Chapter Three

There is no sincerer love than the love of food.

–George Bernard Shaw


Scarlett


One of the best parts of living in the city is taking the subway. Sure, I’ve seen a rat or two, and sometimes the ride is boring and uneventful—or delayed—but every now and then you get a random person dressed as Pikachu in your car. Except he’s sitting and taking up multiple seats so now I’m pole dancing next to a well-dressed businessman on one side and a very tall, very beautiful drag queen in red, who smiles and tells me I have a great dress, on the other.

I smile in thanks, the phone pressed to my ear preventing me from returning the compliment. The confidence boost is well timed as Granny screeches in my ear. “You’re going to one of those fancy city parties?” Every time I’m on the phone with Granny she yells because she doesn’t trust the technology to hear her. Also, I think she’s losing her hearing but is too proud to admit it.

“Yes, Granny.” I glance down at my outfit, a dark blue 1950s style sheath dress with kitten heels. “I’m wearing the lucky brooch you gave me.” I even took the time to put on lipstick. I haven’t worn this dress in a year. My normal uniform is a t-shirt and comfortable pants with a dirty apron.

“That brooch was the reason I married your grandpa, God rest his soul.”

“It was?” I don’t think I’ve heard this story. She always told me it belonged to her great Aunt Winifred and that Aunt Winnie was a black widow who murdered four of her five husbands.

“Yep. Aunt Winnie gave it to me because a voodoo priestess gave it to her to help her find love. That was right before her fifth husband.”

“The one that she didn’t murder?”

“That’s right. It’s a lucky brooch.”

“If you say so,” I murmur. Once upon a time, her words might have triggered a rush of hope, but not anymore. I’ve given up on love because it gave up on me a long time ago. Now I have cakes. And ten more pounds in my hips.

“What?” She shrieks and I pull the phone away from my ear a few inches.

“I said, if you say so,” I repeat loudly.

She’s silent for a second and then, “You sure you’re okay to go out tonight? You sound as tired as a sex worker on dime night.”

I snort out a laugh and the businessman shoots me a disgruntled glare and leans away.

“I’m only going for a little bit. It’s for charity.”

“Well, that’s alright then, I suppose. You deserve to have a good time. At least you aren’t working, I guess.”

I hold my tongue and don’t tell her about the order I’ll have to make when I get home later tonight. It won’t be my first late night baking session and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Sometimes if it’s a big one, Fred helps, but tonight I’m handling it myself. Most days I’m up at four, baking for the truck anyway.

“Tell me what’s going on with Reese.” I change the subject to something other than myself. “I can’t believe she’s living with two men. Do our parents know?” Not that they would care, but it feels like the right thing to say. Reese is only nineteen; while she’s legally an adult, she’s very naïve in a lot of ways and it worries me. It’s her second year in college and she’s never been a real social person, but she’s finally made some friends and even has a boyfriend, just outta nowhere.

Despite my relief that she’s making friends, I can’t help but worry. I had been encouraging her to put herself out there, and now I’m not there to ensure she’s making the right decisions. She is technically an adult though, so I have to trust that she knows what she’s doing or she’ll learn it herself.

“Your parents don’t know nothin’. But I’ve got it all handled. Don’t you worry, Scarlett. They’re good boys. They come over all the time to help me with my chorin’.”

What she really means is they help her with her moonshine. This isn’t making me feel better.

Who’s the worse influence? Granny or some college kids? It’s hard to say.

I still can’t believe Reese has an actual boyfriend—who is not one of the men she’s living with, apparently, thank heavens for that. It’s just that…everyone has someone, except me. I shove that thought far, far away and tug at the neckline of my dress.

“I can hear your fussin’ from here, Scarlett, and I’m gonna tell you it’s all okay. If you are so vexed, you can come on down and see for yourself.”

I bite my lip. “I’ll be down for a little bit at Christmas.” I managed to get a cheap seat on Christmas day. All my money has been sunk into the truck, and there’s hardly anything left.

“You know, your parents will be in the city there for an art show or something in a couple weeks. You should go.”

This is news. “They’ll be in New York?”

“Yep.”

“You’re sure?” I ask.

It shouldn’t sting that I’m just now hearing of this. I should be used to being ignored, but the surprise still hurts. They can’t be bothered to call? Not even their assistant could let me know?

“I got it written down here, they’ll be at the Harlem Underground. That’s in Harlem.”

“Got it, Granny. Are you sure they want me there?”

Why do I even bother asking when I know that they don’t?

“If they don’t then they’re damn fools. You know how they are. Your father is like your grandpa, God rest his soul, but he couldn’t find his own ass with two hands and a map.”

I smile. She’s not wrong. I didn’t know my grandpa much, but my parents….

They were always so absorbed with their art and with each other that they often forgot Reese and I existed. The abandonment from my parents led me into chasing love and affection like a hound after rabbits. And then instead of being fuzzy and cuddly, they were vicious mammals out for blood.

The train comes to a stop.

“I gotta run, Granny. Love you. Give my love to Reese. Tell her I’ll call her this weekend.”

“You got it my girl, have extra fun tonight. Get into trouble, or something. I think you’re due.”

“It’s only a charity dinner.” I step off the train and into the station, moving around people and glancing around the space for the exit.

“It’s like I always say, my dear, life is like beer and skittles. Sometimes it’s sweet, and sometimes it smells a little funky but it can still give you a buzz.”

I laugh. Granny is always tossing out random expressions that don’t make a lick of sense. A pang of homesickness slices through my chest. “Love you.”

“Damn, hottie!” Bethany squeals in my ear, her arms draping over me in a hug. “Can we be sister wives?”

I laugh. “Of course. I’ll break the bad news to Brent, later. This venue is amazing.” I glance around the space, my eyes trailing over the high ceilings, glowing chandeliers, and formally dressed attendees. Even the servers are wearing tuxedos, weaving through the crowd carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres.

The event is being held at The Pierre, a way fancy hotel on 5th Avenue overlooking Central Park. It’s like being in a movie. The walls are covered in intricate designs and wainscoting, lined with sconces placed strategically to add to the ambience of the space, the floors are sleek and shiny, and the tables have all been decorated with elegant white bouquet centerpieces.

She carefully extricates herself from around me; one of my mini cupcakes is in her hand and the frosting passes right before my eyes, almost scraping my nose.

“Thank you so much for bringing the cupcakes,” she says, holding it up. “The kids love them, but not as much as I do. I had to fight off three of them for this one.” She motions over to a table where a few of the kids are stuffing their faces, along with some adults. The kids are so cute in their little suits.

“Cake makes everyone happy,” I say.

“No joke. Come on, our table is over here near the front.”

“You did an amazing job with this event,” I tell her.

She waves it off. “I have a thousand people working for me. I just get to tell them what to do.”

Bethany moved to New York late last year and took over the lease on Gwen’s apartment while Gwen was traipsing all over the world taking pictures. She got a job at Crawford and Company as assistant to the CEO—Mr. Crawford himself—but took over a managerial position when he retired.

She grabs my arm and we move through the crowd but it’s slow going because we’re stopped every couple of feet. Bethany introduces me to each person, most of whom are employees from Crawford and Company. Some are football players that must have come because of Bethany’s man, Brent Crawford. He was the tight end of the New York Sharks until a medical condition took him off the field last year.

“Make sure you check out the art show outside, there are some interactive walk-in exhibits and a silent auction!” Bethany calls back to some quarterback as we meander our way through clusters of people.

“Walk-in art exhibit? I’ll have to check it out.”

“It’s interesting,” Bethany says.

I smile at her, but then over her shoulder, a familiar figure in the crowd makes me do a double take.

“Bethany.” I grip her arm.

She looks down at my hand squeezing her bicep. “Is there a good reason you’re going all anaconda on me right now?”

“Why is Guy Chapman here?”

She follows my gaze and then nods. “Oh, yeah, him? One of his places did the dinner service. Why do you think we were able to charge $500 a plate? He’s like a big deal or whatever. Do you know him?”

“You could say that.” My stomach clenches. I can’t seem to get away from him. What if he sees me?

Her eyes brighten. “Let’s go talk to him.”

“No!”

Her brows lift at my sudden vehemence and then she grins. “There’s a story here and I have to know it. Tell me everything.”

“I can’t. I can’t be around him. I lose all control and then bad things happen.”

Her eyes widen and I immediately regret the mouth slip. Bethany is stubborn and determined and will torture the truth out of me. “I’m intrigued.” Her arm tightens on mine. “What happened?”

“Nothing important. I mean, I have to pee. Be right back.”

I push at her to unlock my arm from her death grip and do what I’m good at—run away.

“You’re such a liar!” she calls after me. “I know where you live, Scarlett!”

I keep going, too chicken to turn around and see if Guy heard her or noticed my abrupt departure and the subsequent yelling.

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he won’t make the connection; I’m sure there’s more than one Scarlett in New York City. Unless he’s noticed the cupcakes…. Gosh darn it, my business cards are all over that table. If he sees me, I’m sunk.

I need to hide until dinner. By then everyone will be sitting and he won’t catch sight of me and I’ll survive another day. Dramatic, much? Maybe.

I escape out the first side door I come across. It opens into a wide hallway with cream walls speckled with prints and photographs of various sizes. Free standing sculptures dot the open space.

There’s a table set up to the side with silent auction boxes. A few people linger at the tables, filling out their bid sheets.

“We’ll be starting the speeches in twenty minutes,” the attendant by the door tells me. “At which time we won’t be allowing people back in to avoid interruptions.”

“Right. Got it. Thank you.” I smile.

There are about a dozen people walking around inspecting the pieces. It’s a lot quieter and less crowded than the ballroom.

I take a few deep breaths and wander through the hall, stopping to inspect some of the artwork. Some of them are Gwen’s photographs from her travels. Seeing them makes me miss her. I wish she could be here. I gaze at one of her pieces of a young child draped in colorful beads smiling at the camera, eyes gleaming with excitement. There’s another photograph of woven baskets. Then next to that, an amazing shot of a group of people dancing, their robes swirling and the colors making it appear almost like they’re in motion.

Down a side hall, I find the walk-in installation Bethany was talking about, literally a giant black box with an open doorway.

It’s like a free-standing room, ten by ten and at least seven feet tall. The outside is painted midnight black, but the entrance is curved, and the interior walls are bright white and sparkling with a swirly pattern.

I make my way inside. The open top provides the only illumination. The free-standing room is split into two sections by a low set wall. Set on top of the waist high divider are viewfinders. Behind the barrier is an empty, open space covered in the same swirled texture of the rest of the walls, a concave gap of sparkly curves. I approach the closest viewing box and bend over to peek inside.

There’s a button to push that turns on a light bulb. I push it, half expecting something deep and poetic, but it’s a hot dog. With only mustard. Who eats hot dogs like that? And why is there a hot dog at all?

The next viewfinder has a big toe made of some kind of Play-Doh material.

That’s weird. And a little creepy.

I pull away to move onto the next one, but my progress is halted by a tug on my dress. It’s my brooch, must be caught on the wall material. I give it a tug but it’s stuck good to one of the swirly patterns that’s giving the walls that shiny appearance. I feel carefully around the brooch where it’s latched, not wanting to rip my dress.

The pretty swirly pattern is jagged and pointed and sharper than it appears. The filigree on my brooch is caught around a sharp edge. I tug harder, twisting in one direction and then the other.

It’s still stuck.

Sweat beads on the back of my neck. I can’t get up. I’m stuck here, bent over and awkward. I really hope no one walks in, but at the same time, I’m not sure I can escape this on my own.

With a burst of panic, I give it a hard yank and turn and my brooch breaks free—from the wall and my dress—and goes flying up, shimmering mid-air in front of me for a brief second before plummeting to the floor on the other side of the short partition wall.

I let out a breath, thankful to be free, except…. I finger the bodice of my dress, locating a tear. But maybe I can retrieve my brooch and use it to cover up the dress. Pull it together at any rate.

I lean, stretching over the short wall. Of course, it fell against the opposite wall, as far away as possible. I reach for it in the low light, but I’m too short.

Stretching further, I fumble, feet leaving the ground.

Finally, finally, my fingers wrap around the brooch and I slide back only to yelp when I get halted again. This time, it’s my hair.

Oh no. My fancy up-do is caught on something. I think it’s the opposite wall.

I reach my free hand up to figure out where my hair got caught. Carefully, I try to extricate the strands, pulling back every few seconds to check if the grip has loosened, but the pressure doesn’t change, and I can’t tell if I’m making it better or worse.

Hesitantly, I attempt to lean back further and am immediately caught up. Now even a slight tug hurts.

Worse. I’ve made it worse.

“I’m really in a pickle, now,” I mutter to myself. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“I’m not sure if that’s the proper way to view this particular piece of art,” a masculine voice says behind me.

Mortification threads its way through the relief pounding inside me. “I’m afraid I’ve got myself a little stuck . . .” With one hand, I wave in the direction of my head.

My rescuer moves to my side. I can’t see much of him—my vision is blocked by red tendrils that loosened in my struggles—but I can see he’s wearing a tux. Gentle tugs pluck at my hair.

“How did you even manage this?” The voice is rough and deep but flavored with a hint of humor, and additional heat fills my already hot face.

“I have a knack for finding myself in strange and embarrassing situations. It’s a real gift.”

His hands still for a moment. “Stranger than getting your hair caught in an interactive art exhibit?”

“Oh, yes. One time, in high school, my shirt got stuck in Jeffrey Potter’s braces, in the middle of a school play. Oh, and there was the time after one of my first job interviews, I got up, shook everyone’s hand and then walked into a coat closet.”

He leans over me a bit more, his chest pressing into my shoulder is shaking with what I think is laughter, but I don’t hear any chuckles coming from his mouth. Odd.

“How did your shirt get caught in someone’s braces? I’ve almost got you out now,” he says. The rumble of his chest against my shoulder sends a strange tingle through me but that might be the blood rushing to my head. Also, I haven’t been this close to a man in way too long and he smells way too good. And familiar, somehow.

“It was a combination of too much flailing with a loose shirt and Jeffrey Potter being a mouth breather.” I focus on his wrists and fingers. They’re nice. Strong and sensitive. He has small scars on the one thumb I can focus on. Before I can ogle his hands anymore, a final tug frees my hair and I stand up and turn to thank my rescuer.

All the heat in my face rushes from my head to my feet and—oh, no.

My kind and thoughtful rescuer is him.

Guy Chapman.

Panic slides through me like water through a sieve.

He’s found me. I try to swallow past the lump in my throat and promptly start coughing and choking on my own spit.

He claps me on the back. “Are you okay?”

I struggle to retain control and get the liquid out of my windpipe without coughing spittle in his face but the area is confined and there are not many ways I can turn.

Heat suffuses my neck and face. I’m a human heat lamp and my eyes are a messy watering pot.

Oh God, I’m going to die here next to my sworn enemy and all the paramedics will see my runny mascara face and mottled complexion. And I’m wearing my laundry panties.

His presence hovers next to me like a specter or other menace, like maybe a demon. He’s going to do something to speed my death along, I’m sure of it. That way I won’t be parking my pathetic truck near his fancy restaurant.

But he doesn’t try to kill me. He doesn’t harass me about my truck.

Instead he continues to pat me on the back gently and asks again, “You alright?”

Not exactly a demonic phrase, in and of itself.

I nod, wiping my eyes a finger to avoid smudging my mascara too roughly, and clear my throat a couple of times for good measure. “Fine, fine. Just, uh, swallowed wrong.”

I keep my gaze focused down, surreptitiously cleaning up my face and avoiding direct contact.

My heart thumps a dull beat in my chest. My body is tensed for fight or flight.

After a few quiet seconds that last a lifetime, I can’t help but peek.

I lift my chin, tense but determined. I’m not doing anything wrong. I will fight him. Or grovel and beg for mercy. One of those.

Our eyes meet, mine likely wide and terrified in my skull.

Hazily, I recognize the brightness of his gaze. It’s been so long since we’ve been this close, I had forgotten about his eyes. They’re green—not a normal, hazel green but a bright, vibrant, impossible green. Blade of grass green that is generally accompanied by an intimidating glare. But he’s not scowling like I expected. His gaze is steady, but tired. Worn around the edges like an old pair of gloves. The rest of him is as put together as ever, except for the slight scruff on his jaw.

I expect his expression to phase into something unpleasant once he realizes who I am, but it doesn’t happen.

There’s no flicker of recognition. No shocked gasp. No, “It’s you! Evil spawn of Satan cupcake confectioner!”

Just the weary gaze and very slight upward twist to his lips.

In a burst of shock, the truth showers over me like expired rainbow sprinkles.

He doesn’t know who I am. How is this possible?

It’s true that he hasn’t actually seen me in a year—at least not up close—as a result of my excellent ninja skills. But still.

How do you forget someone who set you on fire? I mean, literally. I set him on fire. Was it that forgettable?

What the heckerino do I do now?