Isabel Sharpe - Just One Kiss

“I’m going out with Mark tonight. You want to come?”

“No, thanks.” Daniel took his plate to the dishwasher.

“Do you good. Take your mind off the bad stuff.”

“I’m staying in.”

Jake shrugged. “Okay. Your choice.”

“Yeah, how about that.”

Jake chuckled. “I won’t say another word.”

“I doubt that.”

“Not tonight anyway.” He put his own plate in the dishwasher and slapped Daniel on the back. “It gets better.”

“So I hear.”

“And it will get better a lot faster if you—” He saw the look on Daniel’s face and backed up, hands lifted again. “Right. I’m going. I’m gone.”

A few minutes later the kitchen was clean, the front door closed behind Jake. Daniel went into his room with the cupcakes and put on Kate’s favorite CD, Little Earthquakes by Tori Amos.

The music filled the room, poignant and throaty, gut-wrenchingly evocative. Daniel drifted back toward the desk, throat thickening, remembering Kate singing along, horribly out of tune, which had grated on his nerves. The memory seemed so endearing now. In a trance, he carefully untied the burgundy and gold ribbons he hadn’t wanted on the box and lifted the lid.

What the—

Chocolate. There was a chocolate cupcake nestled in red paper in the center of the white ones he’d asked for, devil amidst the angels. Angela . Her face rose in his mind again, pretty mouth curved in a smile, eyes brimming with mischief as she handed him the box after her mysterious disappearance into the back room.

The tiniest burst of light skittered through his chest. He found himself half smiling. Angela had guessed he was a chocolate guy, and made sure he got what she was so sure he’d like. The gesture was a little weird. But also … oddly sweet.

The light in his chest burst again. She’d been tall, as he remembered. Maybe five-seven or five-eight. Kate had been tiny, five-three to his six feet two inches, but with wiry strength that continually astounded him. Any and all obstacles buckled from the sheer force of Kate’s determination.

And she’d been determined he not date until their wedding day had passed. Her last wish, whispered as her young, promising life left her. Daniel had been so devastated he would have promised her anything.

He pulled up his desk chair and sat, rubbing his hands on his jean-clad thighs. He could smell the chocolate, wafting up like temptation from the innocent vanilla surrounding it.

His finger swiped through rich, dark frosting, lifted it to his mouth.

Ohh, man . Real chocolate, killer chocolate. Bitter and sweet, with a tang of some kind—sour cream?

He tried the white frosting.

Mmm . Cleanly sweet with an appealing vanilla-marshmallow flavor. Fresh, real ingredients there, too.

His hand went back down on his thigh. He pictured Kate in the hospital, head raised painfully toward him, her pretty features bruised, contorting with the effort to speak. No other women until after our wedding day. Please. Do that for me. And for you. For us …

Throat on fire with the impossible task of trying to choke back tears, he’d answered in a voice that barely sounded. Yes. I promise .

In his lonely room now, the first song ended. The next one came on.

He saw himself suddenly through Jake’s eyes, spending the evening alone in his room, listening to music he wouldn’t have chosen, about to eat food he didn’t much care for.

Daniel shook his head. It was Kate’s birthday. He was honoring her. Tomorrow he’d think about what Jake had said. But tonight …

If you bury yourself in that shit, your life might as well be over, too .

I would definitely have pegged you for a chocolate guy .

His hand hesitated over the box.

Kate …

He dug out a cupcake, peeled off the paper and took a huge bite, with more enthusiasm than he’d had for any food in a long, long time.

The cupcake was as amazing as the frosting, light but moist, and incredibly flavorful. The best he’d ever had. Or maybe it was the release and relief of letting himself enjoy it.

The beautiful fresh-faced Angela had been right. Tonight he’d been ready for chocolate.

“SHE’LL LOVE THEM.” Bonnie handed over a bouquet of mixed blue, purple and yellow to the grinning teenage boy who’d come in and dubiously asked for roses, but was leaving much happier. Bonnie had listened to his tale with sympathy: he’d been peer-pressured into asking The Wrong Girl to the homecoming dance, then realized he really cared for The Right Girl all along, and wanted a gesture of combined apology and affection that wasn’t too intense or expensive…?.

Sometimes Bonnie thought she was more of a psychologist than a saleswoman. People might tell hairdressers more of their troubles, but they’d be surprised how many emotions went along with flowers. Not just wedding, funeral, birthday and anniversary. Also apology, seduction, guilt, renewal …

Bonnie was a firm believer in the healing powers of floral arrangements. Maybe that sounded crazy, but she’d seen it over and over again, customers coming back in to thank her, telling her how much the plants or bouquets or blossoms had been appreciated, how they’d helped cheer or heal, intensify or diffuse.

She wiped water drops off her counter and leaned on it, surveying the riot of fresh color around her proudly and a little wistfully. Proud, because she hadn’t wanted her stock isolated away from the customer, refrigerated behind glass; her flowers bloomed all over the store in buckets carefully arranged on multiple levels as to color and size. The effect, she hoped, was like walking into an English garden in full bloom. Wistful, because not enough people had been walking in, to the point where she was having to consider drastic measures. Not selling the store, not yet, but … yes, drastic. Like giving up her apartment upstairs and dragging essentials and a cot into the shop’s back office.

After a year of lukewarm sales, she was getting to where she needed to be realistic and face the possibility of failure. In the meantime, she was looking around for marketing tips, tricks and gimmicks wherever she could get them, hoping to find ways of luring in more buyers. And constantly fighting off panic and a heavy sense of doom … and of shame.

Just another super fun year in the game of life.

Through her window onto the building’s foyer she noticed a guy dressed in biking gear, and holding a helmet walk in and stop, as if he weren’t sure where to go. Bonnie frowned. He looked familiar. Where had she seen him?

Aha. Déjà vu . She’d seen him pause in the same spot the previous day. Hard to miss a hard-body hottie like that. But when she’d glimpsed his face, she’d wanted less to seduce him than to offer hugs and mugs of coffee, maybe give him an air fern from her shop, so he wouldn’t have to take care of anything but himself.

She craned her neck to get a better view. He was still hesitating. Maybe she should ask if he needed help? Yesterday he’d gone into Angela’s. Bonnie meant to ask her about him, but A Taste for All Pleasures had been crazy busy and then Angela had gone out with friends last night.

A group of students, on a weekend break from classes, came out of the bakery, clutching paper bags of treats and cups of coffee. Hard-body Hottie stood aside to let them pass, then walked, without hesitation this time, into the bakery.

Ooh, interesting. Waiting to go in until Angela was alone? Bonnie hoisted herself onto her counter and leaned over shamelessly to catch Angela’s reaction. A nice, wide smile, her usual greeting. But maybe this smile was wider? Nicer? Bonnie leaned farther, but couldn’t see the guy’s face. Was he after the buns or the baker? And would Angela let him taste the latter along with the former? Bonnie would love to see Angela happy again after that jerk ex of hers. Though they’d all fallen for Tom. He was impossible not to love, until you sensed the dry rot in his soul.