A Recipe For Reunion. Vicki Essex

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СКАЧАТЬ his smartphone and a great data plan. He’d get some recipes off the internet and make those. They wouldn’t be Gran’s, but they’d be close enough, he was sure. A chocolate chip cookie was a chocolate chip cookie.

      He glanced at his watch. If he started now, he could make a few batches. He rolled up his sleeves and headed to the kitchen. He could do this. Stephanie Stephens had, after all. How hard could it possibly be?

      * * *

      THE SATURDAY OF her father’s birthday party, Steph was tasked with serving punch and cake, even though Helen had hired wait staff for the day. Steph suspected her mom had put her behind the big crystal punch bowl by the window to make sure she was seen by all the guests, including those who knew some eligible bachelors.

      She smiled wanly as Helen, dressed in a salmon-colored two-piece suit, picked up a glass of punch. “I still don’t see why you couldn’t have made Georgette’s coconut cake,” she murmured. “It’s for your father, after all. You know he loves her coconut cake.”

      “I’ve told you, I don’t make Georgette’s desserts for anyone unless they pay for them.”

      “If this was about money, I would’ve paid you.” Helen sniffed.

      “And if you’d wanted the cake, you should’ve ordered it from the bakery before I quit. It’s her recipe, and I don’t work for Georgette anymore, so I can’t use it.” She didn’t know why her mother argued with her about this all the time. Helen knew very well Steph had signed a nondisclosure agreement that kept her from sharing her employer’s recipes. In one of her more melodramatic moods, Helen had once claimed her own daughter wouldn’t give her Georgette’s recipes to save her life. To her mother’s everlasting shock, Steph had agreed.

      Leaving their argument dangling, Helen trotted away to greet some guests. Steph stifled a yawn. She’d woken up before the crack of dawn, still attuned to her baking schedule. She’d never slept much, but now that her internal clock was thrown off she had a hard time coping.

      Truthfully, she worried about what was happening at Georgette’s. She’d stormed out before she’d gotten any of the next day’s baking done. But she snuffed out the impulse to call, because the next thing she knew, she’d be driving there to put a pan of date squares together. She firmly reminded herself that the bakery was no longer her concern. Aaron would have to figure things out himself.

      Damn that stupid, stupid man. Calling her on poor math skills? Hitting her where it hurt? What kind of guy did that? He knew she’d struggled through school. Everyone knew. Telling her she had issues...

      Well, she didn’t. She’d asked her parents about it once, and they’d assured her absolutely nothing was wrong. She’d simply been a little slower on the uptake.

      Slow. As if she really wanted a reminder of how people saw her. Stupid and useless. But not to everyone: Georgette had seen what she could do.

      Steph shifted restlessly. She hadn’t called her yet to explain why she’d left. The truth was she was too cowardly. Disappointing Georgette was worse than disappointing anyone else she knew. And she’d done it anyway.

      “Pardon me.” A tall man grinned down at her, interrupting her brooding. The sun made his grass-green eyes shine and caught in his gold-brown hair, distilling it to bourbon in its roots. “I’m looking for Helen and Terrence Stephens.”

      Steph smiled back. “They should be around here somewhere. I’m their daughter, Stephanie.”

      “I was hoping you’d say that.” He held out a big, weathered hand. “Wyatt Brown. Your folks were kind enough to invite me over to meet the neighbors.” He had the slightest accent, one she couldn’t place.

      “Wyatt.” Helen hurried over. “So glad you could come. I see you’ve met my lovely daughter, Stephanie. You can call her Steph.”

      Ah. Now Steph understood. This must be the rancher her mother had mentioned.

      She gave him a once-over and decided her mother’s taste wasn’t terrible. In a pair of khakis, a green Ralph Lauren sweater and mud-stained loafers, he looked like a model out of a magazine. More Sears catalog than GQ, though. He was one of those big guys whose bodies were built for hard work. Thick muscles bulged as he shifted, stretching his clothes in interesting ways. Compared to the rancher, Aaron was a stick. Not that she was comparing the two.

      Helen handed the rancher a glass of punch. “Stephanie, come out from behind there and show Wyatt around the house, won’t you? I’ll go get your father.” With that, she flitted off.

      Real subtle, Mom. “Sorry about that. She can get overly enthusiastic at times.”

      “I don’t mind.” His relaxed air put her at ease. He didn’t push, which was nice, but he wasn’t backing off, either. “Your mother’s talked a lot about you. Good things only, I promise.”

      She was sure her mom hadn’t ever had a bad thing to say about her daughter to anyone.

      She led Wyatt on a tour of the house with its many guest rooms, offices and her mother’s craft room. It had always seemed too big for the three of them, but they had friends stay over frequently. She and Wyatt chatted as they made their way back to the party. “My mom mentioned you’re a rancher and that you just moved here.”

      “My folks have an operation in Australia, but we’re from Montana originally. I wanted to branch out, so I bought a nice piece of land not too far from here. We’re getting our first heads of cattle next week.”

      “That sounds interesting.”

      He chuckled. “You don’t have to be polite. Most people glaze over the moment I start talking shop.”

      She stifled a laugh. Mom had always told her to look interested even if she had no idea what a person was saying, but she was glad she didn’t have to pretend too hard. Wyatt went on, “You’re a baker, right?”

      “Well...I was.” She looked down.

      “What happened?”

      “I kind of...quit.” Ugh. She sounded like a total flake.

      “What made you leave?”

      “It’s a long story.”

      The corner of his mouth hitched up, revealing a dimple. “I’ve got time.”

      She shuffled her feet, embarrassed she’d even brought it up. “Well, it’s this guy...my boss, I guess you could say. He’s taking over Georgette’s Bakery—”

      His eyes lit up. “That’s the place everyone keeps telling me to visit.”

      “Oh, yeah. Bar none, the best baked goods in a hundred miles. People come in droves on the weekend and—” She stopped suddenly. This was the first weekend she hadn’t worked in months. Years, even. At this time of day, she’d be baking for Sunday. Regret gnawed at her and she worried her lower lip. “Anyhow, we don’t agree on some things.”

      “About the business?”

      “Well, that, and he thinks I’m stupid.”

      His face darkened. “He said that?”

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