too hard on the reason for that either. “Here. I’m not looking for exactly this. But something warm and whimsical and unique. In my price range.”
She spread the three full-color pictures on the metal table, turning them so they were right side up for his inspection. Long ago, she’d torn them from magazines she’d come across, tucking them away for the when and if of this dream. The white frame of the pages had dulled to yellow over time, and the ragged edges where she’d torn them from the magazine looked tattered. But the bright glass displays and the intricate woodwork remained as bright and as promising as ever.
“It’s probably beyond my budget, I know, that’s what Mr. Montgomery said. But he thought he could scale it down and still get some of the feeling of the craftsmanship.”
Brice said nothing as he studied the photos, sipping his coffee, taking his time. “Why baking? Why not open a bistro? Or stay working at your family’s bookstore?”
Surprise shot across her face. “You know about the bookstore? Wait, Chloe knows. She probably told you.”
That wasn’t exactly true. Everyone knew about the bookstore. Ava’s grandmother’s family, a wealthy and respected family and one of the area’s original settlers, had owned the store forever. “I need to know what this means to you before I start on the woodwork. Isn’t that what you do before you design a cake for someone?”
“Exactly.” She took a sip of the sweetened coffee and studied him through narrowed eyes, as if she were truly seeing him for the first time.
He could see her heart, shining in her eyes, whole and dazzling. He leaned closer. Couldn’t stop himself.
She turned one of the pictures around to study. “You wouldn’t understand what I want, being Bozeman’s most eligible bachelor and all.”
“You know, I have relatives who work on the local paper. That’s where the list came from. I had nothing to do with it. I’m just a working man, so I bet I can understand. Try me.”
A cute little furrow dug in between her eyes, over the bridge of her nose. Adorable, she shrugged one slim shoulder, and for a moment she looked lost. Sad. “My mom really wasn’t happy being a wife and mother. I know that. But when I was little it felt like I was the one who made her unhappy. I was always spilling stuff and knocking into furniture and forgetting things. Not that I’ve changed that much.” She shrugged again. “This isn’t what you want to hear.”
“This is exactly right. Exactly what I want to know.”
He laid his hand over hers, feeling the warm silk of her skin and the cool smoothness of the magazine page. One picture was of bistro tables washed in sunlight, framed by golden, scrolled wood and crisp white clouds of curtains. It looked like something out of a children’s storybook, where evil was easily defeated, where every child was loved and where love always won.
That’s what he knew she saw on the page, he knew because he could see her heart so clearly.
She drew in a ragged breath, her voice thin with emotion, her eyes turning an arresting shade of indigo. “One thing that always went right was when I was with Mom in the kitchen. She wasn’t much of a baker, but I had spent a lot of time with Gran in the kitchen, she taught me to bake, and I liked the quiet time. Measuring sugar and sifting flour. Getting everything just right.”
She paused as if noticing for the first time that his hand still covered hers. She didn’t try to move away. Did she know how vulnerable she looked? How good and true? He didn’t think so. He feared his heart, hurting so much for her, would never be the same.
“This reminds you of baking with your Mom,” he said.
“Sort of. I remember the kitchen smelled wonderful when the cookies or the cakes were cooling. And afterward there was the frosting to whip up and the decorating to do. It’s the one thing I could always do right. It made everyone happy, for how ever little time that happiness lasted, it was there.”
“And then your mother left?”
Ava gently tugged her hand out from beneath his. She lowered her gaze, veiled her heart. That was a scandal of huge proportion. Everybody had known at the time, and in a small city that was really just one big small town, everybody still remembered although twenty years had passed. “I want this to be like a place where customers feel like they’ve stepped into a storybook. Not childish, just—” She couldn’t think of the word.
“You want a place where it feels as if wishes can come true.”
How did he know that? Ava took a shaky breath and tucked away the honesty she shouldn’t have hauled out like dirty laundry in a basket. She was so not a wishing kind of girl. Not anymore.
She grabbed her bag again, not remembering when exactly it had slipped from her shoulder to the floor. “I’d better get going. I’m late for my shift at the bookstore.”
“Do I make you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.” The word popped out before she could stop it.
He winced. “Well, that’s not my intention. We got off on the wrong foot. Is that what’s bothering you?”
“No. Yes.”
“Which is it?”
“I don’t know.” All she knew was that he felt way too close, although she’d crossed half of the kitchen on the way to the door and it still didn’t make any difference. She took a shaky breath. “I should have recognized you. I mean, I’m usually so busy in my own little world, I don’t notice everything I should.”
“Well, I didn’t introduce myself, so when you think about it, it could be all my fault.”
“You’re being too nice.”
“That’s better than being Mr. Yuck, right?”
“Maybe.”
That made his dimples flash. “What do you do with your time, besides baking incredible cakes?”
“Hang out with my sisters, mostly. Doing my part to contribute to consumer debt. That kind of thing.” And that was all she was going to share with him because anything else would be way too personal. “Okay, what did I do with my keys?”
“I might have ’em.” He reached into his back pocket and then there they were in the palm of his hand.
Oops. It looked as if she would have to move closer to him to get them. Her chest tightened and her emotions felt like one big aching mess. Was it because of the story she’d told him, about baking with her mother? Or was he the reason?
She knew the answer simply by looking at him. His appearance—the worn T-shirt, battered Levi’s and beat-up black work boots—all shouted tough guy, but in a really good, hardworking way. Add that to his kindness and class—and he was totally wishable.
Not that she was wishing.
As he strode toward her with the slow measured gait of a hunter, she didn’t feel stalked. No, she felt drawn. As if he’d gathered up her tangled heartstrings and gave them a gentle shake. There were no more knots, just one simple, honest feeling running up those strings and straight into her heart.
