The Sweetest Fix Read online

  Things he understood.

  This morning, he’d burned two cakes and a batch of his butterscotch panna cotta because he’d been trying to find Reese on social media without the use of her last name. That left him one option. Pacing the sidewalk outside of her theater where Daliah’s Folly was in its second run in the wake of critical acclaim. By the time she’d shared that nugget of information with him Saturday night, he’d already been kicking himself for his hesitation to ask her out.

  Reese didn’t seem to need his connections, she was killing it on her own.

  All right, there was always a chance that even the most successful dancer could benefit from having an in with Bernard Bexley, but Reese’s success took that possibility almost down to nothing. Not to mention, his gut told him she wouldn’t do something like that.

  Not like—

  A storm of male and female voices derailed his train of thought. There was no other way to describe it. A lot of energized people were speaking excitedly at the same time, a door slamming somewhere in their vicinity. He’d been pacing in front of the Daliah’s Folly theater, but he stopped short now and turned to find a stampede of dancers breezing in his direction, sweat soaking their shirts, jackets hanging loose from their shoulders, bags in hand.

  Even as he sidestepped out of their path, he couldn’t help searching their numbers for Reese. Thousands of dancers and actors came and went from this spot every day. How often had he witnessed that singular parade while standing at his father’s side growing up? It was a long shot that he would find Reese among their ranks. Still he looked, time grinding into slow motion when a toss of dirty-blonde hair revealed the face that had remained in his mind’s eye long after he’d managed to fall asleep the last three nights.

  “Reese.”

  In a scene from his worst nightmares, the entire pack of dancers stopped and wheeled around to face him, eyebrows in the air. Not surprising, since his intention had been to call her name, but instead it had come out sounding like a barking Doberman.

  The girl he’d come to this part of town—which he typically avoided—to find, was the last to turn, her face pale in the winter afternoon light, a bright purple coat wrapped around her upper half. “I…Leo. Hi.” She shook her herself. “Hi.”

  Someone whispered his last name and a ripple of gasps passed through the group.

  He ignored the sudden, unwanted scrutiny and focused on Reese.

  Oh Jesus, she was pretty. Way, way out of his league. Did he imagine that kiss?

  She stepped out into the open and it became the greatest challenge of his lifetime to not stare at her legs, exposed almost completely in a very small pair of shorts. It was February in New York. Was she trying to catch hypothermia?

  “What are you doing here?” Reese prompted in a murmur.

  Heads swiveled in every direction eagerly looking for his father. They wouldn’t find him. It wasn’t that Leo had a bad relationship with Bernard. They just didn’t have a lot in common. Fine, nothing. They had zero common interests. Bernard was forever watching his diet, as did most dancers, so he’d decreed early on to Leo that it was “dangerous” for him to visit the Cookie Jar. Dancing was the world to Leo’s father. When they saw one another at holidays or for an occasional drink, the visit would usually start out pretty great. They’d catch up on family business and current events. Until the conversation inevitably fell flat. Bernard didn’t know how to interact with someone who wasn’t singing his praises and Leo didn’t know how to sing them.

  “What is a Bexley doing in the Theater District?” someone asked from behind Reese. “You didn’t really just ask that. His father practically built this block.”

  A male dancer in leg warmers craned his neck over Reese’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t happen to be around, would he?”

  Color built in Reese’s cheeks, her expression seemingly troubled.

  “No, I’m alone,” Leo answered, not surprised when everyone’s shoulders slumped. “I thought we could talk, if you’re free,” he said to Reese.

  A beat passed, Reese pulled her coat tighter around her body. “Sure.” She turned slightly and met the eyes of another dancer in a BTS sweatshirt. “See you at home?”

  “Oh yes.” The girl moseyed on, along with the rest of the pack, who thankfully were no longer interested. “Expect questions.”

  “Sorry about that,” Reese said after a moment, ducking her head. “So you’re a Bexley.”

  He grunted. “Bernard is my father.”

  She stared off down the block. “I see.”

  Tourists were bottlenecking around them on the sidewalk so he took her elbow gently, pulling her into the relative privacy just outside the theater doors. “Are you coming from rehearsal?” he asked, stooping down a little to catch her eye. The other night, they’d barely been able to unlock their gazes for a second. Now she seemed to be avoiding it.

  “A class, actually. A dancer never stops learning.” She wet her lips. “But I guess you know that, don’t you?”

  “Not really. I was raised around this world. Not in it.” He lost the battle he’d been waging with his self-control not to look at her legs. Christ. Long and toned and smooth. No doubt about it, she belonged on stage. Focus, pervert. “You ran off on me Saturday night.”

  She winced. “I know, I—”

  “It was my fault. I had a hunch you were a dancer and when you confirmed it…look, I really shouldn’t have judged you like that.”

  Reese’s attention drifted to her group of friends who’d reached the end of the avenue. “I can see why you would.”

  Surprisingly, the simplicity and understanding of that statement made him want to tell her more, to explain his wariness of dancers in greater detail, but wouldn’t that be coming on too strong? And when had that ever been a worry for him before? It was probably better to keep his skeletons in the closet, since her interest—had he imagined it?—seemed to have waned.

  Hell, he was already here in Times Square standing outside of the theater where she performed. Why try and play it safe now? Besides, that same cool balm was spreading in his chest, just like the last time he’d been around Reese. The fear of saying the wrong thing wasn’t as prevalent as usual. Was it the understanding in those brown eyes or the way she seemed to lean into the silences, like he did?

  “I had a friend a long time ago—I’m talking high school. Senior year.” He tossed his coffee in a nearby garbage can to give his hands something to do, then sank them into the pockets of his jeans. “My parents sent me to a performing arts high school, which is kind of like sending a bodybuilder to ballet class, but they were donors and knew the faculty. Anyway obviously I didn’t fit in. I had friends, but when they were in dance class or singing lessons, I would be baking, and we just…we’d drift after a while. But I had one friend, in particular…Tate. He kept showing up, no matter how many times I blew him off. One afternoon, I walked in and he was passing his headshot to Bernard. Pitching him, essentially. Maybe I should have realized he wanted to earn points with my father, but I didn’t know what to look for—”

  “Wait, wait.” She placed her hand on the crook of his elbow. “Are you talking about Tate Dillinger? Tony award winner?”

  Leo gave a nod. “That would be him.”

  “Wow.” Her lids dropped. “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t tell you so you’d feel bad, Reese. Just wanted you to know why I, uh…might have acted like a jackass Saturday night. I’ve been running every interaction with performers through a certain lens for a long time—”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” she interrupted, looking almost pained. “Please, don’t.”

  “I liked kissing you.”

  A breath puffed out of her. “Oh.”

  “I’d like to do it again.”

  Her expression was nothing short of astonished, but he didn’t miss the way her eyes dropped to his mouth and heated. “Is that why you’re here? To kiss me?”

  “I’m here to ask you out.” His v
oice had fallen several octaves. “But if you’re offering…”

  “I don’t know if this is a good idea.” She hugged her elbows. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s not that I don’t find you crazy attractive—”

  “You have weird taste, but go on.”

  A laugh shot out of her, warming him. “I just…I promised myself I would put one hundred percent of my drive and focus into dancing. It’s a recent promise and breaking it already would make me pretty wishy-washy.”

  Shit. She might really say no. And he’d have no choice but to respect that. But a man just didn’t give up easily on a girl who inspired him to take the train to Times Square on a Tuesday afternoon. A girl whose mouth had spawned hours of fantasies to derail a routine that never, ever deviated. They’d spent less than an hour in each other’s presence, yet he could already tell that if they parted ways now, he’d be thinking of her for a really long time.

  “Far be it from me to hit you with a guilt trip, but…”

  He was caught off guard when her arms dropped slowly, her throat working with a swallow. “What? I should feel guilty for what?”

  “For coming to my bakery and leaving me with a week’s worth of work.” Leo took his phone out of his pocket, waving it. “Jackie implemented your idea on the website. We’ve had two hundred entries for personalized cake pops in twenty-four hours. We’re calling it the Sweetest Fix.”

  Reese’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious? That is incredible!”

  “Maybe for you, sweetheart. I have to carry the work load.”

  She seemed to chew over the endearment, a smile lifting one side of her mouth. “I’m very contrite.”

  Leo snorted. “Oh yeah, I can tell.”

  She toed the sidewalk with the tip of her sneaker. “So you’re leveraging this into getting me to agree to a date?”

  “Someone has to help me come up with the perfect bite for these pathetic souls. Besides me, you’re the only one I know with an aptitude for it.”

  “You want my help?”

  “It would cut my work load in half.”

  “And you might get to kiss me again.” The flirtatious sparkle from Saturday night was finally back in her eye. He was so relieved, he had to concentrate on filling his lungs. “Do I have that about right?”

  “I’d be lying if I said that didn’t cross my mind eight hundred times.”

  “Since Saturday?”

  “Since we’ve been standing here.”

  “That’s a lot,” she murmured sweetly, before visibly shaking herself. “Still, I-I’m trying to channel all of my energy into my reason for being in the city, you know? I have to eat, sleep and breathe dancing to be competitive.” She tucked a few strands of dirty-blonde hair behind her ear. “As much as I like you, I just…I can’t say yes.”

  A weight dropped in his stomach. “All right, Reese. That’s fair.”

  Knowing when he’d pushed his luck far enough, Leo gave her one last look and backed away. He could understand her reasons. Hadn’t he been shutting out everything and everyone in favor of pastries since opening the Cookie Jar four years ago?

  Still. Damn, this sucked.

  How long was it going to take the funny feeling in his jugular to go away?

  Reluctantly, Leo started to turn, as difficult as it was when Reese was still staring after him with her shoulders drooped—and he almost ran smack into a man walking in the opposite direction. “Leo?”

  He reared back. “Minh,” he said, fondness rolling through him, despite the apple core stuck in his throat. “Hey, man.”

  Minh, one of the building managers who’d been working at his father’s theater since Leo was in grade school, used his hip to balance the heavy bag in his arms. “Where’ve you been? I haven’t seen you around the theater in a minute.”

  “Busy with the bakery.” He glanced back to find Reese still hesitating outside the theater. “Where are you headed with that bag?” Leo asked, facing Minh again. “Need a hand?”

  “I wouldn’t turn it down.” Without a hint of warning, Minh heaved the bag into Leo’s arms and mopped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his sweater. “You always liked feeding the pigeons on the roof of the Bexley, right? That’s where I’m headed.”

  “Sure.”

  He wasn’t positive what made him turn around and try one last time with Reese. She had every right to turn him down. But he had the unmistakable gut feeling that she wanted to say yes and something was holding her back. Why else was she still standing there looking like her puppy had just run away? He didn’t like seeing her like that. Not at all. Was there some other reason, besides her commitment to dance that was keeping her from saying yes?

  “Want to come, Reese?” Leo asked.

  “Me?” She pressed a graceful dancer’s hand between her breasts. “The roof of the Bexley? No. I’m…I have an appointment this afternoon and I have to change…”

  Leo swallowed hard. Grunted.

  “Um. Are you sure?” Minh hopped in cajolingly, as quick a study as Leo remembered. “It’s only one block south. You can see every theater in the neighborhood from up there.”

  Her expression turned dreamlike. “I really shouldn’t.”

  “This bag of bird seed is pretty heavy,” Leo said, feigning difficulty. “I could use some extra muscle.”

  A laugh bubbled out of her. “You filthy liar.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she hopped back and forth on her feet. “All right, you win,” she blurted, finally. “Five minutes.”

  The pressure in Leo’s chest cleared like post-storm clouds.

  So this was what it felt like to win the lottery.

  Chapter 7

  Dammit. Why did she have to like this guy so much?

  Sometimes she wondered if members of the opposite sex were allergic to making an effort. When she dated the older brother of one of her dance students for a little over three months, being texted more than once in a day was almost an imposition for him. Likewise with the men who’d taken her out on dates, but never made it to relationship level. She likened those dates to tap dancing, trying to keep an audience’s fleeting attention. And it was never worth the effort, so she ended up happily dating herself again in no time.

  Leo showing up and asking her on a date resonated.

  Not only that, he hadn’t balked at being scrutinized by a dozen performers. The intimidation factor had been high. He’d simply zeroed in on her. Told her he’d liked their kiss. Risked rejection—and didn’t get butt hurt when she said no.

  Leo Bexley, gruff gentleman baker, had character.

  As they took a service elevator up to the roof, Minh cheerfully reciting a brief history of the landmark building, Leo holding the bag of birdseed in a bear hug, Reese desperately tried to justify spending more time with him. On Saturday night, she’d forced herself to make a clean break. It was the right thing to do.

  Being around him was like a breath of chocolate-scented air, though. His smile made feathers flutter from throat to belly, toes wiggling in her shoes. She wasn’t lying about finding him crazy attractive, either. Her attention kept traveling to his massive hands, her apparently shameless mind wondering what they would feel like cradling her hips.

  Or fisting her hair.

  Reese coughed a little too forcefully into her elbow. Leo winked at her, as if he knew exactly which images her mind was conjuring up and they shared a slow smile.

  Oh God, she was doomed.

  The doors of the elevator rolled open so suddenly, Reese sucked in a breath. And she never got that breath back, because the view that greeted her was the stuff of dreams. Hands clapped over her mouth, she preceded the men onto the concrete roof of the Bexley Theater, dropping the dance bag from her shoulder, her eyes tracing the lights and jagged edges of Manhattan.

  In the scheme of New York City, they weren’t that high up, only about eight stories or so, but it was enough to see the constantly changing screens in Times Square, billboards, flashing lights, pedestrian traffic wea
ving together below, the Hudson in the distance, the marquees of several other theaters proclaiming their resident shows as Tony award winners or featuring famous actors.

  Three days ago, she’d felt like gum on the sidewalk of this city, but in that moment, she was reminded why the work was worth the exhaustion. Looking out over the small section of the island that made up the landscape of her fantasies, her determination to make it on her own, of her own merit—as unlikely as that might be in the two weeks afforded her by the Victory Fund—was renewed.

  “What do you think?” Leo asked, setting down the bag of bird seed behind her. “Was it worth putting up with me for another five minutes?”

  “Oh, easily.” She took a deep breath and let it out, grateful the February wind dried the moisture in her eyes. Once all trace of her waterworks had gone, she turned around to find two pigeon lofts on the far end of the roof, the frame made of painted green metal, the front crafted out of wiry mesh. There was a little welcome sign fashioned above the pigeon-sized slot where the birds could come and go at will. “Wow. This is not what I pictured.”

  Minh poked his finger through the wire, petting the neck of one the pigeons. There were at least four dozen and more on the way, now that feeding time was imminent. “What were you expecting?” asked the building manager with a curious smile.

  “I thought you were going to kind of…” Reese wiggled her fingers at floor. “Scatter it.”

  “Floor feeding? Not for my babies,” Minh crooned, gesturing at Leo to pick the feed bag back up. “Come on, man. Can’t you see they’re starving?”

  “Sorry.” Reese and Leo traded an amused wince—and then she promptly grew distracted by the ripple of back muscles that took place when Leo held the bag aloft, pouring seed through the slot at the front of each loft.

  “So, um—” She stopped, clearing the throaty purr from her tone. Lord. Get yourself together. “Have you spent a lot of time among the pigeons?”