The man handed a piece of paper to Josie, who scanned it. “This is a clean bill of health from Sterling Auto Repair.”
“Nice racks.” Erik’s voice floated from the back, and Josie bit back a laugh and a dirty joke for fear of jeopardizing the sale. He emerged and walked to the front to climb behind the wheel. When Philip handed him the keys, he fired up the engine, raising his voice above the rumble. “Was your uncle a baker? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Philip Jones.” Another glance at his watch. “And yes, he was. I don’t suppose you want to buy his bakery too? That’s the next thing I need to unload.”
Philip jerked his thumb toward the building they were standing behind. When Erik’s eyes found hers, a current sparked between them, an invisible wavelength that carried a jumble of messages:Is he serious? Could this be the answer? Is this an actual miracle? Be cool be cool be cool.
“Bakery?” she finally asked, aiming for polite reserve as Erik turned off the van and stepped out, handing the keys to Philip, who jingled them as he stalked to the building’s back door.
“Bakery downstairs, apartment upstairs. Al got sick a few years ago and had to close it down, so it’s mostly junk storage now. I have neither the interest nor the time to clean it up myself.” As he spoke, he inserted the key and pushed the door open. “Help yourselves. I have to make some calls.”
She and Erik exchanged another wide-eyed,is this really happeningglance, and then she followed him inside the dark building. He felt along the wall for a light switch and flicked it on, bathing the stuffy space in weak yellow light. While Josie’s eyes adjusted, Erik made a beeline to the massive oven taking up one wall.
“It’s a Doyon,” he breathed, and she felt an irrational spurt of jealousy toward the big, boxy appliance. Why had no man ever regarded her with that amount of reverential awe?
“That’s good?”
“It’s beautiful.” He ran his hand over dusty glass to reveal the dull silver interior.
Oh. Hi again, jealousy. Over anoven.
She pushed her weirdness aside and scanned the rest of the room. “It’s the only part of this place that is.” Pans, bowls, and countless cardboard boxes were stacked haphazardly on every available stainless steel surface, and the fuzzy blanket of dust they’d disturbed drifted through the air and stung her nose.
Erik looked up from where he was fiddling with the oven’s settings. “No. Look at the bones.” He walked over to her, absentmindedly squeezing her shoulder as he went past to run water in the huge sink. “Countertops. Prep stations. Industrial mixers. It’s perfect.”
The skin where he’d briefly rested his hand tingled, and Josie set her own hand where his had just been. He hadn’t touched her on purpose since he’d placed a comforting hand on her back in the coffee shop that awful afternoon they’d learned about Byron’s car accident. And maybe that was smart of him because damn, one glancing touch had left her nerves on high alert, just like they’d been after she’d rested her hand on his chest during the Fielder open house. But tingles weren’t welcome here. They were working together. And he wasn’t her type.
She thrust her wayward thoughts aside and glanced around at theHoarders-level clutter, willing herself to see what he saw. “Okay. Lots of room. You could work back here with a few helpers for sure.”
But he’d already moved into the front of the building where she found him standing in the center of a small open space, hands on his hips. She joined him and looked around skeptically at the jumble of chairs and tables shoved to one side. This was clearly where customers could sit and enjoy a slice of cake and some coffee while they decided on flavors and layers and whatever else happened in the wedding-cake biz. Still, talk about a fixer-upper.
“It’ll need lots of work. Scrubbing. Paint. Maybe a new floor.” She stamped a foot on the faded linoleum. “This building has to be at least eighty years old. The plumbing might—”
“My own bakery.” He spoke the words experimentally, as if trying them on for size, and she shut down her litany of concerns at the wonder she saw in his usually stoic expression.
The morning sun pouring through the front windows embraced him in a bright halo, turning his dark blond hair golden, and she caught her breath. Something was happening in his brain, and she wasn’t sure if it was her job to encourage it or to slam on the brakes.
“Hey, I’m usually the full-speed-ahead one here, but you look ready to jump.” She nudged his arm. “Are you sure? I mean, wecouldkeep borrowing Jake’s Jeep while we—”
“I’m sure.” His decisive words echoed around the space as he walked to the front door and stepped outside. She joined him and looked up and down the street. It was quiet this early on a Sunday, but the row of businesses—a deli, a dry cleaner, an insurance agency—promised plenty of traffic once the block woke up.
“I’m sure,” he said again.
Without another word, he turned and walked back to the kitchen, where a door opened to reveal a wooden staircase. Erik started to climb, and Josie trailed behind him like a tugboat in the wake of a steamer. The stale heat intensified as they neared the top, and when they stepped into a large open space, they were again greeted with an incomprehensible jumble ofstuff,all bathed in early-morning sunlight pouring through large windows.Boxes mostly, and stacks of newspapers and magazines in towering piles. In one corner, a stained dressmaker’s dummy stood watch over the clutter, and Josie could make out the corner of a chest of drawers against one wall, buried under a pile of ratty blankets.
“My God. How much to rent a dumpster?” She sneezed as Erik lifted a drop cloth and disturbed a few years’ worth of dust to reveal a china cabinet crammed with dishes. Then again… “How much to rent this out?” An apartment in an up-and-coming Chicago neighborhood was a smart way to generate a second income stream.
“Or I could move in. Sublet my place.” He turned in a slow circle, his eyes traveling the length of the open space, which included a small sink and oven positioned between two large windows, clearly intended for the occupant’s personal use.
“I don’t know how you’d ever leave your current mansion.” She slapped an overly dramatic hand to her chest, but he didn’t acknowledge the joke. Instead, he reached for his phone and selected a number.
“It’s Erik Andersson,” he said into the speaker. “I’m willing to sell if you’re still willing to buy.” The words emerged even more clipped than usual, and when he ended the call, he stared at the black screen for a few moments before he pocketed the phone. When he looked at her, there was a tightness to his expression that she hadn’t seen before.
He produced an elastic from the front pocket of his jeans. “Go ahead. Ask.”
She almost forgot her question as he lifted his hair up and off his neck and secured it in quick, sure motions. Why, why,whydid she find something that simple to be so damn sexy?
She realized she was staring when he looked at her with raised eyebrows, and she swiftly averted her gaze. “Um. Did you just agree to sell your supply of black-tar heroin or something?” Teasing him left fewer brain cells available to obsess over his hair.
