Page 36 of Hopeless Romantic
“I remember my school ski trip. It was the highlight of junior year for your dad and me.” Levi grimaced even as he said it, because—Red light. Red light. Red light—he knew exactly what had made it so memorable.
Senior ski bunnies. He and Emmitt had individually conquered several slopes that year. And that was before this swipe-right generation that considered third base casual dating.
“You might want to slowly start applying the brake—”
“Not everyone is going, so it won’t be like I’m the only junior staying behind,” she said. “Not that I’d go to school that week. I was thinking of using it as extra prep time for the SATs—”
“—The brake is the pedal on the left.”
“Or maybe I should hang out with Daddy more. He still gets lonely missing Mom, and how can I go on a trip and pretend to have fun when I know he’ll be back at the resort thinking about how Mom was supposed to chaperone, not him? And Mom was going to teach me how to ski, but now she’s dead and can’t. . . .”
Levi was torn between yanking her into his arms and yanking the parking brake when Paisley finally decided she’d stop for the light. Inches from the car in front, she found the correct pedal and pushed it down with enough force that he could have sworn his back two truck tires momentarily came off the ground.
Oblivious to how close they’d come to colliding, Paisley spun on him. Angrily wiping at her tears, she snapped, “So no, under no circumstances will I ever go on that trip. Stop asking me!”
Chapter 8
“At least it’s better than being stood up at the altar,” Cecilia, the owner of Holy Cannoli, whispered in Beckett’s ear.
“I’m just early,” Beckett explained, regretting her decision to leave Gregory home.
Her last client of the day had been a no-show, which placed Beckett at the bakery with an hour to spare—and no one to talk to.
Unwilling to commit to a dinner date, and unable to find an hour of free time, Beckett had agreed to meet Levi for coffee and a cake tasting.
He claimed the male perspective needed to be represented—she was sure it was an excuse to micromanage. Today’s goal was to prove she was handling shit. That’s why she’d chosen a location that would show how boring and girly planning a wedding could be. And while a cake tasting wasn’t the worst way a guy could spend his afternoon, looking through the cake designer’s three-hundred-page portfolio was a bit more involved than ordering outdoor heaters.
Beckett glanced out the window at the slick road and passing cars, still wet from an earlier shower. She hadn’t fared much better. On her way to the café, she’d been caught in the drizzle, and her jeans were damp and her hair frizzy—the exact wrong look when trying to appear put-together.
“Or is he late?” Cecilia said. “Seven husbands, I know the signs.”
“Just looking for a refill, not advice.”
“I know I may not look like much now, but at one time, men came from all around to be waited on by me. Even asked me to pose. Not just photos, either; real artists. Painters. Some of the greats.”
“I thought da Vinci was rumored to be gay.” When Cecilia turned to walk away, Beckett lifted her cup. “The refill?”
The woman glanced at one of the three dozen clocks lining the wall, all rimmed with antiqued brass and all set to Vatican City time. Her crop of red hair, a shade that didn’t appear in nature, shook with judgment. “Maybe you should wait to see if the cake tasting is a go.”
Time seemed to pass at sloth speed. While Levi wasn’t technically late for their cake tasting appointment, Cecilia’s puckered lips implied that Beckett was entering the groom-having-second-thoughts territory.
Not that Levi was the groom. This meeting was for two professionals to select a cake for their joint client. The jitters in her belly were in anticipation of cake before dinner. Nothing more.
“It’s a go,” she said, holding up her mug for another refill. Cecilia didn’t look so convinced. “Really, my client should be here any minute.”
Cecilia sucked on her teeth. “That’s a lot of mascara for a client.”
“That’s a lot of coffee for just two customers.” There was only one other person in the café.
“The place is empty because my soap is on. Everyone knows not to interrupt my soaps.”
“Your posted hours should reflect that.”
“New policy, starting now.” The older woman dug a pudgy hand into her rotund hip. “Bottomless coffee and free internet starts when the cake tasting begins. So order up or sip slowly.”
She lifted the pot, but before the first drop hit the bottom of the oversized mug, Beckett’s cell rang.
“Do you still want a refill?” Cecilia asked, as if it were a foregone conclusion that Beckett had been stood up.
