“Me, too,” I say, “but I don’t really feel like she has, and she needs me to see her as whole again. This project is going to help me do that.” I swallow the lump in my throat and say, “The biggest challenge right now is the fact that not much has been done, and time is crucial. If you can call your reliable donors and ask for support, that would help.”
“I have some high-profile donors,” she says. “Of course, we do, but I feel like they might open their wallets for you, with your Riptide association.”
“I don’t have a problem calling them,” I say, “and frankly, it could be good for Riptide to make that connection, but I need to know what you know about each of them first. Would you have time soon to go over that with me? Maybe we can do coffee tomorrow for just that purpose? There’s a little bookshop a few blocks down that has the best cupcakes ever.”
“Oh my God, yes. Cupcakes and Books. Such a simple name and such a sweet place. Can you do late afternoon, like three o’clock?”
“It’s a date,” I say. “Three o’clock.”
***
A few minutes later, I’m outside, in what is turning into a rather chilly day. I huddle into my jacket, and with lots of time before my meeting, I head toward one of my favorite places in the neighborhood: Cupcakes and Books. Only a short walk later, I enter the double wood and glass doors with bells chiming. I really love those bells—they remind me of home.
Nashville really is home. New York never became that to me.
With a smile, my eyes devour the rows of books, while my nose delights at the scent of cupcakes and coffee. Back in the day, when I’d dreamed of being an editor, I’d come here often. One of my favorite things had been to cozy up at a table with coffee, cupcakes, and my work. I’d break to wander around the book aisles and try to resist buying everything in sight.
Eager to feel that nostalgia to the fullest extent, today I will lunch on cupcakes, books, and coffee. I cut right, toward the bakery area, passing under the arched doorway, only to stop dead in my tracks at what I discover, my heart thundering in my chest.
Dash Black is here and he’s sitting at my favorite nook of a corner table.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Dash’s MacBook is open in front of him. The best cupcake in the house, the chocolate on white, is sitting next to him. Beside the cupcake is a steaming cup of coffee in one of the large oval mugs that come in a variety of colors with just the right weight to the hand. His mug is white. I prefer the red. I ask for the red, as silly as that may sound to some, but it’s part of the experience of being here for me. His blazer is hanging on his chair, his navy sweater fitted snugly to what is most definitely now confirmed to be a perfect chest, the kind only achieved with hard work and good genetics.
And good Lord, I’m just standing here staring at him.
Like a fangirl stalker.
Appalled at myself, I back out of the bakery and quickly rush away, cutting down one of my favorite book aisles, and Lord help me yet again, I stop right in front of the Dash Black section. What would I be like if I really was stalking the man? I draw in a breath and will my heart to calm down.
“Why’d you run away?”
At the sound of Dash’s voice, I whirl around to find him standing right in front of me, so damn tall and perfect, so stylish, in a masculine perfection kind of way, that it’s really quite overwhelming. He’s overwhelming and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad right about now.
“Hi,” I say because apparently, that’s the only word I know right now. I’ve never been a pro at the whole man meets woman thing, as proven by my romantic history, but it’s just getting worse. So much worse.
“Why’d you run away, Allie?” he asks.
“I didn’t run away.”
He arches a brow and I hold up my hands and quickly add, “Okay. I saw you, but I didn’t want to intrude on your private space or creative time. If there’s one thing I can appreciate, it’s the need for quiet to concentrate on a book.”
He props a shoulder on the divider between two bookshelves. “You weren’t interrupting.”
“I wanted to respect your space.” I motion to the shelf to my right. “Somehow I ended up right next to your books.” I reach for a title and manage to grab the one I edited. “The whipped cream was hilarious, by the way.” It’s a reference to a scene where Ghost is about to assassinate someone and they shoot whipped cream in his face. It’s about the only thing that ever stopped the deadly killer and Dash executed Ghost’s reaction to perfection.