The band was playing a waltz.
He danced very properly. No pulling too tight and groping for him. A good-sized gorilla could have inserted itself in the space between them. She glanced up at his face. Remote. Nothing in it to suggest he shared her feeling of wanting to move a little closer, hold a little harder.
She decided, just a touch fuzzily, that it should be a criminal offense to be as good-looking as he was.
She would have to tell Abby, at some more opportune occasion, that this was the kind of surprise she did not need in a life that was already thoroughly and not always pleasantly surprising. Still, she supposed it was the kind of thing sisters did, and she knew Abby had meant well setting her up. But then who could have guessed he was such a grouch?
Mitch danced flawlessly, which did not surprise her. Everything about him would be flawless. He probably ironed his underwear.
Suddenly, she had to be looking anywhere but at him. What if he looked in her face and saw how hopelessly chaotic he made her thoughts? What if he saw that as effortlessly as he had seen she was scared?
“Lucky guess,” she muttered.
“Pardon?”
“Lucky dress,” she said. “The one my sister Corrine is wearing. She told me.”
He looked like he thought she was drunk, which she wasn’t. She was only the tiniest bit tipsy. He was the one making her act impaired. His presence, his hand intertwined with hers, the aroma coming off him of soap, and aftershave.
The attraction felt like a beast within her, leaping, hurling itself against a chain-link fence, frothing at the mouth, completely ignoring her feeble commands to get in control.
By now, if Mitch had an ounce of good old hot, red blood flowing in his veins, he really should have noticed how terrific she looked beyond the paint.
She decided, abruptly, that she had had it with Mitch Hamilton and his indifference to her considerable charms.
She felt cut to the quick, hurt beyond reason.
She wanted to tear herself away from him, run and hide in the bathroom. And then after everyone was gone, she could come out and limp home in her high-heeled shoes in the darkness.
Pathetic, she told herself. She would not be pathetic. Besides, if she did that, if she ran away and hid, he would know he could affect her. And she wasn’t going to let him know that.
She knew she had to do the exact opposite of running away. Her life depended on it. Her whole sense of her self.
She closed the distance between them, pressed herself into the long length of his body. Remain indifferent to that, she challenged him silently.
At first he went very still, and then his hand found the small of her naked back and pressed her into him, yet closer. His body was somehow more than she had expected. Harder. She could feel the ridges of his muscles against her own softness.
She hadn’t really expected this. To feel as if she had been born to dance with him as surely as Abby had been born to dance with Shane. She hadn’t expected to feel powerless instead of powerful.
Stunned by the feelings shooting through her, and by how vulnerable and needy they made her feel, she committed more deeply and more desperately to convincing him the exact opposite was true.
She kissed him.
At first his lips, tasting of raindrops and honey, were motionless, absolutely still, beneath hers. She registered, in slow motion, how soft they felt, when they looked so hard.
Have some pride, she ordered herself, pull away.
But her lips mutinied and did exactly as they pleased. The beast howled happily within her. She wanted to taste Mitch, could not get enough of the taste of him, would forgo champagne