Chapter Nine

“What did you say?”

“The luxury coffee angle is a good one,” he went on, oblivious to the dual spikes of hope and panic his words inspired. “But you need to work on broadening your market. People in Eden can afford to pay a ridiculous amount for a premium cup of coffee—you were right about that—but you need to attach a cachet to your product. Make it the kind of luxury item that even someone who can’t really afford it would treat themselves to when they wanted to feel pampered. Something that the rich indulge in and the aspirational splurge on. Marketing is all about psychology. You need to drum up demand as a luxury brand and build a reputation as the elite coffee spot—and the best way to do that is getting celebrities involved. Your problem is you’re too far north. People will travel for a luxury experience, but you have to get them hooked first and most of the stars live farther south—Mulholland, Pacific Palisades, the Hollywood Hills. There’s a reason I have my offices in Beverly Hills even though the commute is a pain in my ass.”

“I can’t afford a storefront in Beverly Hills. I can’t even afford one here.”

“What if I invested?”

Her heart began hammering, distractingly loud—and she couldn’t tell whether it was from excitement or terror. She’d never realized how similar those two emotions could be.

“You have to admit I have an eye for business and I think you have something here. You could move the shop, but I’d recommend opening a second one. Keep this one as the flagship location.” He looked around her kitchen, his gaze seeming to weigh and measure the value of everything it touched, and she had to resist the urge to smack him, suddenly defensive of her beautiful sparkling ovens. “You’d have to change the name,” he went on relentlessly. “No one wants to pay exorbitantly for something Common. Why not Uncommon Grounds?”

“Because the whole idea was to create a place where different people from different perspectives and different walks of life could come together. To have a gathering place.”

“Gathering places don’t make money.”

She grimaced. “So I’ve discovered.”

“I know this is your comfort zone—Eden is home. It’s familiar. But you need to think big.” He thrust his hands into his pockets, finally looking at her rather than the potential investment around him. “I would probably be annoying to work with,” he stated and she almost laughed at the understatement. “I’d be bossy and you’d want to kill me at least once a week, but if you trust me, Parv, I think we could have this place thriving in six months.”

“Six months,” she echoed, the words hitting her in the gut and she finally identified the chaotic emotion that had been sneaking around behind all the hope and fear.

Anger.

He was right. She’d failed abysmally in five years of trying, but Max could doubtless make Common Grounds—or Uncommon Grounds—successful in six months flat. Which just made her feel even more pathetic.

“I don’t need you to save me, Max. I know you feel bad for me, but I don’t need your pity.”

He frowned. “I don’t make investments out of pity.”

“Maybe I don’t want you swooping in and taking over.”

“You’d rather go out of business than accept my help.”

It wasn’t a question, but she answered him anyway. “It doesn’t sound like help. It sounds like it wouldn’t be mine anymore. Win or lose, succeed or fail, at least Common Grounds is what I made it.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” The dismissiveness in his voice made her want to throw her mixer at his head. “There’s a time for pride—”

“And a time to butt the hell out. This isn’t your business, Max.”

“Don’t you want your business to succeed?”

She couldn’t think about that. All she could see was Max’s perfect face, breezing through life without a single speed bump while she couldn’t seem to make it five feet without falling flat on her face. “Right now I just want you to get out of my kitchen.”

“This is ridiculous.” His face tightened with irritation. “You’re being irrational.”

“Get. Out. Of. My. Kitchen.”

“Fine.” He started toward the back door. “I’m going. But the offer still stands.”

She barely managed to keep from throwing things at him—the only thing stopping her the fact that the kitchen was already clean and tidy, everything put away.

Irrational!

As if anyone would be rational with the infallible Max Dewitt pointing out how easy it would be for him to succeed where she had failed. It was even worse because it was him—the man she’d admitted she had a crush on less than forty-eight hours earlier. As if this week could get any more demoralizing.

She didn’t even have anyone she could vent to about his overbearing jackassery.

She grabbed her mixer and thunked it on the counter before stalking into the pantry, gathering ingredients and smacking them down on her pristine counters with a little more force than strictly necessary. She’d planned to go home early—as soon as she closed—but there was nothing waiting for her there but her Netflix queue, so she set out to mess up her spotless kitchen instead.

Twenty minutes of baking therapy later, she was ready to admit that Max might not, in fact, be the Antichrist. That he may have just been trying to help and that she may have overreacted a tiny bit.

By the time she had a beautiful batch of cake pops ready for sale, she’d rolled through a dozen options as to why the idea of keeping the shop open and even expanding had freaked her out so much—and she kept coming back to the same conclusion.

One that didn’t sit particularly well.

She picked out five of the prettiest cake pops and bundled them in a little bouquet. She wrapped them in cellophane to protect them and put the rest in the pastry case, ready for the morning. By the time she had walked up to her place, collected her car, and driven out to Max’s she’d rehearsed in her head fifty times exactly what she was going to say to him. The flowery words of her apology. But when he opened the front door of his gorgeous mountain retreat and she thrust the cake pop bouquet at him, the first words out of her mouth weren’t what she’d planned at all.

“I don’t want to own a coffee shop anymore.”

* * * * *

Max blinked at the woman on his doorstep—the same women he’d been mentally, and sometimes verbally, swearing at for the last hour. He’d tried to help—without a single ulterior motive, thank you very much—and she’d thrown him out of her kitchen. What the hell kind of thank you was that? He’d been ready to ride to her rescue—and the damn irrational woman needed rescuing—and she’d spat in his face. Metaphorically speaking.

He’d been ready to continue their argument when he saw her car pull up out front. He’d stalked to the door, ready to whip it open and give her a piece of his mind as soon as she rang the bell—but the first words out of her mouth brought his tirade screeching to a halt before it even began.

He eyed the cake-pop bouquet at the end of her outstretched arm. “Okay…”

“I’m not sure I ever should have been a business-owner.”

He took the cake-pops from her before her arm muscles gave out. “Do you want to come in?”

She moved past him into the house, still lost in her epiphany. “What I really love is the baking. I was never cut out to own a business.”

“I don’t think that’s true. You’re smart. You made a few missteps, but if a few things had fallen your way you could have made it work even without my help.” He dropped the cake pops into a glass—an edible bouquet in a make-shift vase.

“I made emotional decisions. I think intellectually I knew they were bad when I was making them because I always felt like I had to justify them. I fell in love with the Main Street location—the warmth and kitsch of it—so I signed the lease even though the terms were poor and the rent was too high. I ignored the fact that our parking situation was a total clusterfuck because there was nothing I could do to make it easier for customers to get to me without moving to a new location and I’d committed to the lease. I figured if I just worked harder, it wouldn’t matter. I tried to get an exemption from the ordinance restricting our hours, but I could have fought harder. I’m not a hard ass. I’m a softy and everyone knows it. So I get screwed and tell myself it’ll be okay because I’ll work harder.”

“Drink?” He was already pouring them both scotch, but Parv didn’t seem to notice, even when he pressed it into her hand.

“The first time they raised the rent, I used it as an excuse to sell more baked goods. I brought in artists to sell their work on my walls for a small commission. I introduced new premium blends—but the freaking beans were so expensive our profit margins were pathetic. I brought in book club nights—when we weren’t necessarily ‘open’ but I could still sell products. And I never once felt like I could relax. Five years of stress, Max. The only place I felt like myself was in my stainless steel palace of a kitchen. Which was too big, really, for a coffee house, but I indulged because it was the only place I could breathe.”

She took a long swallow of her drink, but he knew she wasn’t done by the way she was still pacing the floor. He waited—and her rant resumed. “I hate payroll and hiring and firing. I’m a people person. I wanted to create Common Grounds as a gathering place. A Mecca. Someplace warm and comfortable where people come to be together or to be alone but they always feel like they can be themselves. It was a stupid dream—I can see that now—but that’s who I am. I’m acts of service. I want to do things for people. Create things for people. Which makes me the worst freaking small business owner on the planet.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I never wanted the business owner side of things, but I couldn’t get an expensive degree and then go to work for minimum wage icing cakes in a bakery. I had to make something of myself. And this was the only way I could think of to do that and still be me. But it wasn’t me. It was me trying to live up to my sisters and be good enough to make my parents proud. It was five years of me trying to be something I’m not.”

“I understand the pressure to live up to a family name,” Max said, his voice dry enough to catch Parvati’s attention.

She lifted her gaze to meet his, seeming to really see him for the first time since she’d come in, and sank down onto his living room sofa—a giant, overstuffed brown sectional that faced his giant screen TV and fireplace.

“I’m sorry,” she groaned. “I came here to apologize and instead I ranted at you again. I just feel so alone sometimes. I know you probably don’t get that. You’re an island. But you know what’s the one reason I wish I’d gotten married at nineteen like my sisters? So I would have a partner. Someone who would be in this with me so I wouldn’t have to feel so freaking alone. I know it’s anti-feminist to want someone to take care of me, but I do. It was different when we were the three musketeers, but now everything is different. Sidney doesn’t need me anymore—and she seems to have forgotten that I might still need her.”

He sat down at the other corner of the sectional—and her face suddenly contorted. “Oh God, please don’t tell Sidney I said that.”

“I won’t. Cone of Silence.”

She nodded, a shadow of a smile touching her lips as she sank deeper into his couch, the last of the tension she’d ridden through the door dissipating. “Can we just erase the last two hours? I’m sorry I was a basket case.” She toed off her flip flops and lifted her bare feet to the ottoman. “Why did you come to the shop? It can’t have been to listen to me have a nervous breakdown.”

“Honestly, I just wanted to see you.” He took a drink of his own scotch, enjoying the way the smoky flavor lingered on his palate. “I had a weird day too. My parents are getting divorced.”

“Sidney told me. How are you doing with it?”

He frowned. No one had asked him that. His parents both told him what they wanted him to feel. Sidney assumed he was okay with everything, since he didn’t let on that he wasn’t. And no one asked.

Another sip of scotch. “It’s…odd.”

Parvati offered softly, “I can’t imagine my parents apart.”

“It isn’t that. They were never a traditional couple. I think what’s bothering me about the whole thing is not the divorce, it’s that I can’t figure out why it’s happening. They both care more about business than anything else and they’re going through backflips to ensure that the dissolution of their personal relationship doesn’t impact either of their businesses—when they could just be staying together. Why go to the trouble?”

“Maybe they weren’t happy.”

“And after thirty-four years they finally decided to do something about it? No. It’s something else. I keep feeling like they’re keeping it from me. The real reason. And it’s making me paranoid. Today at the settlement meeting, my father’s lawyers had vague language about his present and future children and I got it into my head that he’s had a secret family living in Switzerland this entire time.”

“Seriously?”

“I know it’s ridiculous. I know that. But it made a weird kind of sense. If he was trying to be with his other family, it would explain why all this was happening.”

“Maybe it’s an emotional decision. Not everyone in the world is as driven by logic as you are.”

“My parents are.” It was the one thing about which he was one hundred percent certain.

Parv shifted her bare feet on the ottoman and her long, loose skirt slid up, revealing the edge of the tattoo on her inner left ankle that he’d noticed for the first time on Saturday, when she was dressed up for her parents’ party.

Max nodded to the ink, eager to change the subject. “When did you get that?”

She turned her ankle, drawing the hem of her skirt up to show off the design. It was a bird in flight, just a simple black graphic—and when she continued to pull her skirt toward her knee he realized it had two friends, winging up her calf. There was something free about the tattoo. Unfettered. And he wondered when was the last time Parv had felt unfettered.

“About two years ago,” she said—and for a second he thought she was answering his unspoken question, until he remembered what he’d asked. “One of my employees—Anna—was going in to get her sleeve filled in and she talked me into going with her. I knew as soon as I saw this design that I wanted it—but the tattoo artist told me to go home and come back in a week if I was still sure.”

“Sounds like he wasn’t much a salesman.”

“She thought it was better to have good word of mouth from happy customers than bad reviews from impulse shoppers. And I have recommended her to half a dozen other people, so obviously it was a good practice.”

Max frowned, a stray thought rearing in his mind. “Does Sidney have tattoos?”

“Would it bother you if she did?”

It would bother me that I didn’t know. “Of course not.”

“She doesn’t. Or at least she didn’t last time I talked to her. For all I know she and Josh decided to get celebratory tattoos after they moved in together.” She drained the rest of her scotch. “Don’t mind me, I’m just bitter.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“About my bitterness and envy? Who has the time?” Her joking tone faded quickly. “I feel like a terrible friend. Like I’m incapable of being happy for her because things are taking off for her right when they’re falling apart for me.”

“You aren’t a terrible friend. And this, whatever it is that’s going on with you two, is temporary. You’ve been friends since you were six. This is nothing.”

“It doesn’t feel like nothing. But I’m sure you’re right.”

“Of course I am. The great Max Dewitt is never wrong.”

She snorted. “Even when he’s referring to himself in the third person?”

“Especially then.” He stood, levering himself off the couch. “Come on. I skipped dinner and I’m betting you did too.”

* * * * *

He was right. She was more in the habit of grabbing a snack when she had five minutes of free time than anything else. “Regular mealtimes are overrated,” she argued, but she climbed off his couch and trailed him toward the kitchen, the hardwood floors smooth beneath her bare feet.

She’d been to Max’s house before, always for an event of some kind—a Super Bowl party, a Labor Day picnic, a Christmas mixer—and the events had always been catered. Which meant the kitchens were taken over by the catering companies and essentially off limits for the guests.

So for all the times she’d sprawled on the overstuffed sectional or admired the mountain views from the back deck, she’d never before clapped eyes on the sprawling chef’s kitchen.

She practically had a spontaneous orgasm on sight.

It was perfection. Vast expanses of cooking space. Double ovens—with a separate warming drawer. A professional grade cook top. And the refrigerator. Dear God, the refrigerator. It was large enough to hide the body of a WWE wrestler with room left over.

She could see the walk-in pantry through the open door—the poor thing only half full.

“You know, sometimes I hate you a little bit,” she commented as she ran a loving hand over the island, which was large enough to qualify as a continent. “It is an insult to this kitchen to be owned by a man who doesn’t cook.”

“I cook,” Max said defensively, opening the fridge and letting out a puff of cold air. “I’ve been told my French toast is an erotic experience.”

She groaned. “That’s your go-to morning-after breakfast, isn’t it? Let me give you a hint, honey. They weren’t talking about your cooking abilities. They were just trying to flatter you enough to get you to invite them to move in.”

“There isn’t enough flattery in the world for that.”

“Because you’re an island.”

He frowned. “I wish you’d stop saying that.”

She spread her arms on his continent, bending over to press her cheek to the marble. “I don’t blame your sleepover guests for wanting to stay. If I had this kitchen, I could cater out of it and die happy. I wouldn’t need to worry about owning a fancy pants coffee shop or driving myself slowly into debt.”

“I’d like to think my kitchen isn’t the only reason they want to stay.”

She looked up at him. There was a dangerous little quirk to the left side of his mouth. Dangerous because it was almost suggestive and invited her to think things she definitely should not be thinking. He was one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen with his dark hair, grey eyes, and muscular shoulders that made a girl wonder how it would feel to grab onto them when he was straining above her…or pinning her to a wall, because really muscles like those should be used for the greater good and she couldn’t imagine a greater good than pinning her to the nearest flat surface.

“You should do it.”

She blinked. What had they been talking about?

At her blank look, he explained, “Use my kitchen to cater out of. It is an insult that it doesn’t get more use.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Because there would be no way to repay that. She would owe him so big—and not just financially. And she’d be dependent on him. No. She couldn’t.

But part of her loved the idea. It was seductive. The thought that she might not have to worry about anything for a while. That she could take a break to find her feet. After everything was over with Common Grounds.

“You could pay me in baked goods,” Max suggested, pulling deli meats and mustard out of the fridge. “I’m always trying to seduce my mother’s chefs away from her and you’re better than all of them.”

She got distracted watching his hands, the strong capable fingers going through the motions of slapping together a couple sandwiches. Seduce away…

When he looked up, their eyes met and she almost thought she saw a flash of heat kindle in the grey. But this was Max. She forced herself to respond normally. “At baking, maybe. I’m not a chef.”

He shrugged, the heat falling away like a mirage of wishful thinking. “The offer stands.”

“You’re making me a lot of offers today.” And none of them were the kind of propositions she’d fantasized about. The kind his eyes had seemed to promise for that all-too-brief moment.

He met her eyes, his own expression serious. “You deserve better than what you’re getting.”

If only he’d meant that romantically. If only he’d wanted to show her what she really deserved.

But Parv was too worn down by dating realities to pin any hopes on if onlys. So she just smiled. “I’ll think about it.”