No More Terrible Dates Page 3

  “Absolutely sure. They serve food in there made from not only wheat but dairy products, too.”

  “But wheat has gluten in it. Don’t they know that?” She guffaws, her hand over her mouth.

  “I’m sure they do.”

  “And they use it all the same?”

  “Yup.”

  “Tell me they use coconut oil at the very least. Please.”

  “You know, Larissa, I’m not sure they do.”

  “No coconut oil?” Her plump lips form a small “o” at this deeply shocking piece of information.

  “And their food has sugar in it,” I add to further put her off. Larissa is famously anti-sugar. She’s even written a book about it. “Lots and lots of sugar.”

  “Unrefined, sustainably sourced raw sugar?” she asks hopefully.

  I shake my head.

  “Agave? Maple? Honey?” she asks hopefully.

  Another shake.

  Her face is aghast when she asks in a small voice, “Not . . . refined white sugar?”

  I give a curt nod. “Plain white sugar. It’s in all their cakes and cookies. Which, of course, is why they are all so completely delicious.”

  Larissa’s eyes bulge. “But that’s . . . that’s so last century. It’s positively caveman behavior.”

  I might not know my history all that well, but I’m pretty sure that when people used to run around in animal skins with spears, they didn’t eat a whole lot of cakes made with refined white sugar. But then I could be wrong.

  It’s right about now my mouth starts watering and I begin to crave one of the Cozy Cottage cakes filled with gluten, dairy, and sugar. All very good things in my “caveman” mind.

  Larissa takes my hand in hers and looks earnestly at me. “Thank you, Darcy. I’m glad you shared that with me.”

  “I thought you needed to know,” I say in a low, serious voice.

  She pulls a set of keys from her purse, waves them in the air, and unlocks the door to the gallery. Once inside, we both look around the large, empty, echoing room. With bright white walls and gray, polished concrete floors, it’s a blank, personality-free canvas. In other words, it looks exactly like an empty gallery.

  “Isn’t this place amazing?” Larissa enthuses. “Can you feel it?”

  I know better than to reach out and touch a wall. Larissa doesn’t mean to feel it literally. “Yes, I can.” I search my brain for the right Larissa platitude to use. I’ve got a bunch of them, all in notes in my trusty notebook with the cute Labrador puppy on the cover, just in case I need one to pull out at short notice. They’re airy-fairy clap-trap as far as I’m concerned, but hit the right one and Larissa’s super happy. And you know what they say? Happy celebrity, happy life. Or something like that.

  “I’m feeling the harmonious interrelationship between textures in this space. It adds to the emotionally satisfying vibe, don’t you think?” Pleased with my gobbledygook, I watch her for her reaction.

  “You know, I hadn’t thought about it that way. But you know what, Darcy darling? You’re totally right. The walls and the floor do interrelate.”

  That’s right. I think it’s called “construction.”

  She moves around the room, giving me her “vision for the space,” and I scribble in my trusty notebook, the one with the cute Labrador puppy on the cover that I take everywhere with me. I bought a stack of them when I saw them in the stationery store so I wouldn’t run out. I’m a sucker for a Labrador puppy. #GoalDog

  Some of Larissa’s ideas are sane, some less so. But that’s the way Larissa rolls. And why not? When you’ve got oodles and oodles of cash and no one ever telling you not to do what you want, why not indulge your every whim? Although I do draw the line at her suggestion that we have a family of wallabies wandering the room at exhibition openings, dressed as waiters. I don’t care how avant garde she thinks it will be.

  In the end, I’ve got a list the length of Heidi Klum’s legs to organize before we can even open the gallery doors to the public, not to mention having to find a photographer to exhibit their work. This on top of all the other things I do for her every day.

  Lucky, lucky me.

  As we lock up, Larissa pauses on the sidewalk, her hand on my arm as she gives a furtive glance at Cozy Cottage Café. “Darcy,” she begins in a quiet voice, “do you know if they serve anything that’s gluten-free in there?”

  I bite back a smile. It takes a strong person to resist the aroma of a freshly-baked cake from Cozy Cottage Café. “I know there’s a flourless chocolate and raspberry cake that’s very good.”

  She almost licks her lips right in front of me. “Flourless, you say? So, no gluten whatsoever?”

  I shake my head. “No gluten whatsoever.”

  “I follow a strict nutrition regime, which I do entirely for my health, of course.”

  “Of course.” It’s got nothing to do with the fact she likes to fit into children’s sized clothing.

  “But you know, Darcy, lately I’ve been reading about how occasionally indulging one’s self is in fact extremely beneficial for you as a whole.”

  With my most serious and earnest expression in place, I reply, “I think Cozy Cottage Café’s flourless chocolate and raspberry cake is the perfect beneficial indulgence.”

  Her face transforms into a look of unbridled glee, and I feel a pang of sadness for her. She spends her life drinking ghastly juices and smoothies, starving herself, sticking to a strict exercise regime, and avoiding all the good things in life. The woman has got to live a little.

  “A slice of Cozy Cottage Café’s flourless chocolate and raspberry cake it is.”

  I beam back at her. “Come on, then. I’ll treat you to a slice.”

  Chapter 3

  Despite the Devan Dating Debacle (the dreaded D.D.D.) this morning, I always feel at home at Cozy Cottage Café. Although I spend more time at High Tea next door these days, thanks to my BFF, Sophie, becoming the manager there recently, I’ve been coming here for years. I love the comfortable, easy-going, welcoming vibe of the place.

  And the cakes. Definitely the cakes.

  “Oh, this place is darling!” Larissa exclaims as we step through the door into the café. She’s donned her sunglasses so as not to be recognized, although several people turn to gawk at her as she sashays toward the counter, and I know her feeble attempt at a disguise has been foiled. Either that or they’re looking at her because it’s plain weird to wear sunglasses inside unless you’re Bono from U2.

  We make our way to the counter where I notice one of the owners, Bailey, is serving. I do a quick scan of the café and feel my shoulders relax. No sign of Alex Walsh. Things are certainly looking up.

  At the cabinet, we peruse the assorted cakes. There’s the deliciously moist carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, an apple streusel cake, an orange and almond syrup cake, along with the flourless chocolate and raspberry cake that so tempted Larissa before.

  “Oh, they all look so good,” Larissa exclaims. “But you see, darling, that’s how the evils of sugar, dairy, and gluten work. They make you crave them, and you’re only ever satisfied by another fix and then another. It’s all in my book.”

  “Yes,” I say with a nod. “Yes, it is.”

  Larissa’s book is entitled the very subtle and non-sensational Sugar is your Nemesis, subtitle: How the sugar you eat is slowly killing you and how to destroy its evil grip on your life. It’s rousing stuff if you’re into all that. And a lot of people are if Larissa’s sales are anything to go by. Although, by the look on her face right now, I’d say the sugar nemesis hasn’t entirely lost its evil grip on her life.

  “Hey, Darcy,” Bailey says over the top of the counter. “Weren’t you in here earlier today? Twice in one day. You must truly love us.”

  I smile through my cringe. The last thing I want to do is think about Devan and his “I’m gay but will you come to my brother’s wedding as my date” calamity. “Yes, that’s right, and now I’m back to get two slices of your flour
less chocolate and raspberry cake. To go, please.” I look at Larissa for confirmation, and she nods her assent.

  Bailey shoots me her beautiful smile. If she noticed my dodge, she doesn’t mention it. “Sure. Two slices of chocolate and raspberry cake coming up.”

  As Bailey busies herself with the cake, Larissa launches into her ideas for the gallery once more. “Ideally, I want to open the gallery at the same time as we launch the Guatemalan charms. Therese said she can get us some from her next shipment, remember?”

  I gasp. “But that’s in only a few weeks.”

  She flicks my concern away with her hand. “Oh, I have faith in you, Darcy darling. You’ll totally pull it off. You always do. That’s why I love you so much.”

  It’s so easy for her. All she’s got to do is come up with the ideas and then show up once all the work’s been done. Me? I’m the poor shmuck who’s got to do it all.

  “Here you are, Darcy.” Bailey places two small cardboard cake boxes on the counter in front of me.

  “Thanks.” I wave my card to pay, and she passes me the receipt. “See you later.”

  “Are you planning a third visit today?” Bailey asks, her eyes alight.

  I shrug. “If you did dinner, then that would be a resounding ‘yes.’”

  “Come back for the Friday Night Jam.”

  “I’ll do that.” I collect the boxes and turn to Larissa. “Shall we go?”

  She lets out a light sigh. “I feel like I could stay here all day, even though it’s not exactly on-brand for me. It’s got the atmosphere of a young child who’s free of the restraints of the world, at peace with who she is. Don’t you think?”

  What? “Sure, yeah. A small child.” Personally, I would have gone for “great place,” but for Larissa, I go with it. It’s easier that way.

  As we reach the front door, someone pushes through in front of us, holding a couple of potted hyacinths in her hands.

  “Sophie!” I say with delight. I collect my friend in a one-armed embrace as I balance the cakes in the other.

  “Hi, Darce.” She nods at my cake boxes. “I see you’ve come in for your sugar fix.”

  I can feel Larissa bristle at my side at the mention of the “s” word, even though both she and I know that the contents of one of the boxes are for her.

  Sophie smiles at Larissa. “Hi, Larissa.”

  Larissa extends her tiny, fine-boned hand. “Nice to meet you,” she says.

  “Actually, you’ve met Sophie a bunch of times,” I say.

  She crinkles her forehead as she sizes Sophie up. “Of course. How are you . . .”

  “Sophie,” I say under my breath.

  “Sophie,” she repeats.

  Sophie’s face creases into a smile. “I’m great, thanks.”

  “Soph runs High Tea next door.”

  “I sure do. You should come by some time,” she says to Larissa.

  Larissa gives her a tightlipped smile, and I know that despite her declaration Cozy Cottage Café has the “atmosphere of a young child who’s free of the restraints of the world,” she needs to get out of here, pronto. As the face of anti-sugar, anti-gluten, anti-anything worth eating, lingering too long in a café like Cozy Cottage is like flirting with death for Larissa.

  “We’d better get going,” I say to Sophie.

  “Sure.” She pulls me in for a hug.

  I feel a small hand grip my arm, and I turn to look back at Larissa.

  “Oh, my God. Whose work is that?”

  I follow Larissa’s line of vision to the wall by the window. There’s a simple, framed black and white photograph of an ornate building under a dramatically cloudy sky. It’s beautiful in its simplicity, and with the frequency with which I’m in this café, I’m surprised I’ve not noticed it before.

  “I don’t know,” I reply honestly.

  “It’s got exactly the sort of feel I’m looking for. It evokes a sense of turbulence and beauty as a comment on the fragility of the human spirit. Don’t you think?” Larissa bustles over to the wall to get a closer look.

  I shoot Sophie a quick look before I follow her. Sophie looks like she’s working hard at simultaneously deciphering what the heck Larissa’s talking about and suppressing the urge to laugh. It’s a state of being I’m all too familiar with.

  “I’m sure we can find out who took this photo,” I say when I reach Larissa.

  “Oh, we’ve got to!” she exclaims.

  “It’s by one of the baristas here. Alex,” Sophie says at my side.

  I snap my attention to her. “Alex? As in Alex Alex?”

  Alex Walsh, the self-satisfied barista who refused to leave me and Devan alone this morning, is responsible for something that beautiful?

  Sophie nods, and I turn to look back at the photo. I knew Alex was a photographer and had disappeared to rove distant lands to indulge his passion for photography, but I’ve never actually seen his work before. Although I’m not sure I agree with Larissa’s interpretation that the photograph comments on the fragility of the human spirit exactly (I mean puh-lease), it sure is stunning. And I would never in a gazillion years say it to Alex, but he’s got something here. An eye, I guess. An ability to capture something more than just what you see.

  “Who’s Alex Alex?” Larissa asks. “I adore the name, by the way. Totally unexpected. I think I love him already.”

  “His name is Alex Walsh. He’s my cousin. Darcy and I went to high school with him,” Sophie explains. “He’s a really talented photographer. Bailey put this one up yesterday, and we’ve got a bunch over at High Tea.”

  “Take me to them,” Larissa instructs dramatically.

  “Sure, I just need to deal with this.” Sophie waves the potted hyacinths in the air.

  Larissa takes the plants from an astonished Sophie, passes them to me, and says, “Darcy will take care of them.”

  I struggle to balance the plants and the cake boxes in my hands as Larissa loops her arm through Sophie’s and says, “Let’s go.”

  Sophie mouths “sorry” to me as she and Larissa walk out the door.

  With a sigh, I make my way back to the counter to ask Bailey what to do with the plants. Instead of Bailey, I find a smirking Alex, looking like he’s a cat who drank the cream. All of it. Usually, I give him the cold shoulder or mutter an entirely insincere greeting. But now, having seen how incredible that photograph he took is, I feel . . . what? Impressed? Moved? Like I’m seeing him in a new light?

  Maybe all those things.

  I’m quite sure the feeling will pass. I hate the guy, after all. Alex Walsh and I? Well, let’s just say we’ve got unfavorable history.

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Are you stealing the plants now, Darcy?”

  “Oh, you know me. Always . . . doing stuff.”

  Doing stuff? What am I talking about? I see one of Alex’s photos and I’m reduced to a bumbling, monosyllabic imbecile? This isn’t me. I’m Darcy Evans, Personal Assistant to Larissa Monroe. I Get Things Done. I’m not the girl who’s so thrown that I lose my inability to form a coherent sentence, even if it is with Alex.

  “You’re doing stuff,” he echoes, a look of amusement written across on his face. His handsome face. Dammit.

  I suck in a sharp breath as I toss my long hair. “That’s right. I’m a very busy person, you know, Alex. I’ve always got a lot of . . . stuff to do.”

  Great work, Darcy. That showed him.

  He merely keeps his gaze on me, his lips twitching with amusement.

  “Now. What should I do with these plants?” I brandish the plants at him as I paste on an “I’m not in the least bit fazed by you” smile. Because I’m not in the least bit fazed by him. Or at least I won’t be, just as soon as I manage to pull myself together and get back to normal.

  “Let me get this straight. You’re asking me what you should do with the plants you’re trying to steal? Do you not know how robbery works, Darcy? You try to take stuff without other people noticing.”

  “Oh, Alex,�
�� I say with as patronizing a tone as I can muster while awkwardly balancing cake and plants. It’s not an easy thing to achieve. “I don’t have time for your games. Sophie asked me to deal with these, so can you please take them so I can get on with my day.”

  “Why don’t you bring them ’round the back. We can find a place to put them out of the way.”

  “Oh, all right.” Begrudgingly, I traipse past the food cabinets and find him holding the counter flap open for me. I plod past him and into the kitchen. I stop, turn, and raise my eyebrows in question.

  “How about over here?” He takes one of the plants from me and places it against the back wall.

  I follow suit with the second. “Thank you,” I say as I turn on my heel to leave.

  “Is Papa Smurf waiting for you outside?”

  I turn back. What is he talking about? “Papa Smurf?”

  “You and your friend. You’re both in head-to-toe blue. Or wasn’t that planned?”

  “Oh, that. It’s a thing my boss has. She likes blue.”

  “I like blue, too, but I tend to limit it to one item of clothing at a time. Not all of them.”

  “Actually, I’ll have you know that blue is a very spiritual color.”

  Another quirk of that darn eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, Alex, it is. It’s very powerful and associated with vision and hearing as well as our sense of smell.” I’m spouting a bunch of Larissa-isms like I mean them, but damn him! He’s being all superior, and I don’t like it one little bit.

  “You can smell blue?”

  I falter, but I’m committed to this now. “Yes, you can. Please don’t tell me you haven’t smelled the color blue before, Alex, because that would be truly, truly tragic. For you. Blue smells absolutely amazing.”

  To my surprise, he wanders over and leans in close to me. For a second, I can feel his breath on my neck, making my skin tingle. I clear my throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He straightens up, his eyes lit with mischief. “You’re right. Blue does smell amazing.”

  “Well, I . . . there you go.” I throw him a haughty look, as though what he just did wasn’t completely unexpected and… and what? Nice? No, it threw me off guard, that’s all. People don’t go around smelling other people. It’s just plain weird.