Chapter 5
Robin was gone when I woke up. Not a surprise and probably just as well. The only breakfast food I had was Kashi and Egg Beaters—stuff that didn’t qualify as romantic breakfast fare. Making great use of my expensive culinary education, I microwaved myself some eggs and spinach. As I did my usual five miles at the gym, I told myself not to expect Robin to become a regular thing. I was the rebound guy, not the forever one. But if last night had shown me anything, it was that I was done with sex with strangers. I was done with guys who made me feel terrible after. I wanted sex with friends. Boyfriend sex. Couple sex. I wanted the connection I’d felt looking at Robin, that moment when our breathing had synched, hearts hammering against each other, bodies striving toward the same perfect release.
Even with the disappearing act, Robin had made me feel . . . important. Like he needed me and not just my dick.
Saturday was blessedly sunny, the rare January day that inspired long walks and sweaters in lieu of coats, the sort of day that tricked Oregonians into thinking spring was around the corner even though weeks of more rain were sure to follow.
I surveyed the Lambert wedding cake. A massive, six-tier affair, it had taken the whole crew to perfect, but the final touches were all me. Forget the weather; today was simply a scramble to keep up.
“You gonna manage the shelter run?” Cliff asked, taking off his apron. I knew he was probably eager to get out, go toss a ball around with Eddie.
“No problem. I can squeeze it in.”
Saturday was the day we usually brought day-old baked goods, along with some fresh rolls, to the shelter. Over the last few months, I’d fallen into a routine of going in the middle of the week; funny how the more weight I lost, the more important the shelter became to me. But this week, I’d resisted the urge to put in extra time. I knew I’d really be going to check up on Robin, and being the needy one wasn’t going to endear me to him. Better to wait for my usual day. Let Robin decide how he wanted to play things.
When I got to the shelter, Robin wasn’t the one working the loading bay. Nice as the volunteer was, my feet itched to go find him. Soon as I was in the building, though, Melissa greeted me with a hug. She happily accepted the cookie I’d put in just for her.
“How much longer you have?” I asked, gesturing at her bump. Three sisters and I still hadn’t mastered how to talk to a pregnant lady.
“Two months.” She gave me a tight smile. “Still don’t know what I’m going to do when the baby comes.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t have anyone lined up to be acting director when I go out on maternity leave.” Unlike some of the larger shelters, Victory Mission only had a couple of paid employees. Melissa was director, but most of the daily details were handled by volunteers. “I want Robin to take it, but he keeps saying he’ll think about it.”
“He’d be a good fit.”
“Hey, while you’re here, could you talk to him?”
“About that?” My mouth twisted. No way was Robin taking advice from me.
“No. Something else.” She glanced around the deserted hallway. In the distance, pots clanged as the Saturday crew got started on the meal.
“What?” Bile rose in my throat. Unable to meet her eyes, I studied a poster advertising a free clinic—cheerful thing, undoubtedly Robin’s handiwork. Had she found out about Tuesday? Had Robin been talking about it? Maybe I’d played it wrong staying away.
“That kid he keeps working on—Zach—he OD’d today.”
The sour feeling in my stomach intensified and my hands clenched. Fucking January.
“Shit. Is he dead?”
“No. But he’s in a coma, and Robin’s walking around like a zombie. I’m worried he’s taking it way too personally. He and you have always talked, so I thought . . .”
“Sure. I’ll go find him.”
He wasn’t in either the dining room or the kitchen. I found him in the storeroom, shelving bags of instant potatoes. Alone. I should have guessed. Robin didn’t like to be around people when he was in a mood.
“Hey?”
He didn’t look up at my greeting, but the jerk of his head said he’d heard me. “Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry for not calling.” Still looking down, his gaze shifted about. He was bluffing, trying to make this about us because somehow that must be easier for him than talking about Zach. His red eyes and shaking hands revealed his true mental state.
“Don’t worry about it. It was real fun. But Melissa told me about Zach. What happened is terrible, but it’s not your fault—you know that, right?”
“He came in at lunch yesterday looking for me, but I wasn’t here. I had a client deadline.” Swallowing hard, Robin looked like he might cry any second.
My shoulders tightened, muscles burning with empathy. Seeing him all torn up, ripped up something in me, too. After glancing back at the open door, I took him into my arms. I couldn’t not hold him.
“Hey, now. You can’t go beating yourself up over his bad choices.”
“I know that. But . . .” He trailed off, his eyes wide and helpless. I stroked his hair and made what I hoped were soothing noises.
“It’s hard. I get it.”
“To top it off, Paul came by today. He didn’t care about the Zach news.”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah, well, he wanted to get his things but stopped by here because he says he lost his key.”
“Bastard. Change the locks.” The hair on the back of my neck went all porcupine. My arms tightened around Robin. I didn’t trust Paul. It would be just like him to turn up when Robin least expected it.
“I have to make a request of the super to do that. It makes me all antsy, though, knowing he’s hanging around. God, I hate this week.”
“Sorry.” Releasing him, I backed away.
“Wait, Vic. I didn’t mean . . . Tuesday was the high point.” He grinned sheepishly.
“Yeah?” The chattering voices filtering in from the kitchen kept me from kissing him like I wanted.
“Hey, maybe I should take a page from your book. Stop stewing over Paul and Zach. You free tonight?”
“Not until late.” I groaned. Shitty, shitty timing. “I have to deliver a wedding cake to Lake Oswego as soon as I’m done here.”
“Oh. Never mind.” He looked away before I could see whether there was regret in his eyes.
My hands flopped to my sides like limp pasta. My chance with Robin seemed as burned as the smell of that night’s tomato sauce. Didn’t want him finding distraction elsewhere.
“Wait. You wanna come along? It’s at The Foundry. Gorgeous place, but a bit of a drive. I wouldn’t mind company.”
“You need help carrying stuff?”
“Sure. I could use an extra hand.” I didn’t really, but I knew how much Robin liked to be needed. And the company would be nice.
“All right. Let me finish up here.”
Twenty minutes later and we were on I-5 headed to Lake Oswego, an upscale suburb full of Whole Foods and Crate & Barrel shoppers and the sort of money that could finance a January wedding for two hundred at one of the area’s more exclusive venues.
“Who the heck gets married in January?” Robin asked as I navigated through the Terwilliger curves to get outside of Portland proper. Saturday traffic was thick, everyone taking advantage of the clear skies.
“Wealthy daughters who want a long honeymoon in Hawaii.” I laughed. “There’s always some reason to get hitched; we keep busy pretty steady until May, when the orders really pile up. I like this season, though, ’cause I’ve got time to make each cake extra special.” I could feel myself turning red. I hadn’t meant to say all that. I surveyed the Airstream trailer in front of us, wishing I could escape my own babble.
“I love that you like what you do.” Robin grinned. “All those flowers would drive me crazy. But taking pictures of them? That I can do. Speaking of, you should tell Cliff to let me do a new logo for you guys. The red and white is kind of . . .”
“Classic. Cliffie’s dad had that logo first. Good luck getting him to change.”
“You ever think about getting your own place? Doing just cakes, maybe? You’re too talented to stay an assistant.”
“What? And give up bread and cookies? No way.” I laughed, liking the chance to talk shop. Robin wasn’t asking nosylike, more curious, and that made my chest feel loose and warm. “No, see, Cliff’s got two kids, and neither of them wants a thing to do with the bakery. Another year or so and I’ll buy into the bakery, then when Cliffie’s ready to retire, I’ll buy him out.”
“Wow. Big plans.”
“Yeah, well, not many people know of them. Keep it quiet.” Don’t know why I shared with Robin. But his compliment made me feel taller, proud of what we were doing at the shop.
“Well, when you become the boss man, you let me do up some nicer materials for you. I could do some real nice wedding brochures and such. And a better logo.”
“Will do.” My chest and shoulders rose up. I liked the thought of still being friends with him in a few years too much to tell him that I had no plans to change the red and white line drawing logo of a baker holding out a one-tier cake. However, Robin did do pretty work—the midyear appeals letter and brochure he’d designed for the mission were eye-catching and stylish without being pretentious. I’d heard from Melissa that donations had almost doubled. She was right; he would be great at keeping things afloat while she was out.
“How ’bout you? You gonna stay freelance?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. My folks would love to see me take an in-house graphic arts position, but being my own boss is worth it. You’ll see.” He nodded, like we were some kind of equals. On the same path.
Warm as that thought made me, we weren’t the same. Robin was a trust fund baby of some kind; he’d mentioned private school and college before, and no way could he afford to live in the Pearl on a freelancer’s sporadic salary if he wasn’t getting some kind of help. My dad had worked construction up until he died and wouldn’t have known what do with a 401(k) or mutual fund.
“Melissa says she wants you to think about doing more with the shelter—take over when her baby comes.”
“I’ll help out whoever she puts in charge, but I’m not a leader.” Robin looked out the window. “Tell me more about your house. You really going to sell it?”
Whoa. Quick topic change much? But everything else between us was so easy, I didn’t want to ruin it by calling him on not wanting to talk about the shelter. After all, the Zach thing had to be weighing heavily on him.
“My Aunt Mary and Uncle Mauro owned it, but Aunt Mary went to live with my mom after Mauro went. She was battling cancer and the house was too much for her. Now the two of them are happy as clams in Mom’s fifty-five-and-up complex.”
“That’s nice they have each other.”
“Yeah. Manny and I were fixing the house up to put on the market for her. Didn’t want to put it up as is; her and Mauro had remortgaged it enough that we wanted to make sure she got something back.”
“Nice of you guys.”
“Hell of a lot of work, you mean. It’s just what family does.” Family held on to the memories of our childhood, bounding in and out of Mauro and Mary’s front room. Family held on to Manny’s plans. Family held on even as everyone else moved on to lower-maintenance digs. Family held on even when their skill set wasn’t exactly up to the task at hand.
A lump the size of Forest Park grew in my throat, but the more Robin acted like my plans for the house were doable, the more my muscles eased. We talked the rest of the way to The Foundry, Robin wanting to play what if and all full of ideas for the house and bakery. Suggestions came as natural to Robin as breathing did to the rest of us.
“See, now this cake should be in a magazine. Get the bakery into Portland Monthly magazine or maybe something more national. . . .” Robin climbed up after me into the back of the truck, inspecting the cake like he was the one who’d ordered it. “I love the lime and silver theme. And look at all that drop-line work. Did you freehand all that yourself?”
“Yep.” I’ll admit it: I puffed up like a proud cat that Robin knew what the fancy icing lines were called and that he appreciated my handiwork. The three-tier cake had white fondant topped with silver drop lines, delicate lime-green flower buds, and silvery green leaves. Our prep guy had filled the layers with lime curd and buttercream.
“Man. Lines like that would make a wicked cool tattoo sleeve.” Robin rolled up his T-shirt sleeve, inspecting his bare biceps. “What do you think?”
“I think any ink on you would be . . . nice.” Damn it. I could feel my ears and cheeks heating again.
“Nice, huh?” Robin winked at me. Heat arced between us, and I hoped like hell he was still thinking of coming back home with me later.
“So you really need help with carrying?” He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head toward the cart I had ready for the cake.
“You can push.”
“I’m flattered, Vic. Really.” He laughed, free and easy and no trace of the stress and worry that had marked his face back at the mission. Didn’t matter that he could see through me. I’d play the fool any day to earn that laugh.
“Wait. I’m not exactly dressed for this.” He looked down at his brown T-shirt.
“Here.” I grabbed Cliff’s spare jacket from the cab. “This’ll be a bit big, but it’ll do.”
“Look at me, all official.” He pulled it on. “Lead the way.”
We wove our way through the great hall, past the reception tables and the linen-and-crystal-set dinner tables. Staff scurried around, taking care of the finishing touches for the candlelight reception. The actual bridal party would be back in the elaborate suites off the great hall.
“Finally. We’ve been waiting hours. Literally on pins and needles.” The wedding planner, a flouncy middle-aged woman named Barbara who spoke entirely in italics, greeted us.
“Sorry.” I tried to look contrite; I know where the butter for my bread comes from, and wedding planners can make or break whether a bride chooses us.
“And who are you?” She turned an appraising eye on Robin, her gaze as sharp as the steak knives at each setting. “New?”
“Very.” He gave her a charming smile, one that seemed to dial back her pissy level a few notches. “Maybe you can give me pointers.”
“I can. Let me show you where this gorgeous cake is going. Then I’ll get Natalie. She’s back getting her hair done, but she wanted to see the cake.”
Crap. While not unusual, it always made me antsy when the bride wanted to come out to see the cake while I was still there. There’d been a couple of bridezillas who’d wanted me to change something on the spot, which no can do. And if the bride really did hate the cake . . . well, it was probably best she discover that after the ceremony, while liquored up on champagne and surrounded by people saying nice things.
“Don’t worry,” Robin said in a low voice as Barbara walked away. “She’ll love it.”
“Who said I’m worried?” My words felt as false as the “Roman” columns framing the dance floor.
“You’ve got that line on your forehead you get when you’re thinking too hard.”
I didn’t know what exactly to say to that, so I was relieved to see Natalie walking toward us. Her hair and makeup were flawless. Her veil was pinned in place, but the rest of her was wrapped in a giant, fluffy pink robe.
“Oh, it’s darling!” she squealed, clasping her fancy manicured hands under her chin like a little girl. “I can’t wait to taste it.”
“Here.” I retrieved a bakery box from the bottom shelf of the cart. “This has some treats for your first morning as husband and wife, but feel free to raid it now.”
“Oh, you are the sweetest thing!” Without warning, she launched herself at me, catching me in a giant hug, spindly arms twining around my neck. “Thank you! I knew you’d come through.”
“You’re welcome.” I held both of my arms out to my sides. I was afraid to rumple her and not quite sure what to do with so much perfume and lace in my personal space.
“The photographer wants more candids of you getting dressed.” Barbara tapped Natalie on the back. “We don’t want to fall behind.”
“Enjoy your special day.” Robin waved at both of them as they departed. Then, as we wheeled the empty cart back through the lime-and-silver-bedecked room, he let out a deep laugh. “Oh. My. God. Vic, your face when she hugged you . . . epic.”
“What?”
“You’re this big gruff guy, and here this itty-bitty bride turns you into a big teddy bear. Nice touch with the breakfast pastries, by the way. Classy.”
“Yeah, we take care of our brides.” I rubbed my jaw. “Hey, you want to look around before we go back? I want to show you something.”
“Sure.”
We stashed the cart back at the truck and then I led Robin around the main building, past the giant wood deck and down the ironwork stairs to the “garden patio,” which was really just a fancy way of saying “pretty slab of concrete with nice ironwork details.” It being January, there wasn’t much garden happening. The air still had a bit of a bite in it. I shoved my hands in my bakery coat pockets. I should have grabbed my real coat, but us Oregonians like to fly in the face of weather. At least it wasn’t raining; the earlier sun had fled, leaving a dreary sky, twilight already creeping in.
“Oh, wow.” Robin caught sight of the promenade: a long walkway stretching out to become a bridge over the lake, ending in a huge wooden deck, all surrounded by more ironwork. “Can we go out there?”
“Yeah. Summer, they have small ceremonies out here, or sometimes dancing. Pretty, isn’t it?” My steps lightened, my mood as sparkly as the little lights lining the path. This was my favorite part of the venue, and I always managed to sneak down here whenever we had a delivery. Something about the place made me feel sure and certain and insignificant, all in the same moment.
“It sure is. And look at you. Vic, the closet romantic.”
“Me? Romantic?” I waved the idea away. “Hardly.”
Standing in the center of the deck, though, even I could see the romance. In the dusky light, the lake was gorgeous. The lights of houses on the opposite shore were starting to twinkle, the evergreen trees becoming hulking shadows over gray-blue water so still and shiny it was like a sheet of glass. The gorgeous man by my side, looking like I’d handed him a gift by showing him my spot, made me wish for a little Ella Fitzgerald—something sweet and bluesy that we could dance to. Not that I danced much, but something about being with Robin in such a pretty place made me wish I did.
“Cold?” Robin reached out, touching my face. “Man, the wind down here is something.”
“It’s something all right.” I wasn’t looking at the wind or the lake when I said it. I was looking right at him, at his playful eyes and full lips. He was something—something that made my heart swell and my toes curl with want.
Reaching out, I pulled him toward me, closing the gap between us. I brushed my lips over his—a little hello, nothing too heavy. But Robin took my dainty, little petit four of a kiss and poured hot fudge all over it, licking his way into my mouth, arms coming around my neck.
My arms knew exactly what to do with Robin, and I crushed him to me. He felt solid, the lean muscles of his back flexing under my hand. He tasted better than any sweet I’d ever had: like pastry cream and coffee and his own exotic spiciness that made me want to lick him all over.
Giving a little sigh, he leaned into me more. The wind whipped around us, catching Robin’s hair and my coat and slapping some much-needed sense into me.
“Can’t do this here.”
“Yeah. I know,” Robin said against my lips before kissing me softly again. “Bad idea.”
“Come home with me.”
“You have to ask?” Robin pressed against me, his hard dick pushing up against mine, even through all the layers of cloth. “Don’t know if I can wait . . . I have an idea.”
Grabbing my hand, he dragged me back up the promenade, racing across the patio. As we approached the bakery truck, he pulled up short, tossing me a saucy smile. “You know, you have one big . . . truck.”
“It’s Cliff’s. The bakery’s. Not mine.” God, but Robin made me stupid.
“Size of a camper really.”
“You got a point?” I put my palm against the small of his back. I wanted to hold him, wanted to push him into my big, soft mattress and—
“You want to do something naughty?”
“Like what?” My neck muscles twitched. I had a feeling what he might be proposing. On the one hand, I’d never done anything like this. On the other . . . oh, screw it. I was in.