“Oh, him. Yeah, sort of.” Bonnie made a face.
“And …?”
Bonnie studied her alternating scarlet and black fingernails a little too carefully. “I wasn’t really feeling it.”
“Why not? You don’t have to marry him, just go out.”
“Hmm.”
“Geez, Bonnie. You can’t sit around the rest of your life wait—” She stopped herself from blurting out her suspicion that Bonnie was still waiting five years later for their resident musician, Seth, whom she dated junior year until he freaked out over how serious the relationship was getting. Bonnie hadn’t come close to being serious about anyone else since. “You can’t avoid men forever.”
“I’ve dated plenty. What about you? You’re not exactly pouncing on single guys, either.”
“I’m not … ready.” Angela winced at how lame the excuse sounded. She’d been divorced for three years, after nine months of a dream-come-true marriage that turned nightmare when Tom was unfaithful with the exact type of woman his parents had wanted him to marry in the first place. Annabel, aka The Princess, was tall, WASPy and aristocratic, with strawberry-blond hair, flawless skin and an inheritance the size of her chilly conceit. While there sat half-Greek wallflower Angela Loukas—not tall, not blond, not rich, not chic, and worst of all, not perfect.
“Tom was a dork.” Bonnie glanced longingly at the cookies, separated from her by a cold, uncaring pane of glass. “You can do sooo much better than him.”
“Maybe. If I wanted to try.” She reached down and pulled out another walnut-chocolate-chunk. “It’s tough to recover from that much fun.”
“Oh, come on. You’re telling me if the perfect man walked through that door tomorrow and asked you out you’d turn him down?”
“Ha!” Angela handed the cookie over. “First of all, I matured out of the perfect-man fantasy when Tom came home late with hickeys all over him.”
“Ew.” Bonnie grimace melted into bliss when she started in on the second cookie.
“I was so naive I thought there was a grand plan written somewhere, ‘Tom and Angela, love at first sight until death parts them.’ Yeah, right.” She wiped her hands on her apron, creamy white with the A Taste for All Pleasures logo Bonnie designed in rich burgundy: various breads tumbling from a cornucopia. “Death didn’t part us, his dick did.”
Bonnie gave a shout of laughter, then clapped her hand over her mouth.
“I’m sorry.” Her fingers lifted to let the words out. “It’s not funny, except that it is.”
“I know. It’s funny now. Sort of. Sometimes.” Angela wrinkled her nose. “I just don’t know how you ever trust that love-feeling again once you’ve been busted up like this.”
“You want to know what I think?” Bonnie’s walnut-chunk was fast disappearing. “I think someday you’ll meet a guy who makes you realize how effed-up Tom was. You didn’t have anyone to compare him to since he was your first love.”
Angela stared at her, wondering if she had any idea how that advice could be applied to herself about Seth. Probably not. Every time Angela gently broached the subject of Mr. Can’t-Commit, Bonnie turned bristly with denial and stopped listening. “You may be right. But forgive me if I am not holding my breath.”
“Understandable. We all have to go through our bitter stage.” She started backing out, hand raised in a wave worthy of royalty. “I’ve gotta get back to the store. Thanks for the cookies.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for the bouquet.” Angela watched her scoot over to her shop, worrying that there hadn’t been enough flower-selling going on lately if Bonnie’s frequent drop-ins to the bakery were any indication. It wasn’t easy starting your own business; the five of them had some pretty rough times just getting the building bought and renovated. Close friendship was the miracle that helped them survive, but none were taking long-term success for granted.
They’d passed the one-year anniversary of the building’s grand opening three months earlier, in January. They’d named the collection of businesses Come to Your Senses after one of them—Bonnie, Angela thought—realized that their five fields represented the five senses: taste—Angela’s bakery; sound—Seth’s music; smell—Bonnie’s flowers; sight—Jack’s photography; and touch—Caroline’s physical therapy studio, bought by a woman named Demi Anderson after their beloved friend got married and moved out of state. The building’s sign, painted in whimsical, colorful letters by Bonnie, hung over the front entrance to the ornate brick building on the corner of Broadway and Olive, a great location surrounded by other businesses, with Seattle Central Community College and Cal Anderson Park a few blocks down the street, and with nearby neighborhoods housing a population that wholeheartedly embraced the concept of anything goes.
The door chimed—another customer, or in this case, a slew of them, teenagers ready for a pre-dinner appetite spoiler. Angela called Scott, her black-haired multipierced part-time student helper, out of the back where he was sweeping the kitchen, and together they got the crowd taken care of. Two tangerine scones, three pumpkin muffins, eight assorted cookies and four cupcakes. Nothing from France: millefeuilles, croissants. Nothing from Greece: baklava, kouram-biedes. Nothing from Italia: pignoli cookies, spumenti, each recipe made with her own special twist.
Scott returned to his sweeping and Angela glared around the now-empty shop, the last coffee-drinker having vacated his table. She was not going to give up her dream of having a bakery like the ones she and Tom saw on their European honeymoon. Especially because Tom’s voice was still echoing in her head—stick with what you can manage—as if he’d never expected her to rise above a chocolate chip cookie. As if she’d always be plain old unsophisticated Angie …
Stalking out into the store, armed with a rag and cleaner, she wiped down the four small and rather rickety tables. Someday her bakery would be the talk of the town. Not for bran and bland, but for elegant and exotic. She’d be—
“Excuse me.”
Angela turned abruptly. Customer. She hadn’t heard the chime? It meant a lot to her when people first entered the shop to be waiting attentively, welcoming smile in place. “Hi, there. May I help you?”
Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness. Had they opened the gates to Olympus and shooed a demigod into her shop?
Clear blue eyes. Strong chin. Sandy hair, kept short. Golden skin. Mouth with clean lines, slightly fuller lower lip—she must be staring like a crazy person to notice all that.
And he was staring back. Expectantly. Had he answered her offer of help? Had she missed that, too? Had she gone suddenly deaf?
She scooted to safety behind the counter to stash the cleaner and regain her composure, then tried again. “May I help you find something?”
“Oh. Sorry. Yeah.” He laughed awkwardly, a surprising contrast to the masculine-warrior aura he gave off. “I guess I was in another world.”
Whew. So she wasn’t the one who had taken that trip. “I understand. Sometimes this world is hard to take.”
He looked wary, as if he thought she were about to recommend a specific alternative. “Very true.”
Silence.
She could not ask him again what he wanted. So she’d stand here gazing her fill while he scanned the cases until he figured it out. Now that she looked past the initial impression of “hot damn,” she saw his eyes were haunted, dark circles under them; a vertical line bisected his brows; the stunning lips were set tightly. Not a happy man.
As usual, when she encountered someone in pain, Angela wanted to help. Stuffing a person with baked goods wasn’t always a healthy way to deal with grief, but sometimes short-term sweetness went a long way toward curing what