Beauty and The Best (Once-Upon-A-Time Romance) Page 14

  She couldn’t have. There was no such thing as forever. She knew. Firsthand. Nothing lasted “F,” except in the pages of a book.

  “Funny,” Todd interjected—thank goodness—into her path down Misery Lane. “But seriously, Jolie, were you homeless?”

  Mr. Dog-With-A-Bone was obviously not going to let it go. She’d go for the short and not-so-pitiful version—the one that answered the questions and moved the conversation on. She’d developed it early in her house-hopping career.

  “Depends on what you mean by homeless.” She shrugged to show it wasn’t such a big deal. Eighteen years ago, yeah, big deal. Now? Not so much. “I had a home, just not my own. Actually, I had a lot of homes.”

  “Foster care?”

  She nodded and wrapped her hands around her iced tea, the sweat on the glass sliding under her palms. “It wasn’t so bad.” If you liked loneliness, being an outsider, and not having a family to call your own. But she was over it. Really.

  “What about your parents?”

  God, it was like pulling teeth. “Dad’s a question mark and Mom made some ill-advised choices. Gone, both of them. Probably for the best if those first ten years were anything to go by.”

  “How did you make it out of the system?” He touched her, just one fingertip to the fine hairs on the back of her hand, but she felt it. All the way to her toes.

  He had to stop. She could get through this without crying as long as she said it flat out. Have him show compassion and she’d be a mush puddle.

  So she took a drink of the iced tea and sat back in the chair, far from fine hairs and tempting fingers. “I decided I was not going to repeat the mistake of my genetics. I studied, worked hard and the rest, as they say, is history.”

  “That’s an admirable story.”

  “That’s me, Admirable Jolie.” She tipped her glass to him in salute.

  His eyes narrowed. “You’ve certainly got a lot of attributes, Good-sport Jolie, Ambitious Jolie, Admirable Jolie. What about Happy Jolie?”

  Okay, enough psychoanalysis there, Dr. Phil. “Well, sure. I mean, where I am now sure as heck beats where I started. There was nowhere to go but up anyhow. Life is good.”

  “So that’s why you took me up on my offer to bake for the kids. You’ve been there.”

  She nodded. “But even if I hadn’t, I’d still want to help. It’s a great cause. Those kids need more people like you.”

  Those kids? You were one of them, at one time.

  Out of my head, Naughty Girl.

  “That’s good to hear because your chocolate chip cookies are going to be in demand.”

  Oh, he was smooth. She slid a sideways glance his way. “Care to define ‘in demand’? Just how many cookies am I going to be making?”

  “A couple hundred—”

  “Oh, well, that’s not so bad—”

  “—dozen.”

  “A couple hundred dozen?” Mr. Jolly was getting his jollies on this one. Okay, smart guy, two could play that game. “Boy, I’m going to be able to stay here until the next millennium for that amount of work.”

  “Hey, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. You know that.”

  “But what happens if my life expectancy doesn’t match my cookie-credit ratio?” She bit her lip, enjoying the teasing. It reminded her of Mike and Barbara.

  Todd’s sigh was oh-so-dramatic and he rubbed his hand across his chin. She couldn’t look away as his palm rasped against the five o’clock shadow just below the surface and she could only imagine what that would feel like against her cheek.

  That’s right, Jolie. Only imagine it, ’cause that’s as close to his skin as your cheek’s going to get.

  “You’re right.” He tapped that full bottom lip. “It’s not possible to balance the scale of work versus cookie credits. You’re going to need help.”

  “Help?”

  “Of course. I can’t expect you to spend all your waking time baking, so why not? I’ve made cookies before.”

  Hmm, had she been angling for that? She wasn’t supposed to make up ways to spend time with him, but apparently Heart had stopped listening to Brain and decided to work on autopilot.

  Of course, Brain, not one to be left out, then directed Mouth to say, “Okay then. I’ll go out tomorrow and get enough ingredients to make the puffiest, most chocolate-y chips you’ve ever tasted.”

  “Somehow I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  Hey, the guy really did get her after all.

  And, yeah, Naughty Girl chimed in, he could get her anytime.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Raphael clicked off the state-of-the-art monitor in his office and tapped the intercom. “Please send Jonathan in, Angela. Thank you.”

  He rose from the throne and stretched his wings behind him. So busy these days. So many people to help. He needed help. If Jonathan could gain the confidence he needed, he’d be the perfect assistant.

  Raphael’s feathers, softer than any bird’s down, whispered along his hands. Such magnificent appendages. Great for convincing non-believers he was who he said he was, but more importantly, inspiring awe in those who had duties to fulfill.

  The door to his inner sanctum opened and Jonathan, all four-feet-ten-inches of him, entered. Poor guy had never had any self-confidence from the moment of his birth. Born among a family of six-footers, Jonathan had been the brunt of many jokes. Good-natured or not, they’d taken their toll on him. But Jonathan had never lost the goodness in his soul because of it.

  Raphael had had his eye on him ever since Jonathan had rescued one of his childhood tormenters from a rabid dog by finding the small opening that was the only other way into the room and distracting the animal so the bully could escape.

  What neither Jonathan nor the bully had appreciated was that he’d been the only one who could have fit through that opening. His sized had served the Purpose for which it’d been bestowed.

  “Sir?” Jonathan crumpled his hat between his fingers.

  “Jonathan, please, take a seat.” Raphael levitated one of the sky blue chairs. He’d decided to employ his powers during this interview because Jonathan needed to feel valued.

  “Thank you, sir.” Jonathan hopped onto the chair and rubbed at the telltale twitch by his eye before settling the mangled hat in his lap, the fingers of one hand tapping the brim while Raphael floated the chair over to the desk.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Raphael materialized a glass of the lemonade he knew Jonathan was fond of. That should ease some of Jonathan’s worries.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Raphael pretended not to notice the shaking in the initiate’s hand as he took the glass. “So, Jonathan, how are Todd and Jolie doing? Any movement toward the final goal?”

  Jonathan told him about Todd clearing out the attic—at last!—of Michael and Barbara’s reception of Jolie—not quite what Raphael would have hoped for from those two, but, still, understandable given their love for Todd and everything they’d done for him—and the upcoming picnic.

  “So, Todd is moving on. I’m glad to hear that. What about Jolie?” Raphael leaned against the edge of his marble desk rather than take the seat behind it. The throne was intimidating, though it did have its purposes.

  “Jolie, sir?” Jonathan stopped sipping his drink, his eyes wide above the rim of the glass. The twitch, which had slowed during the recitation of events, now kicked back into gear.

  “Yes. Has she made any strides in overcoming her feelings of inadequacy?”

  “Strides, sir?”

  “Yes, strides. You’ve seen Todd grow and emerge from his despair. Jolie needs to do the same.” Raphael waved his hand and Jolie’s chart floated from the file drawer. “Her mother never appreciated her. Of course, the poor woman had her own demons to deal with, but still, she did damage all the same. Jolie needs to heal.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jonathan set the glass on the edge of the desk.

  “I’d rather there not be any bumps in this road,
Jonathan. Todd seems open to the idea of exploring what he’s feeling for her, which is where we want him headed. But Jolie’s so used to things not working out for her that she needs to feel worthy of his love. We need this to go smoothly for them. They’ve been hurt enough.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jonathan nodded solemnly.

  Raphael tapped the file. “I think you might want to appear among them, Jonathan, in a manner where you can affect events as they happen. Your merchant character nudged them onto this journey, but I’m thinking something more drastic. Something on a more daily basis. Without them knowing, of course.”

  “Um… okay. I’ll think of something, sir.”

  Raphael held out his hand. “I’m sure you will, Jonathan.”

  Jonathan’s eyes widened and he clutched the felt hat so tightly his knuckles turned white as he considered Raphael’s outstretched hand. Gulping, he slid to stand before the chair and placed the hat on the cushion.

  Raising his eyes—the twitch now completely gone—Jonathan took Raphael’s hand. “I won’t let you down.”

  “Of course you won’t, Jonathan. That’s why you were chosen to help Todd and Jolie. I have every faith in you.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jolie drove the chugging Melanie into Todd’s driveway the next afternoon. Todd hadn’t been kidding yesterday when he’d said the picnic was next week. It was now Sunday, i.e. “next week,” the picnic was in three days, and Arena’s was officially out of baking supplies. Poor Signore Arena, she’d thought he was going to have apoplexy when she asked him for the last batch of the butter, but he’d calmed down when she’d told him it was for the foundation.

  Jolie pulled into the garage, hoping Todd was around. For no reason other than to help her unload the groceries, so Naughty Girl could stick that in her innuendos. Chances were, though, that he was in the west wing, as she’d taken to calling the garage attic where he’d holed himself up in last night after dinner and all this morning. Just as well. With Heart still not firmly under control of Brain, she could end up doing the libido tango again if he was around.

  Once she’d gotten the necessary ingredients into the kitchen, she set all the measuring cups, bowls, and baking sheets she’d need, thanking God, the builder, and the decorator that Todd had a dining room table big enough for the cookies to cool on. She’d bought enough plastic storage bags to make a landfill shriek, and a whole lot of chickens were probably walking around in pain, but it was all about the kids, so she’d set her tree-hugger-ness aside and focus on that.

  Since chocolate chip cookies baked better if the dough spent the night in the fridge, the day’s agenda consisted of making enough dough for twenty-four hundred cookies. Thankfully, there was an industrial-sized mixer that some previous chef must have finagled, so she might make it through this with her mixing arm intact, which was always a plus.

  She turned on the Bose stereo and be-bopped along to old Madonna. Not her all-time favorite, but old Madonna was better than new Madonna. Yeah, it was bubble-gum music, but good to be-bop to. Then came Shania and she was dancing some more. It was all good.

  She was into some heavy-duty belting out of “That Don’t Impress Me Much,” when she heard, “Hey, Shania!”

  She spun, spatula/microphone in hand, and plunked down her foot to stop the twirl. The image in the doorway, now that impressed her much.

  “Uh, hey?” she said oh-so-eloquently into the spatula.

  “I was coming in to help.” Todd surveyed the room, whistling. “Wow. I didn’t realize this much went into making cookies.”

  She nodded and put the spatula down. “These are easy to bake. It just takes organization.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess.” He cocked that expressive eyebrow of his again. “Organizational Jolie?”

  Now that was funny. And they laughed, a shared moment sort of thing.

  “That’d be me. So, you really want to help?”

  “Point me to an apron.”

  “Wow. You get points just for saying that.”

  “Yeah, wouldn’t want to ruin these.” He flourished his hand over his dusty old shorts, Bermuda-long and faded army green, a rip here, a tear there. Comfy shorts… that just so happened to hug his hips at just the right spot to cause her salivary glands to rev into action. The mustard yellow t-shirt clinging to some flexing pecs as he tied the apron behind him didn’t hurt either.

  She better make sure to keep the drool out of the cookie dough.

  He washed his hands, drying them on that inch-thick cotton, loin-cloth-wannabe towel, and saluted her. “Ready for orders, ma’am.”

  He was cute like that and she couldn’t help chuckling, all the while shoving Naughty Girl out of the picture who was squealing as she went, Give him some orders already!

  “Okay.” Jolie turned off lusting mode and went into baking mode. “I’m making a quadruple batch at a time. You can go ahead of me and measure out the ingredients. I’ll sift the dry ones together then add the rest in the mixer. Once we’ve got everything done, we’ll move it to a bowl and stick it in the fridge. Then on to the next batch. Sound good to you?”

  He nodded. “Anything to do with chocolate chips sounds good to me.”

  Was that like whipped cream?

  Not going there.

  The radio station segued to some really bad stuff from the eighties, so “Hungry Like the Wolf” was grating across her nerves (though she could relate) as she and Todd stepped around each other. For such a big kitchen, it’d gotten extremely small. She was by his shoulder when he reached for the box of brown sugar and she got a whiff of fresh paint and sweat—not normally scents to get her hormones up and dancing, but on him, they worked.

  Which she, again, shouldn’t be noticing.

  “So, how’re the walls coming?” Jolie picked up the closest thing, which turned out to be a sifter. She started to—what else?—sift while Todd moved on to the liquid ingredients. The guy could crack a mean egg.

  “Decent. I almost have the first coat of paint finished. I’ll get to the second tomorrow and let it dry until after the picnic.”

  “So.” Did she dare broach the subject? “Have you decided if you’re going to paint again?”

  He kept his eyes on the measuring cup while answering. He was either a very conscientious cook or didn’t want to have the discussion. She’d bet the latter, but she was going to continue as if it were the former. That no-quitting thing of hers and all.

  “You don’t decide to paint, Jolie. It just happens. You have to. I’ll see. I’ve got a few ideas in mind.” He glanced over and smiled. “Who knows if they’ll pan out?”

  “And if they do?”

  He shrugged. “We’ll see. I’m not planning anything further than just trying out a few things.”

  “Okay. I guess that’s good. Kind of trying to let your muse do its own thing.”

  “My muse. Yeah.” His voice drifted away.

  Okay, kick her for being an idiot, but that was about to change. Right now. “So, how many people do you think will come to the picnic?”

  He mustered a smile and it was bigger than she’d hoped for. “I don’t know. There’s usually a good turnout. With all this you’re making, people should have at least a couple of cookies.”

  “Good. Because I want the kids to be able to take as many as they want. Cookies are such a nice treat.”

  “And these kids need them.”

  “Don’t I know it.” Oh, crud. Had she said that out loud?

  “That’s right. I keep forgetting you do know. I have to say, Jolie, I’m having trouble seeing you that way. You haven’t let life get you down.”

  Yeah, well, he hadn’t seen her at her first foster home, curled into a ball on that lumpy old mattress. “The best way I’ve found to deal with my past is to put it away. It’s over, I’m here and let’s move on. Who was it that said ‘the best revenge is living well’? That’s my outlook.”

  “That takes a lot of inner strength.”

  Ha. She
could tell him it was more self-preservation and abject terror of being sucked back into that swirling morass of self-pity and loathing, but why go there? “Do or die, I always say. Now, you can start on the next batch while I mix this one up.”

  He nodded and she turned on the mixer. Something to break up their conversation—and regain her composure.

  Not to mention, aside from the occasional stir to get the batter off the side of the bowl, there wasn’t too much to do while the mixer did its thing. So she had the chance to watch him.

  There was just something about a man in an apron in the kitchen. Especially if the man was only in an apron in the kitchen, which, okay, he wasn’t, but she had seen him in only the kitchen and nothing else and, boy, was that a sight to remember. So she tripped down sensory lane while he reached and stretched and bent as he measured out the ingredients. Who’d have thought baking was so much exercise?

  “You know,” he said when the mixer went silent, “the last time I did this was with my mom. I was twelve, I think.” His eyes twinkled. “It’s fun.”

  He had no idea.

  “Let’s see if you’re still saying that three hours from now.” Jolie maneuvered the mixing bowl to the table and scooped batch number one into another bowl, ready to start again. The mouthwatering aroma of brown sugar and vanilla surrounded her and she couldn’t resist a dip into the dough with a spoon.

  “I saw that.” Todd’s mock self-righteousness was hysterical.

  “Want some?” She grabbed another spoon and another spoonful, and offered it to him.

  With him holding a measuring cup in one hand and a five pound bag of sugar in the other, she had no other option when he said, “Sure,” than to hold the spoon to his mouth.

  Really. No other option.

  His lips closed around the spoon, just a hint of his tongue before it closed, and she could almost feel the heat travel up the stainless steel into her fingers.

  There was a little tug as he sucked the dough off and she felt a little tug of her own. Right in her nether regions.

  She slid the spoon out and he licked his upper lip. “You’re good,” he said and there went her mind right to a bed with a roaring fire at the foot of it, a bottle of champagne, maybe some rose petals, and, of course, whipped cream.