I’m not sure what stuns me more—that I had the guts to scribble my phone number on that note to Mark, or that he actually dialed it.
He’s silent on the other end of the line, but I can hear him breathing. Can picture him sitting on a sofa with his big arms spread across the back and a plate of cupcakes on his knee.
“Mark,” I say when I find my voice. “It’s great to hear from you. Did you like the caramelized pineapple?”
“I’m eating it now.” His voice is a low rumble, and I swear this is my equivalent of phone sex. Sitting here, knowing a man I’m hot for is devouring something I baked.
“And?” I hate how breathless I sound, how needy. This isn’t like me.
“It’s great. I didn’t expect that.”
“To like my cupcakes?” I’m not flirting, I swear. Just looking for honest feedback.
“Caramel and pineapple,” he says. “I wouldn’t put those things together, but it’s good.”
I curl my feet up under me on the sofa, grateful Libby has already turned in for the night. In a few months when she’s seven, she’ll probably start pushing back on the eight-thirty bedtime. For now, it’s a blessed relief to have some quiet time to myself at the end of a long day.
“I love playing with unique flavor combinations,” I tell him. “Things you wouldn’t think go together sometimes do.”
He’s silent for a long time, and I wonder if I pushed my luck. If he heard that as a come-on, or if I’m blathering on with stuff his famous chef brother has already told him.
When he speaks, his voice is low and rich as molasses. “Like chocolate and peanut butter.”
“Sure, or you know what’s even better?”
“What?”
“Chocolate and sesame.” I’m being a food geek, but I don’t care. I could talk about this stuff all night. I snuggle back on my couch, wondering what it’s like to cuddle with a guy as big as Mark. Would that beard tickle the back of my neck? Would arms that size feel comforting wrapped around my middle, or like a pair of anacondas poised to crush the life out of me?
Something tells me it’s the former.
Food. Right, we’re talking about food. “Sesame has a more complex, savory flavor than peanut,” I tell him. “Mixing it with chocolate is decadent, especially if you throw in a little Himalayan pink sea salt.”
“Wow. That’s—you’re getting me all worked up.”
Oh, Jesus.
He didn’t mean that in a sexy way, he didn’t.
But my body responds like he’s whispering dirty words in my ear. I keep going, hungry for more of that same response.
“You know what else is great with chocolate?”
“What?”
I lick my lips, part of me wanting to blurt out a desire to drizzle it on my breasts and have him lick it off.
Down, girl.
“Avocado,” I tell him. “It adds this creamy, silky texture, and this amazing richness. I do a mousse sometimes that’s great on my red velvet cake.”
“God.”
I’m not imagining it. He sounds as turned on as I feel. I keep going, totally in my element. “Spice is good, too,” I tell him. “With chocolate. I do a raspberry jalapeno cupcake with bittersweet chocolate that’s really popular around the holidays, and a flourless chocolate cayenne cake that’s to-die-for with—”
“Stop. Chelsea, you’re killing me.”
His protest is gruff and breathless, and I look down to discover my fingertips skimming my nipple through the thin cami top I’m wearing. I draw my hand back fast, thankful my daughter is a sound sleeper. What the hell am I doing?
I clear my throat and try to think of something non-food porny to talk about. “So you’re the handyman.” I glance down at my hand grazing the junction of my thighs and shift it to my knee fast. “At the resort,” I clarify. “And with my door. Thanks again for—”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve always been good at fixing stuff.”
I wait, wondering if he’ll say more. Tell me about building things with his dad or splitting wood for his sister. When the silence stretches for more than a few heartbeats, I hustle to fill it.
“Did you learn that from your dad, or—”
“Yeah.”
One syllable. I can’t even tell from the tone if it’s a happy one or bittersweet. His father died a couple years ago, and though I never met him, his financial status was legendary. “I’m sorry he passed,” I murmur. “He must have been a great guy.”
“Sometimes.”
Another one-word answer. Another long stretch of me waiting to hear if there’s more or if that’s pretty much it.
Mark clears his throat, and I grip the phone tighter. “Kinda weird for a wealthy guy with mansions all over the world to be handy with tools,” he says. “But he was.”
There’s definite nostalgia in his voice, and I suspect I’ve just gotten a rare glimpse into the inner workings of Mark Bracelyn. I hold my breath, waiting for more.
I wait a long time.
Finally, I can’t take the silence. “Bree says you built most of the cabins at the resort,” I say. “You and your cousin, Brandon.”
“We all did,” he says gruffly, not clarifying who “we” might be, but clearly not loving the spotlight shining too brightly on him as a solo act. “Sean and James and I did the tables in the restaurant.”
“Sean is the chef and James is the—”
“Boss man. Lawyer. Yep.”
“Wow.” I’m even more impressed than I was a few minutes ago. I’ve seen those tables, and assumed they came from some overpriced boutique. “You’re talented.”
“Thanks.”
I want to ask more. About his dad and his mom and his childhood and how he ended up becoming the guy he is now.
But something tells me not to push. Mark Bracelyn’s like a soufflé. Rush it or jack up the temperature or bang the pan too hard and the whole thing collapses. But if you’re patient and gentle and—
“How about you?” he asks.
“Me?”
“How’d you learn to bake?”
“Oh. My grandmother. She owned a bakery in Portland. A famous one, near the Pearl District.”
“Portland,” he says. “My mom’s got a place there.”
“Do you visit much?”
“As often as I can.”
“So, you’re close.”
“Yes.” One word, crisp and cautious, is enough to tell me I’m treading closer to something he doesn’t want to discuss.
But he surprises me. “My mom’s the best,” he says. “Not perfect—not by a fucking long shot—but kind and smart and funny and doesn’t take shit from anyone. Anyone. She’s the best person I know.”
Wow.
I have trouble finding my voice. “You know, it’s every mother’s dream to have a kid who talks about her like that,” I say. “I hope my daughter does that with me someday.”
“What’s her name?”
“Libby. Short for Elizabeth, but she’s really more of a Libby.”
“Libby,” he repeats, and there’s something unbearably sweet about hearing my daughter’s name spoken in Mark’s gruff voice. “That’s pretty.”
“Thank you. She’s named after—”
Bing-bong.
“Dammit.” I scramble off the couch, hoping whoever the hell is ringing the bell at this hour doesn’t wake Lib. “Hang on a sec.”
“You expecting company?”
“No.” I peer through the window beside the door, but there’s no one out there. I flip on the light and scan the sidewalk. No one. “It’s been happening a lot. Just neighborhood kids playing ding-dong-ditch, I guess.”
“Huh.” Mark’s quiet for a second. “You keep your doors locked?”
“Um, mostly?” I laugh, but it’s an uneasy laugh. “I should probably be better about it. I grew up here when there were like thirty-thousand people, and no one ever locked their doors. It’s a hard habit to get into now that the population’s tripled.”
He doesn’t say anything right away, and I feel dumb. “I’ll do better,” I tell him.
“I want you to stay safe.” There’s something soft and comforting in his voice, and I’m not sure we’re talking about my security habits.
“I am,” I assure him. “I’m a big girl, Mark. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
He gives a muffled grunt, and I flip the lock on my front door and throw the deadbolt. “I should probably go.”
I don’t want to. I want to stay up all night talking with Mark about cupcakes and food porn and families.
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably smart.”
But neither of us hangs up, which probably proves my mother was right about me having the world’s worst judgment.
Right now, I don’t care. Right now, I want to snuggle back on the couch and tell Mark a bedtime story about Grandma’s monster cookies and the red vinyl stool she’d let me stand on to stir the mixing bowls.
And so I do.