“Bree, are these your creations?”
“Yes, Kookies is my company.”
“I like it all. The packaging. The names. I’m glad you ended up doing something unusual. I always wondered if it would come true.”
The fact that he had wondered about her, at all, knocked down her defenses a bit.
She stared at him. “If what would come true?”
“That night, at your prom. Don’t you remember?”
She remembered all kinds of things about that night. She remembered how his hand felt on her elbow, and how his same forest-fresh scent had enveloped her, and how every time he threw back his head and laughed her heart skipped a beat. She remembered dancing a slow dance with him. And she remembered that she, school bookworm and official geek, had been the envy of every other girl in the room. She remembered, when the evening had ended, leaning toward him, her lips puckered, her eyes closed, and him putting her away.
“Do I remember what?” she asked, her voice far more choked than she would have liked it to be!
“They gave out all those titles in a little mock ceremony partway through the dance. Most likely to succeed. Mostly likely to become prime minister. You don’t remember that?”
“No.”
“Most likely to become a rodeo clown, most likely to win the Golden Armpit for bad acting.”
“Those weren’t categories!”
“Just checking to make sure you were paying attention.”
As if anyone would not pay attention to him. His grin widened, making him seem less billionaire and more charming boy from her past.
She remembered this about him, too—an ability to put people at ease. That night of the prom, gauche and starstruck, she had wondered if it was possible to die from pure nerves. He had teased her lightly, engaged her, made himself an easy person to be with.
Which was probably why she had screwed up the nerve to humiliate herself by offering him her lips at the end of the evening.
“Now that I’ve jarred your memory, do you remember what your title was?”
“I hardly remember anything about that night.” This was not a lie. She remembered everything about him, but the other details of the night? Her dress and the snacks and the band and anyone else she had danced with had never really registered.
“Most likely to live happily ever after. That was the title they bestowed on you.”
The worst possible thing happened. Not only was she here on the floor, picking up her mess with the most devastatingly attractive man she had ever met, in a silly apron, with her hair scraped back in a dumb bun and granny glasses perched on her nose, but now she was also going to disgrace herself by bursting into tears.
NO!
Bree Evans was not going to cry in front of Brand Wallace. She had a broken dream or two, but so what? Who didn’t?
She bit the inside of her cheek, hard. She made herself smile.
“Of course they did,” she said. “Happily-Ever-After. Look. Here’s the proof.” She bought a moment away from the intense gaze of his eyes on her face. She picked through the boxes of cookies.
There they were, the favorite kooky cookie for when she supplied weddings. She opened a box and pulled a cookie from its wrapping.
Shortbread infused with strawberries and champagne.
She passed it to him, and he took a quizzical bite.
“There you go,” Bree said, and hoped he could not hear the tight, close-to-tears note in her voice. “Happily-Ever-After.”
She watched as his eyes closed with pleasure. He was distracted, as she had hoped.
When he opened his eyes again, he smiled at her. “That is one of the oddest—and tastiest—combinations of flavors I’ve ever experienced. Ambrosia.”
“Thank you. I’ll tuck that away for a new cookie name.”
But then she saw she might not have distracted him quite as completely as she hoped, because he was watching her way too closely. She felt as if his eyes locked on the faint quiver of her lip.
“My company has an event coming up, a charity ball in support of this same goal, to raise funds for the new wing of Children’s. Do you think I could get you to supply some of these?”
Bree’s mouth fell open.
“Of course,” Chelsea said smoothly.
“I’m sure they will be planning some kind of midnight snack or party favor,” Brand said. “Have you a card? I’ll give it to my event planner, and she’ll be in touch.”
Being around him was a roller-coaster ride, Bree thought, as she turned, flustered, to get him her business card. For a stunning moment she had thought he was showing interest in her. He’d quickly doused that by saying his event planner would be in touch.
This kind of opportunity was exactly why she was at this event, Bree reminded herself firmly, turning with a bright, hopefully professional, smile to give him the card.
He slipped the card into his inside jacket pocket, and popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. It drew her attention, unfortunately, to the rather sensuous curve of his lips as he chewed.
“Do you want to go for a quick coffee?” he asked her.
A roller-coaster ride!
The invitation seemed to take him by surprise as much as it did her.
“R-right now?” she stammered. “Things are just about to begin. See? People are going through to the auditorium. The program said Crystal Silvers is going to sing first.”
“I don’t care about that.”
One of the most sought-after performers in the Western world, and he didn’t care about that? He cared more about having coffee with her?
This was dangerous territory indeed.
Bree gestured helplessly at her display. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
“You’re going for coffee,” insisted Chelsea, who had never had a stubborn moment in her life—she was certainly changing things up tonight. Her tone was firm, brooking no argument.
“No.” Bree aimed her best who-is-the-boss-here? look at her assistant.
Chelsea ignored it. “Go, I can handle this.”
“No, I—”
“Go!” Chelsea said, and then, under her breath, she added, “Live dangerously, for Pete’s sake.”
“Unless your husband would object,” Brand said smoothly.
Chelsea snorted in a most unflattering way.
Brand’s gaze slid to Bree’s ring finger. She wanted to hide it behind her back as if its nakedness heralded some kind of failure.
“Boyfriend, then.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
She was as oblivious to the daggered look Bree gave her as she had been to the who-is-the-boss-here? look.
“The last guy she met on e-Us was a loser.”
Since Chelsea was so adept at ignoring Bree’s looks, dancing happily with insubordination, Bree managed to step hard on her foot