Swept Into The Tycoon's World. Cara Colter
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When she looked over at Brand, he was gone. The love seat across from her was empty.
No goodbye.
But at least he hadn’t stuck her with the bill.
Fifteen minutes later, she left Perks. They were going to give Kookies a trial term of six months.
She walked back to the concert hall. Outside the door, before going in, Bree debated only for a full five seconds before she pulled out Brand’s business card with his phone number and called him.
“Hello?”
She had been expecting it to go to voice mail, since she thought he was probably now in the front row for the Crystal Silvers performance. But there was no background noise.
“I was expecting to leave a message,” she said.
“Bree. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“I was rehearsing my message!”
“Okay, just pretend this is my voice mail.”
“All right. Hello, Brand. Thank you for a pleasant evening and for buying me coffee. I wanted you to know Perks is going to try my cookies for a trial period.”
“Excellent!”
“Voice mail does not respond,” she reminded him primly.
“Oh, yeah. Forgive me. Continue.”
She took a deep breath. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to use your influence for me.”
“Of course I didn’t have to. But what exactly would be the point of having influence if you didn’t use it to help others?”
And then he was gone, no goodbye again. She contemplated the kind of man that would make a statement like that.
This was what her father had always seen: the decency of Brand Wallace, a guy who could be trusted to do the right thing, even with a starry-eyed eighteen-year-old girl, desperate to be kissed.
His innate decency made her feel shivery with longing. He appeared to be the polar opposite of Paul Weston, the college professor who had taken what was left of her heart after the death of her father and run it through the meat grinder.
But it would be a form of pure craziness to think that a woman like her could ever have a man like Brand Wallace.
On the other hand, who had ever looked at her hair before and seen sun-kissed sand?
She went in the doors, and could hear the music blasting out of the auditorium. Chelsea, looking a little worse for wear, was behind a completely rummaged-over sample table, dancing enthusiastically by herself to the loud music spilling out into the foyer. She danced salsa competitively and managed to look ultrasexy even in the cookie apron and beret.
She stopped when she saw Bree coming toward her. Sadly, it did not appear her sudden cessation of movement was because it had occurred to her it might be inappropriate that the table in front of her was badly in need of straightening.
“Did you have wine?” Chelsea demanded.
“No, I had a chai latte.” Bree decided, then and there, she probably would never have one again. Those smoky, spicy exotic flavors would remind her of a surprisingly pleasant evening—and forbidden longings—for as long as she lived.
“Oh, you’re all glowy.”
Bree was pretty sure glowy was not a word, not that she wanted to argue the point.
“What has happened to the table?” Bree asked, not wanting to encourage an interrogation from Chelsea. “It’s a mess.”
“Oh! About ten minutes before Crystal Silvers started to sing, the people just started to pour through the front door. They were on me like the barbarian hordes. Just grabbing things, ripping open boxes, uninvited. I have tidied, you know. There were wrappers all over the place. Anyway, somehow samples made it back to the lady herself. She sent out an assistant to tell me she loved our cookies, to expect a big order for her birthday blowout.”
It was more than Bree had hoped for! So why did she feel curiously flat about it?
If that came through, along with the extra business from Perks, there would be no time for thinking about happily-ever-after, or lack thereof, as the case might be.
Thank goodness.
“Oh, there goes the glowy look,” Chelsea said. “The frown line is back. Miss Worry rides again.”
Bree deliberately relaxed her forehead. She hadn’t even realized until tonight she was endangering her chances of aging gracefully because of her perpetual frown. Despite the fact she knew better than to encourage Chelsea, she could not stop herself from asking.
“What color would you say my hair was?”
Chelsea regarded Bree’s hair, flummoxed, clearly thinking this was a trick question that she was not going to answer correctly.
“Brown?” she finally ventured.
Bree nodded sadly. “Just as I thought.”
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