Accidental Romeo: A Marriage Mistake Romance Page 2

  I brace myself, ready for the blame, for this whole incident to be thrown back in my face.

  “Thought you said the skateboard got the worst of it,” he says, walking around the front of the van.

  I follow, cautiously, realizing I haven’t paid any attention to the van.

  “That no parking sign took out your mirror and smashed the passenger door.”

  I follow his gaze, seeing exactly what he's pointing to. Then I gasp.

  The mirror's left hanging by wires, and the door is dented, still up against the sign, just like he said.

  “Have you called the cops yet?” he asks. “Or your insurance company?”

  “No, I hadn't realized how bad it was,” I say sheepishly, sizing up the damage. “I mean...it's not worth the hassle of a police report and the van isn’t worth the deductible. We only use this thing locally for deliveries.”

  Wait. Something about that word shakes my brain alive again. “Deliveries!”

  I scamper around the front of the van, to the driver’s door, then rip it open. “Damn it!”

  It's worse than I even feared. The cake box slid off the seat and hit the floor when I hit the curb.

  I climb in frantically, reaching down, grabbing at the mess. My stomach drops. The beautifully packaged cake is now a misshapen mass of frosting.

  “I take it you were in a hurry?”

  “Yeah.” Fat lot of good it did me. I grab my cell phone and flip open the case to check the time. Less than two hours. Not nearly enough time to bake another cake.

  “Where was the cake going?”

  “A retirement party.” I glance at the mangled mess in the box. It’s clearly beyond repair.

  I so don’t need this. Not today. Not now.

  “Where? Whose party?”

  I stumble back out of the van. “Why does it matter? What is this? Fifty questions?” Frustrated, I shake my head. But I shouldn't take this out on him. “Just up the road. Byron Paumer, head of Paumer Architecture. He’s officially turning the business over to his son, Blake, at five o’clock today. Which means I don’t have time to bake a replacement.”

  Five o’clock.

  The cake was supposed to be the last thing served, the big finish. My brows inch together so hard it hurts. Think, Wendy. Think!

  Okay. No time to bake a fresh one. But I could use the other still sitting in the fridge I baked this morning for that little girl’s birthday party. It's almost the right size, the same flavor, sans the unicorn shape it's supposed to have. And for the girl, there's time to bake another tonight. Just enough time to chill it before I can shape it tomorrow morning.

  This could work. If I run.

  Grabbing the steering wheel, I plant a foot on the van’s running board to climb in, but Papa Bear grabs my other arm. It's so swift, so smooth, the air leaves my lungs.

  “Hold up,” he growls. “What’s the address? And what size cake is that?”

  His grip on my arm is brazen, but gentle as he tugs me backward. Just far enough so I have to step off the running board. I'm not sure whether he's annoying or irresistible.

  One thing's for sure: if I want to fix this cluster-frack, I need to get moving.

  “The size you don't need to worry about,” I say, tugging my arm free. “Look, sorry, I have to go.”

  “No.” A single stern word, and I'm frozen.

  Then he has his phone up to his ear, looking around me to see the cake box. Stubborn bastard.

  “I’m ordering you another cake. I’ll have it baked and delivered at my expense.”

  He'll...what?!

  “Whoa, dude, it’s not that easy,” I say.

  Idiot. Kind hearted, possibly crazy idiot. Doesn't he get it?

  No one in this town just has an extra sheet cake sitting around, unless it’s the bakery at a box store, where they just pipe on some cheap pre-made frosting and call it a day. You get what you pay for in this business. Their cakes can be up to a week old, and totally unacceptable for a man retiring from decades of hard work.

  He's glaring, those blue eyes shining dangerously in slits. My sassy courage goes cold.

  “Yeah, darling, you're wrong. It is that easy. I know the owner of Top Notch.”

  The very name makes my cheeks burn.

  Of course he’d know the owner of the most elite and expensive caterer in the Twin Cities. Which magically pisses me off in ways I’ve never felt before.

  Ugh, I'm ending this. I grab the phone away, angrily pulling it away from his ear.

  The phone barely moves. Yanking at his arm with all my might is like a mouse trying to move a mountain.

  “Don't! If the Paumers wanted a cake from Top Notch, they’d have ordered one from them. They didn’t because they know my cakes are edible.”

  Okay, too far. Top Notch’s cakes are more than edible, too. Damn good, as a matter of fact, but that’s hardly the point. I climb in the van. “I’m leaving now, so I can go back to my shop, decorate another cake and deliver it before the party is over. Do me a favor and let's all forget this ever happened.”

  “Maybe, but then I'd have to forget five minutes ago, when you told me you didn't have time to bake up a fresh cake.”

  Oh, he's a smart one. A natural smartass.

  With too much money. Too many good looks. Probably thinks that’s all he has to do, throw a bit of his charm around and everything will be fine.

  While I'm still contemplating how he's got me stuck in my tracks, he’s busy talking on the phone to someone and grabbing my arm, preventing me from shutting the door.

  When I hear him say Byron Paumer's name, the look I shoot him changes from what the hell's happening to what the hell are you doing?

  “They can have a cake there by five,” he says, turning his face away from the phone.

  “So can I.” I say it loud enough so whoever's on the phone can hear. “The cake they want, baked by Wendy at Moonlight Morning, so you'd better go ahead and cancel that one. It's not a big enough party for two cakes.”

  He says something else I can't quite make out, and then pauses, giving me this quiet, bearish look. At least he knows how insufferable I can be when I'm mad.

  “I see,” he says coldly back into the phone. “All right. Fine. Cancel it.”

  Pulling the phone away from his ear, he shrugs. “I was just trying to make this right. Can't figure out why that's such a problem.”

  His demeanor is sullen, like he’s at a loss, which is almost sweet in an odd way.

  Meanwhile, I'm perfectly disgusted with my own thoughts. I don’t have time to contemplate whether or not a perfect stranger's being sweet. “Listen, I don’t need you to make this right. But if you insist, the one thing you can do, is move your rig so I can back up.”

  I turn the key in my ignition, so, so ready to be done.

  But nothing happens.

  So I try again. And again. And then one more time, twisting my wrist so hard it hurts.

  “Here, let me try,” he says, grabbing my arm again.

  I should tell him to keep his hands to himself, but I don’t have time for that either. This is officially ridiculous.

  I need to get back to my shop, get the other cake decorated.

  I need it so bad I'm actually going to shut up and let him do what he suggested.

  So I grab my cell phone before climbing out of the van, then swipe through recent calls for Heather’s number while he climbs into the driver’s seat.

  Heather answers on the first ring.

  “Heather, it’s Wendy. Bad news. I was in a car accident while delivering the cake –”

  I have to stop talking while she asks if I’m okay, what happened, followed by a dozen other questions. Heather always talks a mile a minute, and she's doing it again, without stopping long enough for me to get a word in.

  I glance toward the luxury rig, where Ben sits in the passenger seat, looking like someone just killed his dog.

  Sighing, I walk toward the SUV, letting motor-mouth Heather get the
last hundred words in.

  “I’m fine, really,” I say, when she finally takes a breath. “Yes, I've got another cake I plan on decorating. I'll have it there by five thirty at the latest. Promise.”

  Clicking off before she can fire another string of questions, I arrive at the driver’s door of the SUV, where the window is already cracked. I’m sure Ben rolled it down, so he could hear if I’d mentioned the stolen game or not.

  “I haven’t said a word,” I tell him. “And won’t, as long as that disk gets returned with an apology.”

  For a second, he stares at me like a deer waiting for the inevitable crash of headlights. Then he nods, while glancing at my van, which sputters to a start just then.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll call the game shop to make sure,” I tell him before walking away.

  Mr. Money Bags climbs out of my driver’s door. “The van was still in drive, but it’s running fine now. You must've hit the brakes so hard you killed your engine.”

  I could practically slap myself.

  “Maybe. To keep from hitting your kid.” I’ve calmed down. No longer panicking over almost hitting Ben or the cake.

  I’ll make this work, I know I will. But I'm still pissed. Flustered. At myself now because I can’t stop giving him those looks I know I shouldn't.

  Money Bags. The name barely fits. He's rich, obviously, but he's so damn handsome. The Fortune 500 combined couldn't bribe their way into winning a Mr. Universe contest against him.

  “Good. Then you'll let me pay for the damage to your van. Just let me know where you take it.”

  All I can think through the new wave of shock is that maybe the name fits after all.

  He’s handing me a business card, which I take and shove in my pocket.

  That, too, just riles me up. Apparently, his only concern, his only answer, is to pay for everything.

  Like money solves everything and he's got a sweet, sweet orchard of money trees planted in his backyard.

  “I’ll make it right,” he says. “Don't you worry your pretty head.”

  Ohhhh. There it goes.

  Something inside me snaps.

  Maybe it's because I still see Ben’s solemn blue eyes in my mind, a shade brighter than his father's. Or maybe it's because I’m just flipping sick of Murphy and his damn law that won’t leave me alone today.

  Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong in spades.

  “You know how you can make this right?” I ask quietly, with no intention whatsoever of giving him time to answer. “By keeping your boy off the street and away from speeding vehicles.”

  “Lady, Ben’s a good kid, he just—”

  Not in any sort of mood to hear more, I say, “Rich or poor, kids with too much free time on their hands are going to get into trouble. You're lucky he avoided more, this time.”

  Finally.

  I'm being a royal snark queen, I know, but it happens in a flash.

  Those blue eyes of his turn so dark I have to take a second look. I'm second-guessing everything I just said. Oh, yeah, he’s pissed.

  But it does feel good.

  “What exactly are you insinuating?” he says, an edge that could cut in his voice.

  Crap. I can’t say anything about the game. I promised not to.

  So I just shrug. “Let's see...a hundred-dollar sweatshirt, three-hundred-dollar jacket, two-hundred-dollar shoes, four-hundred-dollar skateboard.” I’m just throwing out numbers, but from his expression, I’m hitting the price tags close to the nose.

  “There’s nothing wrong with having nice things or sharing wealth with my family.”

  “No, there’s not,” I agree, while walking to the van. “It’s a fine goal for many people. What I'm saying is, whether a person has money or not, a job teaches them a lot. And it keeps them too busy for mischief.” I climb in the van, feeling lower than ever.

  Life in general right now isn't bringing out the best in me, so I just keep going. “There are some pretty awesome perks, too. Responsibility, accountability, and time management, just to name a few.”

  I shut the door before he can respond with all his millionaire fury and shift the van into drive.

  My escape car, because that’s exactly what it is, isn't as smooth as I’d have wished. The cake on the passenger seat hits the floor again as the front tire rolls off the curb.

  I bite my lip and bounce too, but keep driving, refusing to look in the rear-view mirror. No good could come of it.

  I need to stay focused. Get back to the shop. Decorate another cake. Deliver it.

  Get back to the shop. Bake another cake. Call my mother.

  Tell her about the van she’s had since she was my age – and that's only a slight exaggeration.

  A shiver numbs my spine. I know it's because I can see into the future.

  Another day in the life of Wendy Agnes will end as usual.

  A total and complete nightmare.

  2

  We Hungry Yet? (Hunter)

  I need to say something, but whatever I say, it’s going to be wrong.

  It’s been that way for weeks now. Ever since Ben started high school a couple of months ago.

  School changes are always tough and this one hasn’t gone smooth since day one. The district lines changed over the summer, so none of his friends from middle school transferred over. He’s had a hard time with that, and I’ve tried to compensate, to understand, but I still don’t get it.

  It’s school.

  Do your work. Come home. It’s not that hard.

  What’s hard is this parenting thing. I thought it'd get easier watching my boy grow up. It hasn’t.

  Potty training was a breeze compared to this. Then again, I had a nanny.

  Maybe that’s what I need again.

  Too fucking bad that didn’t work out so great. The last one had a whole different take on being a nanny. I cringe, recalling coming home and finding her in my bed. Naked. Waiting.

  Others were more subtle while hinting their availability. She’d put it on a silver platter.

  One I hadn’t touched with a ten-foot pole.

  Sloan had hired her. He’d hired most of them back in those days, and of course he'd really let his dick override his brains with that one.

  That happens with Sloan. He’s been there for me, though, through thick and thin. The only thing I've got left on this Earth I can still call a brother. And time has taught me damn well how precious that can be.

  “So,” I say, pulling the Yukon into the garage. “Where’d you go after school?”

  Ben shrugs. “Nowhere. Just took a different route home, really.”

  Really? My jaw tightens, and I can feel my own eyes going dark.

  I hate when he lies to me, when he shuts down, but I try to remember what moody, simmering piles of secrets teenage boys can be. I just have to hope Ben hasn't gotten himself into any that'll royally fuck him over.

  I slide the shifter into park with a repressed sigh, reminding myself to talk with him, not at him. Try not to get mad.

  “You were over an hour late. That’s why I went looking for you. Your Uncle Sloan said that new kid – Tommy or whoever – told him you were still hitting the sidewalks on your boards over on Grand.”

  He opens his door, frustration hardening his lanky limbs. “Yeah, whatever. We were riding our boards, Dad. Jeez. What's the –”

  “We? New friends?”

  He shrugs.

  I know that’s all I’m going to get today, and I feel like I've been through a meat grinder. “Listen, this isn't a lecture because you should already know. Isn’t the rule that you’ll call when you’re going to be late? And Grand Avenue isn't just a dangerous place to be skateboarding around with the streets icing over. The cops like to bust kids there all the time.”

  I should know. As one of the more affluent, historic neighborhoods, I've held my share of fundraisers and corporate events there. I know what the people are like. Buttoned up tight asses who'd have gotten me into the same kind of tr
ouble at his age I'm trying to save Ben from.

  “Yeah. Okay. I'll keep that in mind.”

  He hasn’t looked me in the eye. Maybe I should just let this one go.

  Pick my battles. It’s hard.

  Marine training is embedded in my DNA. It’s hard not to fall back on it. “Well, don’t let this happen again.”

  He doesn’t answer with more than a slight nod. Just climbs out, shuts the door, and walks toward the door to the house.

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel. Don't be pissed at him.

  But I am.

  My gut churns, folds fire over on itself at the idea that he could've wound up in the fucking hospital. Or worse.

  He’s fine, though. Unhurt.

  That’s the important thing. Ben’s infinitely more important than the first billion I ever made, and I have to make sure he turns out right. I have to protect him like I promised. I have to see this through, dammit.

  For Cory and Juno.

  That’s what they’d have wanted, and I’ll damn sure make it happen.

  Have to, for them. No matter how much attitude I have to put up with for a few more years until he hopefully shapes up into the young man I know they always wanted.

  I lean back in my seat, letting the cold creep into my bones in the garage.

  Can’t help but smile, remembering that little spitfire who’d almost hit him. It's a miracle I didn't want to tear her head off for running my son down, even if it was his own mistake.

  There was something about those big brown eyes. And maybe that wispy, blonde ponytail sticking out of her stocking cap, too.

  Definitely something about her sweet ass, which I'm guilty as hell of drinking in for a good long look while she'd stepped outside her car. She had the kind that makes my palms ignite with devious urges, a throbbing ache in my skin to cup them hard and pull her into me like some greedy modern Blackbeard.

  Her attitude? Fuck. Mercy.

  That woman gave as good as she got. Not many who can hold their own against me. Not when they're lost in these eyes. The very same I used to get joy from using to mesmerize my next conquest.

  She must be one hell of a baker, too. Mary said their cakes couldn't even compare to hers. That says a lot coming from the head of Top Notch.