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After he left the restaurant, Blake drove his pickup to the old shoe factory that was now home to a variety of artists, artisans, and small businesses like his. Located at the end of downtown, alongside the river where barges once moved merchandise to market, the enormous brick structure had been in sad shape ten years ago when he and his brother, Jordan, bought it at auction. They gradually renovated the space and retrofitted it with modern technology, transforming it into a thriving hive of activity.
He parked in front of Blake’s Ice Cream, located in the center of the busy loading dock. Tractor trailers were lined up on both sides to receive merchandise and deliver supplies, while workers stacked cartons on hand trucks and rolled them to and fro. Blake stepped out of his truck and surveyed the façade, always on the lookout for something else that might need fixing.
The ground floor housed a coffee roaster, a commercial bakery, a fresh salsa company, and a brewpub with a bottling operation. Blake and Jordan had worked hard to recruit the ideal tenants, and these specialty food companies were among the fastest-growing local businesses. They all profited from shared resources like administrative services, bookkeeping, sales reps, and consolidated shipping, which had allowed them to save money and work smarter. Grateful to his sharp, savvy younger brother for suggesting the incubator model, Blake thought it was a brilliant concept. It had given Blake’s ice cream business a huge boost while ensuring a steady rental income for their partnership as landlords. Since Jordan headed the in-house sales team, representing all five companies, it was a profitable arrangement for everyone.
His brother’s shiny black BMW spun into the driveway and pulled up next to Blake’s dusty pickup. Jordan climbed out of the elegant car, slinging a messenger bag over his shoulder. He was neatly dressed for work, in gray slacks and a crisp blue dress shirt and tie. Tall, like his brother and father, he sported a stylish haircut and immaculately polished Italian leather shoes.
“Bro-ther!” Jordan flipped his sunglasses to the top of his head, reached out, and clasped Blake’s hand in the series of arcane motions that had been their greeting ritual since they were kids. “What’s up, man?”
“Not much,” Blake said as they climbed the metal stairs to the loading dock and headed for the office doorway to the left of the freight entrance. He wished he could say he’d made a date with Sarah and frowned. “Emile Dumas collapsed of a probable heart attack in front of me today. Ambulance took him away.”
Jordan whistled, low and slow, as they went inside. “Whoa, that’s intense. Did the ladies freak out?”
“Those two are pretty cool in a crisis.” Blake grabbed the pile of mail from the “In” basket on the shelf near the door. “Seemed like he was probably going to be okay, but they’ll be shorthanded for a while.”
Jordan put his bag on the tidy side of the big oak partners’ desk in the middle of the sunny room lit by two huge windows in the brick exterior walls. “Everything on target for the chocolate wedding?” He loosened his tie and sat in his ergodynamic chrome-and-leather chair, which resembled a high-tech grasshopper.
“So far, I guess. We didn’t have a chance to talk about it.” Blake tossed the mail on the messy side of the desk, where a pile of bills and correspondence lay jumbled. He toed off his shoes and sat down, rolling up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt a little higher. “I’ll call Sarah later to find out how Emile’s doing. But it’s probably too late for them to cancel without paying a penalty.”
Jordan leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, his face serious. Shiny gold cuff links at his wrists flashed in the sunlight. “Did you order the mini-containers yet? If so, can we put them on hold?”
Blake preferred a sturdy, old-fashioned swiveling armchair that matched the desk. He swung it around and propped his feet on the side table. “I was planning to confirm with Sarah today,” he said. “We’ll wait and see before we order. Did you schedule the tastings at Hannaford’s for next week?”
They started to talk about in-store promotions and were soon embroiled in a debate over what day and time were best for sampling each of the various products the incubator produced. A few minutes later, the door from the hallway opened, and their baby sister, Carrie, now twenty-one and much too hot for her own good, walked in with Blake’s brown Lab, Kahlua, on a leash.
Blake looked behind him, realizing that the dog was gone from the corner bed where he’d been napping earlier. Not that it was unusual. Kahlua had a lot of friends in the building who welcomed his visits. The dog got around, especially when treats were on hand.
“I had him upstairs with us in Bookkeeping,” Carrie said, anticipating Blake’s question. “But those spreadsheets were driving me absolutely bonkers, so I took him for a walk along the river.” She snapped the dog’s leash off his collar, and he trotted over to Blake for a neck rub, his tail swinging lazily. “Can’t you guys think of anything else for me to do? I’m not a data entry person, you know. I could be doing serious damage to everyone’s records.”
Jordan grinned and wagged his finger at her. “You’d better be careful, missy. Cooking the books is a serious offense.”
She stuck her tongue out at him and rolled her eyes. “Jordie, I’d even do demos, if you’ll let me. Anything to earn enough for school,” she begged. “Mom promised you two would find me work.” Carrie tossed her long auburn hair over her shoulder and hitched her hands in her jeans pockets, her green eyes flashing. She was the spitting image of their dad in female form, and Blake noticed it again when she spun around to wheedle him. “And how about you, big brother? I’d think someone in your business could find a little summer job for a hospitality management major like me, just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
Blake thought of Sarah and her situation. Maybe she could use an extra hand with Emile out and a big event coming up. “I might know of something. Waitress or hostess. Interested?”
Carrie leapt forward and smothered him with a hug. “Oh yeah! Where?”
“Sarah and Paisley’s place. Maybe. I can ask.”
She flapped her hands up and down, her eyes beaming and a big white smile on her face. “The chocolate restaurant? Ohmigod, what heaven! You’re not kidding, are you? Tell me you’re not. It would be too cruel.” She clenched her hands together, begging.
“I can ask, I said. We’ll see.” He told her what had happened to Emile.
She seemed encouraged and agreed to struggle along, entering information on the computer, until he had a chance to speak to Sarah. Carrie left to go upstairs, Kahlua settled down onto his bed with a sigh and a groan, and Jordan started making phone calls to customers.
Blake sat at his desk, a mountain of paperwork in front of him, and stared off into space. He couldn’t help himself.
In his mind’s eye, he replayed the moment Sarah had walked away from him that morning. Her shiny caramel-colored hair fell down her back in loose waves, clinging to her curves like hot butterscotch on a scoop of vanilla. Her waist nipped in just the right amount above rounded hips and a beautiful derriere. Her long, slim legs went on forever. And that sway when she moved, as graceful as a ballet dancer.
His body began to respond, and he shook himself alert, clearing his throat and grabbing the brass blade he used to open envelopes. He leaned forward and dug into the pile of mail, reading it carefully, making notes, and sorting it into the baskets on his desk. He worked steadily for the next hour.
All the while, he was thinking about something else entirely.