Swallowing hard, I usher him out of the bakery with a few choice words and a firm push on his shoulders so he goes through the door. I slam it shut behind him, turning the lock with a forcible jerk. The loud click rings out—I know he heard it—and he glances over his shoulder at me one last lingering moment before he heads off into the sunset. As in for real, he walks toward the sunset, no doubt in search of his car.
Walking back toward the kitchen, my entire body begins to relax. I’m thankful to be out of Gage’s presence. It’s too overwhelming, just flat-out too much. He makes me think things, say things I don’t normally ever think or say. I’m a nice person. I don’t reject people or call them names. And I called him a disgusting pig. Talk about harsh.
What the heck is wrong with me?
Gage Emerson is what’s wrong with you.
I barely hold back the snort of laughter. God, ain’t that the truth?
Chapter Four
Marina
MY EYES BURN as I flip through the stack of bills yet again, pulling one out in particular that I’ve been avoiding for a while. I order flowers from a local florist—not the one Gage used because I so can’t afford that place. Gina and I use them to decorate around the café where we can, knowing they add a nice touch. The customers appreciate them, as do Gina and I.
The flower order has gotten smaller and smaller over the last year. I’d started choosing the cheapest flowers they had, too. And now it’s finally time for me to bite the bullet and cancel the order outright. I hate having to do it but we can’t afford the expense. I’m trying my best to cut corners where I can.
And this is the next corner being cut.
Deciding I can piece out the bouquet Gage sent me and use the large variety of flowers for decoration over the next week or two if I stretch it right, I slap the bill on my newly made “call tomorrow” pile and sigh wearily.
Sometimes it feels like we’re spinning our wheels. I’m doing everything I can to make this bakery work, but competition is stiff. There are popular bakeries and cafés all over the valley. The locals and the tourists love to get their eat and drink on so we’re all battling against each other, trying to fulfill that need.
No one—and I mean no one—can make a cake like my aunt, but not enough people are discovering them or discovering our bakery. I got her out of the ruthless catering circle despite the loss of decent revenue. I had to do it. Baking and decorating elaborate wedding cakes every weekend was both exhausting her and killing her creativity. She does her best work when she can let the wild ideas fly.
Lately she’s made some true masterpieces. They taste so delicious, and look so beautiful, it’s almost a crime to carve into them. I have about a bazillion photos on my phone of her cakes, like I’m a proud mama dying to show them off. I need to create some sort of brochure featuring them all.
Another sigh leaves me, and I’m feeling stuck. We don’t have enough money in our current advertising budget to do much beyond the chalk easel I set outside the front door every morning announcing our daily specials. We do a lunch special featuring sandwiches with our artisan breads and homemade soup that Gina also makes, so we get a terrific lunch crowd. Our morning crowd is okay too, but we’re no Starbucks.
Grr. Just thinking of giant conglomerates makes me frustrated. Small towns gripe all the time about Walmart coming in and destroying local businesses. I’m starting to believe them one hundred percent. Walmart, Starbucks, they’re all soul-sucking destroyers of the local business economy.
Yet I frequent our local Walmart at least once a month. Don’t do Starbucks anymore, though. Why would I, considering I have an espresso machine here in the bakery and I know how to use it? Besides, I can’t hand them four dollars plus for a coffee when my place is barely making it.
Propping my elbow on the edge of my desk, I rub my forehead, feeling the unmistakable tension there. I always get headaches when I pour over the bills. Who wouldn’t, the task is so depressing. I press my fingertips into my skin in a circling motion, trying to ease the stress, but it’s no use. The only thing that could cure my stress is a bottle of wine and a soak in my tub.
I remember my earlier encounter with Gage and glance over at the flowers sitting on top of the filing cabinet. I brought them in with me earlier when I knew I’d get stuck back here going over our bank account and the invoices due. If I’m going to do the drudgework then I need to make the spot pretty, right?
Plus, just looking at them makes me think of him. The things he said—both the good and the bad. And he says terrible things. It’s like he doesn’t even think. He’s a successful businessman worth billions. Some of that is family money, but the guy is smart. Right? So how can he conduct business when every time he opens his mouth he says something crazy?
I can almost forget about the terrible things he’s said when I think about how freaking gorgeous he is. How those beautiful green eyes seem to see right through me. Just one glance in my direction and he sets my skin on fire. Leaving me so hot I feel almost fevered every single time he looks at me.
And that his touch is my only relief . . .
Closing my eyes briefly, I stifle the moan that wants to escape and sit up straight, shuffling the stacks of bills into their own haphazard organized piles that only I understand. I drop them all into my desk drawer and shut it with a satisfying thud, then wipe my hands. Like I’m all efficient and totally handled yet another stressful workday, going over bills and taking care of business.