plan?’
‘Plan?’ I mimicked, coming back to the present, almost surprised to find myself sitting at a harbourside café on a glorious spring day with a seriously hot guy.
‘To celebrate your divorce.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You have got something in mind to celebrate, right?’
‘I’d envisaged leaving the patisserie early tonight to kick back with a spectacular red wine and Channing Tatum, but it looks like I’ll be stuck working ’til late, taking over Remy’s duties and prepping for tomorrow.’
He rolled his eyes, his upper lip curled in derision. ‘What is it with women and Channing Tatum?’
‘Hot bod. Chiselled jaw. And the guy has the moves. What’s not to like?’
‘He’s a fantasy.’ He sniggered, a decidedly wicked sound. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer a real man?’
I saw the challenge in Tanner’s unwavering stare. Taunting me. Encouraging me to say yes.
I knew what he was offering.
A night of debauchery.
A night to wipe away sour memories of my marriage.
A night to come alive.
But I had to work with this guy for the next four weeks. Remy was depending on me, and no way in hell would I screw up his faith in me by screwing his brother.
‘I’d prefer if we drank our coffees and got back to the patisserie,’ I said, exhaling in relief when the waitress appeared to place our order on the table.
‘Fair enough,’ he said, but he wasn’t done yet. The twinkle in his eyes alerted me to the fact that every second I had to spend with him over the next month would be pure, unadulterated torture. ‘But if you want to ditch the fantasy in favour of the real thing, you know where to find me.’
He picked up his small coffee cup and raised it in my direction. ‘Here’s to a good working relationship, real-life celebrations and finding the elusive peg leg.’
I choked on my first sip of latte and he laughed, a low, sexy chuckle that sent a jolt of longing through me.
Yeah, it was going to be a long four weeks.
Tanner
I TOOK ONE step into Le Miel and wished I’d said hell no when Remy asked me to help him out.
There was a reason I avoided the patisserie. With its polished honey floorboards, sunlight spilling inside and the tempting aromas of warm yeast and sugar heavy in the air, it reminded me of home.
Of Mum.
I’d been ten when she died, twenty long years ago. My memories of her might have faded with time but I’d never forget standing next to her in the kitchen while she baked. Passing her cups of flour. Gently handling eggs. Having my own board to roll pastry on. Licking icing from my sticky fingers.
Our kitchen had been huge, almost industrial-sized. Mum had run a makeshift cupcake business from home but mostly she’d loved to cook. It was her passion, like she’d been my father’s, the Frenchwoman who’d stolen his heart on a gap-year trip to Paris.
Pity the romance hadn’t lasted.
From what Remy told me, Dad had taken one look at Claudette Allard and she’d become the number one woman in his life. They’d married in two months, had Remy a year later and I’d arrived five years later. And from what I’d overheard that fateful day Mum had died, everything had turned to shit about then.
Dad avoided the kitchen and even as a youngster I’d been glad. We were happier when he wasn’t around, me, Mum and Remy.
I’d loved those days when we’d all be in there together: Mum smacking my hand for sneaking a croissant before it had cooled. Remy helping me with a tricky letter on the icing. Me proudly presenting Mum with her favourite chocolate cupcake that I’d baked from scratch. Just the three of us, laughing and joking around. Happy. Together.
Until that day I’d heard my parents argue, the kind of argument that had imprinted on my brain no matter how many times, how many drinks and how many women I’d used to dislodge it. The day Mum had been so upset she’d rushed out of the house, got in her car and been killed in a crash, leaving us with Dad.
And my hell had begun.
‘You okay?’
I glanced down to see Abby’s hand lightly resting on my forearm, concern crinkling her brow.
Annoyed I’d let memories get to me, I shrugged off her touch. ‘Yeah. Let’s get started.’
She didn’t believe me. She had this way of staring at me with those deep blue eyes like she could see right through me. It was disconcerting.
No one saw the real me. Ever.
‘You’ve been here before, right?’
I nodded. ‘Not for a while though.’
She didn’t ask why but I could see her condemnation in the flattening of her lips.
‘I’ll show you Remy’s office as that’s where you’ll be working.’
So she didn’t know I could cook? Interesting. I could have a lot of fun showing Miss Prim and Proper exactly what I could do with a rolling pin.
‘Lead the way,’ I said, with a mock bow, biting back a laugh when she gritted her teeth.
This could be fun if I concentrated on baiting my cool co-worker rather than mentally rehashing maudlin memories.
The late-morning crowd had thinned to a few mums with toddlers and an older couple reading the newspaper. From the few times I’d been here over the years, I knew early mornings and lunchtimes were hectic. Remy would have hired staff accordingly but a sliver of worry niggled.
I ran successful nightclubs employing hundreds of people. I’d run restaurants up and down the eastern seaboard. So why the touch of anxiety that I could be in over my head with one patisserie?
Because this place was Remy’s pride and joy, and I knew it. I owed my brother a lot. He’d cheered me up when I’d been young and reeling from Dad’s subtle hatred, even if he’d been oblivious as to the reason behind my sulks. He’d shown me how to cook, how to play footy, how to be a man by using clever words rather than my fists when kids teased me at school for not having a mum. He’d raised me when the old man had the decency to curl up his toes when I was fifteen, never complaining at being saddled with a recalcitrant teen when most guys were partying at twenty.
Remy was my hero, always had been, and the only person I let get close. So I’d make damn sure that not only did the patisserie continue business as usual, but also that it flourished.
As we passed the gleaming stainless-steel counter, a young guy popped up from behind it, balancing a stack of
