Jack (7 Brides for 7 Soldiers Book 5) Read online

  “These hipsters and their clean diets. Look, everyone wants the waterfront,” the scheduler had said, as if there were hordes of people willing to prepare the Dinner Magic meals for the inadequate amount of money the chefs were paid. “You’ll work your way up to that.”

  “I wasn’t...that’s not what I—”

  “We’ll be in touch next week,” she’d said, and had hung up.

  Whitney was not complaining about having the downtown area as her assigned territory. She was unreasonably thankful to have a job—any job. She would rather eat dirt every day for a year than throw in the towel and go home to Mom and Dad. So, she sucked it up like the buttercup she was, and summoned an Uber to take her to Whole Foods to buy some organic sausage.

  It happened that Jack Carter lived in a building with a doorman close to the store. That was great, because it was Labor Day, and a march was blocking the streets. “Equal pay for equal work!” shouted a group of women walking past Whitney as she made her way down the street carrying two stuffed shopping bags, plus her tote bag. The tote bag refused to stay on her shoulder, however, and slid down her arm to her wrist and banged into her leg. Whitney gladly would have paid any of those women to help her carry the load.

  By the time she reached Jack Carter’s building, her auburn hair had blown across her eyes and was blocking her sight. Frank, the doorman, held the door open for her. “Hi, Whitney,” he said as she banged through.

  “Hi, Frank.”

  “Got your arms full, huh? Any cupcakes in that box?”

  “I just happen to have an extra one.” She winked. She put her load down, then pulled a small pastry box from the tote. From that, she withdrew a cupcake she’d fashioned to look like a hot air balloon.

  “Awesome.” Frank grinned. “Never seen anyone make cupcakes like these. Thank you!”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Can I carry anything for you?”

  “No thanks, I’ve got it.” She put her tote bag on her shoulder and hoisted her bags.

  Frank escorted her across the marble-tiled lobby to the bank of elevators and pushed the button. “I’ll call up and let him know you’re on the way,” he said, as she stepped into the open elevator. He waved as the doors closed.

  The ride up to the eighteenth floor was silent and smooth, and the doors slid open onto a carpeted hallway with access to four apartments. Whitney stepped out, adjusting the bags in her hands again. She really needed to get one of those rolling coolers, which, of course, someone had suggested to her on her first day on the job. But she was trying to hold on to every cent where she could—renting and renovating a bakery was going to be expensive.

  She started down the hall and realized that Buster, who usually waited for her in the open doorway, was not there. And the door was closed.

  She put everything down when she reached the door, shoved her hair out of her face, and knocked.

  She waited, hands on hips. There was no answer, no panting dog. She glanced at her watch. She was not late, she was prompt—four o’clock, Monday afternoon, the time he had selected. He was supposed to be here—that was the rule. You miss your time, you miss your supper. Whitney knocked again and waited.

  Nothing.

  She tried the handle, more to confirm her suspicion he was gone than to actually open the door, but lo and behold, it swung open and banged against the wall with a thud, startling her. “Sorry!” she shouted into the apartment. “Hello? Mr. Carter?”

  It was eerily quiet.

  “Great,” she muttered irritably. It was a strict rule that Dinner Magic cooks were not to enter empty houses or apartments. But she was meeting her friend Louisa—who happened to be her realtor—at six, and she didn’t have time to wait around. Nor was she particularly inclined to come back later. And what was she supposed to do with all the ingredients she’d just bought?

  Whitney debated the rules vs. convenience. Her misgivings aside, she was not going to let Creep Factor Four make her lose out on pay. So she squatted down, picked up the bags with an oof, and walked into his apartment.

  Inside, she slid the bags onto the bar and deposited her tote bag onto a stool. She peered down the hallway, but there was no blue glow of a computer. She thought about walking down there to have a look, but that seemed a little too invasive.

  Instead, she removed her jacket and began to take out the things she’d need for the meal. She put the cupcakes she’d made on a plate, and slid that onto the bar. But before she dipped down to grab a skillet from the cabinet, she paused to glance around his apartment. It was nice, especially compared to some others she’d been in. The kitchen was small, but modern, with gleaming appliances and granite countertops. It opened into a living area with a view of the city and a glimpse of the waterfront where, at dusk, lights twinkled along the shore. Built-in bookcases stuffed with books and a few photos framed the fireplace.

  Whitney had never ventured past the kitchen. She was usually intent on getting in and out, but today, curiosity got the best of her. So she was a snoop—she’d own it—but she was going to have a peek.

  She walked across plush carpeting to look at the photos. One was of seven boys obviously taken several years ago, judging by their clothes. They were in a classroom. One of the boys had a black eye, and on the other end, one had a split lip. One stood in the back—he looked like the one in charge. The other four were arranged in various forms of insouciance and laziness, but one of them was grinning as if he knew something the others didn’t.

  There was another photo of a couple, their cheeks pressed together in a selfie pose. And a third framed photo of an older couple, seated in a typical Olan Mills fashion, man in back, woman before him, their heads tilted at strange angles. Last but not least was a picture of Buster the basset hound on a plush rug somewhere with a giant bone decorated for Christmas at his feet.

  Whitney moved on to the books. Jack Carter apparently liked fiction, mostly military thrillers. There were also some history tomes scattered on the shelves, two atlases, a couple of do-it-yourself books, a few biographies and memoirs. She would have to give the creep props for at least being a man who read.

  She started back to the kitchen but at the end of the bar, she happened to glance down the hallway. What did he do in that room with the computer? To have a look was invasive and rude and irresponsible. She was good and ashamed to even think it…but she still wanted to look.

  Whitney took a few tentative steps in that direction, but she inadvertently brushed against her tote bag with her arm and sent it flying off the stool and crashing, bottom up, onto the tiled floor. She shrieked a little with the surprise of it, then quickly bent down to scoop up the contents that were now rolling around the tiled floor. A comb she never used, her wallet, her phone, a makeup bag, a pedometer that she could never remember to clip on, a little Lego man one of the brats had thrown into her bag, and a wire whisk that had made it all the way into the hall.

  She was shoving it all back into her tote bag when the front door suddenly opened and a panting dog raced toward her and slid into her, licking her face before she could even register that she had company.

  “Buster! All right already!” she exclaimed and tried to paw him off, but had to grab him by the scruff of the neck. “Okay,” she said again, and scratched his chest before finding her feet. She wished for a hair tie, pushed her hair out of her face—and noticed the bare legs of a man.

  Fabulous—this was how she would finally make his acquaintance, snooping around his apartment. She glanced up.

  Well, this was a nice surprise—her client was cute. He had skin the color of a mocha latte and a smile so sparkling she was momentarily dazzled. “Hi.” She beamed at him with a little more enthusiasm than she probably ought to have shown. “We meet at last!” She stuck out her hand. “Whitney Baldwin, at your service.” At your service?

  “At my service?” he echoed, taking her hand.

  “I mean, we haven’t actually met,” she corrected, and shook his hand—hearti
ly—before she let go.

  “Yeah.” He swiped off his beanie cap to run his hand through his hair. “I haven’t walked Buster in a week or so. I guess Jack’s been walking him.”

  Whitney blinked. “You’re not Jack?”

  The man laughed. “I’m Rain,” he said. “His dog walker.”

  And just like that, a flock of wedding doves fell back to earth. Wasn’t that always the case? The cute guy was never the one you were cooking for. “I’m sorry. I…I thought you were Jack.”

  “He’s not here?” He sounded surprised. “He’ll be back soon. He never goes far.” Rain smiled, leaned down to scratch Buster behind the ears, then walked past Whitney, into the kitchen, and picked up Buster’s dog bowl. He filled it with water. “Are you the housekeeper?” he asked. “I thought it looked a little cleaner around here.”

  “Ah, no. I’m with Dinner Magic.”

  “Dinner what?”

  “Magic. It’s a meal delivery that comes with a cook.”

  He looked utterly confused by that, but shrugged. “Sweet.” He put the dog bowl on the floor for Buster. When he stood, his gaze fell to the cupcakes. Cupcakes were her specialty. Dinner Magic didn’t know it, but she left a pair at every client’s house.

  “Would you like one?” She picked up the plate, offering them to him.

  “Are you kidding? Yeah.” Rain selected one and held it up. “A balloon! Very cool.” He nodded with appreciation. “Thanks! Okay, gotta jet. I’ve got a date with a pair of Dobermans. See you tomorrow, buddy,” he said to the dog.

  Buster responded with a thump of this tail. He’d already splayed himself in the middle of the kitchen, apparently spent from his walk.

  “See you around, Magic,” Rain said with a charming little wink, and passed her, leaving the scent of woods and sweat and man lingering in the kitchen.

  “See you,” she said dreamily, and watched Rain go. When the door closed behind him, she realized she was still clutching her tote bag, and shoved it onto a stool. “You might have mentioned your walker was hot,” she scolded Buster.

  The dog’s tail thumped once on the floor.

  “So what, you’re going to just lay there and wait for scraps?”

  “I think this is yours.”

  Whitney’s heart skipped at the sound of a deeply masculine and oddly familiar voice. She whirled around, prepared to defend herself.

  A tall man stood before her. His jaw was covered with the dark shadow of an afternoon beard, and he’d brushed his hair behind his ears. He wore a rumpled T-shirt and shorts. She knew the breathtaking man with the piercing dark-brown eyes and full lips was Jack Carter. She fleetingly acknowledged that he was not physically deformed, not even close. Neither did he look high—he looked as if he’d just woken up. But strangely, he was also sweaty, as though he’d jogged up the eighteen floors.

  His appearance confused her. She glanced at the door Rain had just gone out. “Did you just come in? Is there another door?” She looked around her.

  He didn’t speak. He stared at her with intensity, as though he thought she was going to do something. He held something in his hand, and as he slowly lifted it and held out his palm, Whitney saw that he was holding a tampon.

  She stared at the tampon. Her tampon, an escapee from her tote. And the realization left her momentarily speechless and unwilling to claim it. “That’s not mine,” she said.

  One of his dark brows arched above the other. “It’s definitely not mine.” He leaned forward very carefully, his gaze still locked on hers, and put it on the bar.

  He was staring at her so hard that Whitney self-consciously swept the back of her hand across her cheek, expecting to find something there, like another nose. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  The question seemed to surprise him. He abruptly straightened and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I…you…you’re smaller than I thought, that’s all.”

  “Smaller?”

  “I thought you were bigger.”

  She glanced down at her average height, average body. “You thought I was bigger?”

  He shrugged and pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. “You make a lot of noise.”

  “I do not make a lot of noise.”

  He gave a curt little nod as if to say she did.

  “Okay, fine—I whistle when I work. But if I was being too loud, you could have come out and told me.”

  His jaw clenched. “I suppose.”

  He supposed? She opened her mouth to say something about that, but he said, “What happened to my cupcakes?”

  Feeling a tiny bit miffed he’d judged her, practically sight unseen, to be big and loud, she flicked her gaze to the lone cupcake. “Technically, they’re my cupcakes.”

  His brows dipped in confusion.

  “And I gave one to your dog walker.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is that allowed?”

  “It’s allowed.”

  His eyes narrowed more. “Is feeding my dog table scraps allowed, too?”

  Whitney glared at Buster.

  “He’s allergic to chicken. It makes for a malodorous night,” he added.

  So Buster had betrayed her. “Sorry,” she said. Not sorry. “I should get started.” She turned around before he could make a federal case out of a few extra treats with that jarringly sexy body of his.

  Three

  Jack didn’t know what the dinner girl meant by the cupcakes being “technically hers,” but he did not want her giving them away. After he and Buster determined they were not poisoned, they were the food he looked forward to the most. First, they were delicious, perfectly moist, and always amusing. And second, those cupcakes were his damn beta-blockers, so it was a pretty big deal if one went missing.

  “For the record,” he said, “the cupcakes are the best part of this meal business.”

  Her face lit with unreasonable pleasure that he might prefer cupcakes to sausage. He had his issues, but he wasn’t a moron. “Really?” she asked.

  “Really,” he said uncertainly.

  She suddenly smiled with…what was that, delight? It was delight. He would have been suspicious of that, but she had a really pretty smile. And even if he hadn’t been very suave about the tampon, her cheeks had taken on an appealingly rosy hue when she said it wasn’t hers. He liked her long, shaggy brown hair, and her big gray-blue eyes that sparkled in the light of his kitchen. To think that all this time, he’d imagined someone more along the lines of a school cafeteria lunch lady. She was no lunch lady.

  “Thank you! I make them myself. I mean, I actually bake them. From scratch. But not here.” She waved off his oven. “At home. They’re my thing. I’m Whitney Baldwin, by the way. And you have to be Jack Carter, or I’m having a very weird conversation with a stranger right now.” She thrust her hand forward in greeting.

  “Ah…” Jack wiped his damp palm on his T-shirt and reluctantly took her hand. “I’m Jack Carter,” he agreed. He didn’t say more, because he was suddenly very aware that her fingers were long and slender. He’d forgotten how soft and delicate a woman’s hand felt in his. Good God, was he holding on too long? He was holding on too long, because she pulled her hand free.

  “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you.” She smiled broadly at him. “Even if you did think I was big and loud. But to be fair, I thought something was wrong with you.”

  Was it so obvious?

  “Not wrong,” she amended, and pushed her shaggy hair over her shoulder. “But maybe horribly disfigured?” She laughed, as if disfigurement was somehow amusing. “Because you never came out,” she clarified, fluttering her fingers toward the hallway. “I mean, I didn’t really think you were horribly disfigured—well, actually, I wondered once or twice—but I was just trying to guess why you didn’t come out.”

  Her cheeks took on that rosy hue again, and Jack liked looking at her cheeks. And in truth, he was horribly disfigured—but on the inside. “Yeah.” He ran his hand over the top of his head, uncertain ho
w to explain himself. “I’ve, ah…I have some pretty hard deadlines for work.” True. And yet, not so true. “That’s why I’ve been getting a meal service. No time.” So untrue. He shoved his hands in his pockets again, fisting them, gripping to hold on to himself. “You made the cupcakes?” he asked, focusing on the hot air balloon. “For me?”

  “Well…not just you,” she said with a bit of a giggle, as if that were preposterous. “For all my clients. I’m a baker. And a baker’s gonna bake.” She grinned. “Get it?”

  Get what? What was he supposed to get?

  “That’s a play on a hater’s gonna hate.”

  Jack stared at her.

  “It’s a saying.” She made a strange little gesture with her slender hand. “A cultural reference.”

  What was she talking about?

  “Oooh-kay,” she muttered.

  He wasn’t following, but then again, Whitney was seriously attractive and that was interfering with his brain function. He hadn’t been this close to a woman in a very long time. This woman was still talking about cupcakes. “Anyhoo, I make cupcakes because that’s what I love. Baking. I’m a baker.”

  “A chef,” he said, because that was what he’d been told by Dinner Magic, whose services he’d fully investigated. Whose service he’d finally chosen because the chefs were fully bonded and background checked, and their experience verified. He’d grilled the Dinner Magic offices on this particular issue.

  “No, a baker. I’m not a chef at all,” she said cheerfully, which only served to ratchet up Jack’s anxiety.

  He was very careful about what he ate. With Dinner Magic, he knew exactly what the ingredients were and that the chef knew how to prepare them so that he didn’t get sick. He couldn’t get sick, because if he did, he couldn’t go to a crowded hospital. That was out of the question.

  “Oh no…you wanted a real chef,” she said, wincing apologetically. “I’m sorry. They say chef on the website, but seriously, any monkey could follow these recipes. You could follow these recipes.” She paused, thought expediently about what she’d said, and blanched. She started to wave her hand as though she were trying to erase the words from the air between them. “I so did not mean that like it sounded,” she said. “I’m not a monkey—you’re certainly not a monkey. I was just trying to make a point—badly—that these recipes are delicious and easy to make, and you don’t need a French-trained chef to make them.”