“If you want to get technical, he didn’t hire me to ruin perfectly good caramel, either.”
At that, the apprentice chef laughed. “Well, I would appreciate a few minutes to call my boyfriend. He’s out of town celebrating his birthday with his brothers.”
“Go.” Phoebe waved her away, trying not to succumb to a moment of cynicism. Was Amy’s boyfriend missing her, or eyeing other prospects? Were his brothers the type of guys who would respect a commitment, or the type who would try to convince the birthday boy that what Amy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her?
Not all men were heartless liars, she reminded herself. Take Heath, for example. He might date dozens of women, but she couldn’t imagine him deceiving one. He made no secret that he liked to have a good time—but there was more to him than that. He was an ambitious worker and a devoted friend. She was still a little surprised he’d agreed to put his own love life on hiatus to help her.
Surprised and nervous.
She wasn’t sure what to expect when she had dinner with him tonight, which probably explained the atypical mistakes she was making. She’d been distracted since she got here. Who are you kidding? She’d been distracted since she’d hung up the phone with him yesterday. The way his low voice had rumbled “you are sexy” had wound its way through her, as irresistible as the aroma of apple-cinnamon cake in the oven.
“Hey, there.” James joined her at the industrial sink. Of Norwegian descent, the big blond man was a cross between a Viking and teddy bear. From the concerned look on his face, it was clear he’d heard about her mishaps. She hated to fail him after he’d campaigned so long to hire her.
Despite the many times they’d joked about him stealing her away from Piri, she’d never once thought she would have to take him up on his offer of a job. She’d believed she and Cam were a lasting team—personally and professionally. Wrong on both counts.
It would take a long time to establish the same kind of rhythm with this kitchen staff that she’d enjoyed at Piri, but she loved James’s upscale bar and his infectious enthusiasm. Besides, she needed this job. Her side business in wedding cake orders and other specialty items was growing steadily, but it was nowhere near a full-time income.
“You want to head out a little early tonight?” James offered.
“Trying to get rid of me before I burn the place down?”
“Hell, yes. You’re only supposed to resort to arson for insurance when the business isn’t turning a profit. We’re actually succeeding.”
“No surprise there,” she said fondly. “Good concept, good location, great management.” The tapas plates were wonderful, and now that Phoebe was on board, the dessert selection of tasty traditional choices, like cheesecake and peach cobbler, also featured more creative dishes inspired by sweet liqueurs and cocktails.
Throughout the week, the bar offered something for everyone—from open-mic nights to the engaging “dueling pianists,” including James’s longtime boyfriend, to last night’s wine tasting, which paired vintages with bite-size appetizers designed to highlight the notes. A newly engaged couple had come in to celebrate with friends and toast their happiness. Phoebe had rolled out a special cake for them and, after witnessing how in love they were, it had been a struggle not to cry in the crepe batter when she’d returned to the kitchen.
“Don’t beat yourself up for having an off night,” James advised. “Gwen and I shouldn’t have bullied you into seeing Cam at that birthday party. It must have been awful. If Steve and I ever—” He broke off, wincing. “I can’t even think about that.”
“Me, neither. You guys are perfect together.” Then again, what did she know? There’d been a time when she’d believed that about her and Cameron, too. The pain of getting dumped was two-tiered, like the coconut wedding cake she was baking this week. First, there was the obvious pain of rejection and loss. But beneath that was a nagging feeling of stupidity, the questioning why she hadn’t seen it coming. She was starting to second-guess her own judgment.
Any more pastry catastrophes tonight and she might start to second-guess her culinary skills, too.
She sighed. “You know what? I will leave a little bit early. I have plans later anyway.” At the thought of what those plans entailed, her face heated. Part of her still couldn’t believe she’d followed through on her impulse to ask Heath for his help. But the request had been over the phone, from a safe distance. What would it be like to actually face him tonight? Nothing embarrassed the man, so there was no telling how explicit his pointers might be.
No problem, you’ve had years of experience with Gwen’s outrageous bluntness. True, but Gwen didn’t have Heath’s green eyes, or a deep voice that was as addictive as hazelnut truffles. And Phoebe wasn’t even going to think about his mouth or the way he kissed, like he knew all a woman’s secrets.
James gave a low whistle under his breath. “Wow, these must be some very rowdy after-hours plans for you to look that guilty. I take it Gwen has schemed something to cheer you up?”
She bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to dwell on her roommate’s dire warnings. “Nothing like that. I’m just grabbing a late dinner with Heath.”
“Heath Jensen? Nice.” He bumped her shoulder with his own. “But I’m a little miffed you haven’t mentioned until now that something’s going on.”
An automatic protest sprang to her lips, but she stopped herself from assuring him that she and Heath were platonic buddies. After all, the plan was for people to think there was something between the two of them, right? “I ran into him at the party Saturday,” she said. “And our encounter took a...surprising turn. I didn’t say anything because I’m not sure what will happen yet.”
James’s pale blue eyes twinkled. “Well, go find out.”
* * *
AS THE ELEVATOR slowly made the climb to what Heath jokingly called his seventh-floor penthouse, Phoebe tried to ignore the mirrored doors. Even though she’d changed out of her kitchen uniform of double-breasted jacket, elastic-waisted dark pants and pin-striped baker’s cap, no one was going to mistake her for a femme fatale. Her face, devoid of makeup, was still flushed from hours in a hot kitchen, and her loose bun was trying to escape its confines via frizz. The black skirt with dark metallic polka dots was cute, although a conservative length that stopped just above her knees; the loose blouse she wore over a copper-colored tank top was mostly shapeless. And her flat scandals screamed sensible.
As the doors parted, panic flitted through her. A plan that had seemed almost reasonable yesterday morning suddenly seemed insane. How could anyone make her a seductress? Gwen was right. This is a huge mistake.
Embarrassment churning in her stomach, she almost turned to go. She could call Heath from her car and tell him something had come up—work, or a headache, or alien abduction. But aren’t you sick of always trying so hard to avoid mistakes?
She’d spent the better part of her adolescence feeling like she was a mistake. Her mother certainly hadn’t planned to get pregnant as a teenager. The woman’s constant dire warnings, intended to keep her daughter from repeating her bad choices, had left Phoebe terrified of doing anything wrong. Phoebe had wanted to be the perfect daughter, to atone for her existence. And hadn’t she tried to be the perfect girlfriend to Cam? That sure as hell hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Anger heated her skin, and she ripped
