Whoa, someone was in serious need of a happy pill.
Cassie Sweet squeezed the bridge of her nose, closed her eyes and wondered what the hell she’d done that was so bad she had to endure this.
Impossible clients. 1: Like JB@zoom. At way too late o’clock, making rude comments about her business. 2: People who said things and then explained them in brackets.
Impossible choices. Her regular no-holds-barred mojito night with the girls struck out for a mind-distorting evening in front of the laptop trying to magic her business out of financial chaos.
And impossible decisions. Instead of telling JB where to stick their rude comments, she’d have to smile sweetly and reply positively. It was a job and, even though her work schedule was overflowing, one glance at her bank statement told her there were far too many minus signs. Looked as if she didn’t have a choice.
Email to: [email protected]
Well, hi, JB. Are you Mr? Miss? Dr? Rev? Lord?
Cassie resisted the temptation to add Sith?
Congratulations on your upcoming wedding!
Sweet Treats would be happy to help. Please find enclosed a copy of our specials menu and suggested vegan options for three, four and five courses. Please don’t hesitate to contact me for further info. I’m more than happy to talk things over.
Cassie
For Sweet Treats
She looked back down at the spreadsheet and willed the red numbers to be black. Damn her stupid trusting genes. She was way too much like her father; there was no doubt that William Sweet’s too-trusting blood definitely ran through her veins.
The figures swam in and out of focus. One day she’d been financially stable and then...wham! Sucker-punched by betrayal. She would never trust a man again.
Except, perhaps, for her bank manager, who she would not only trust but would love for ever if he could help her work a way out of this. Or maybe the bank manager was a woman? Who knew?
Her ex, actually. He’d set up the accounts with Cassie’s signature and apparent blessing. She, meanwhile, had focused on the catering side, giving little attention to running the business.
Well, hell, she was paying attention now. And oh, it would be so easy to run to her family and ask for help, but this time—this time—she was going to prove them all wrong. She did have stickability. She could cope without them.
Unlike her failed dog-walking business...her brief foray as a children’s entertainer...or the blip that was her disastrous market stall—why the hell they had to have them so early in the morning she didn’t know. This time she was going alone and this time she would succeed.
Her mobile rang. Blocked number.
Glancing at the clock, she breathed in, fists curling in anticipation. What time was it in deepest, conveniently out of killing distance, South America? By the time she’d finished with him, his number wouldn’t be the only thing that was blocked.
Picking up, she kept her voice steady. ‘Patrick, if that’s you I swear I’m going to take out my paring knife and chop your—’
‘Hey, hey. Steady, lady. Put. The. Knife. Down.’ The voice, so not her ex’s, was deep and dusky, a little tired at the edges. Like her. It wasn’t a posh accent per se—definitely London. Did she mention dusky?
‘I’m not Patrick. And even if I were I wouldn’t admit to it now.’
‘Believe me, if you were Patrick you wouldn’t have a breath left in your body.’ Although, three months down the line, she’d given up hope of seeing him or her money again. Case closed, they’d said.
‘Oh? A woman scorned?’
She supposed she was. Her ex hadn’t so much broken her heart as completely stamped on every trusting fibre in her body. ‘Who is this?’
‘Jack Brennan. I just got your email with suggestions.’
Not the ones she was really thinking. Such an unexpectedly warm voice for one so rude.
‘Oh, hello. Yes. My food is great; I come highly recommended. You saw the testimonial page?’
‘Eventually. Does it need to be so busy? I couldn’t find anything; it’s definitely not user-friendly. There are too many tabs. Too many options.’
Well, really? Mr Sexy Voice had become Mr Cocky and Irritating in the blink of an eye. Maybe she wasn’t so desperate that she needed to add his job to her already overflowing schedule.
Yes, she was. ‘Thanks for the feedback. I’ll make a note and consider a re-jig of my website next time I have an advertising budget.’ Like never. Raising her head above the cyberworld parapet and reminding the webmaster of her existence, and therefore her unpaid overdue bill, would only cause more trouble. ‘I guess it could do with a spruce.’
‘It needs a deforestation.’
Like your manners. ‘As it happens, the website detail belonged to my...er...ex-business partner. I’m making changes. It takes time.’
‘Your ex-partner and Patrick—I presume they’re the same person?’
‘Yes, he was the brains behind the business, allegedly. I’m the chef.’
‘Private party? Personal chef. Yes—’
‘Please don’t make any comments about that byline. I came up with it, and I like it.’ It was about the only thing she had left. Apart from my dignity, and that was starting to sag a little round the edges too.
But that voice... How could someone so rude sound so hot? It was like chocolate velvet, wrapping her up and making parts of her warm that hadn’t been warm in quite a while.
Which was a stark enough reminder that this was business. Hadn’t she learnt already never to mix that with pleasure?
And she was not that desperate to flirt with a client who was getting married. It was just a voice.
‘So, considering your late call, I presume you are interested in using Sweet Treats for the wedding? Have you had a look at the menu options? I’m happy to juggle things around if you want to mix and match.’
‘I don’t know. It’s complicated. We need to meet and discuss this further. And time’s running out.’ She wondered how easy it was for him to speak without the aid of brackets to explain everything in duplicate. A hum of traffic buzzed in the background. He raised his voice. ‘How about tomorrow? Afternoon? Evening?’
‘I’ll just check.’ Looking at her diary, she worked out she could fit him in between Zorb’s regular Friday Feast lunch order, little Hannah’s third birthday party and the carnival meeting early Saturday morning. Couldn’t she? Sleep was seriously overrated. As was a social life.
As for a sex life? She literally laughed. Out loud. Sex was something she remembered from her dim and distant past. Vaguely. Hell, twenty-six and sex was just a memory? If she planned right, she could fit in a quickie between the hours of three and four in the morning. Next Wednesday week. But, in her experience, most guys weren’t particularly happy with that. Well, not the kind of guys she wanted to spend that special hour with, anyway.
Better make that two people in need of a happy pill. ‘I can fit you in at around six-thirty. Would that work? Where are you based?’ She jotted down the details. ‘Actually, you’re just down the road from me; I’m in Notting Hill too. When the business started to take off we decided to move—’
He sighed. ‘Look, I’m in a cab; it’s hard to hear. I don’t need your life story. I just need food.’
‘Of course. Of course.’ Tetchy. She hadn’t quite mastered the art of managing her thoughts in silence. Or managing anything at all, really,