The Hand-Picked Bride

“You know, your eyes—they’re really strange.”

He said it as though he’d just discovered something he was sure no one else had ever noticed before. As though it would be news to her. She paused and drummed her fingers on the counter. Talk about her eyes was old hat. She’d heard it all before. Too many times.

But he wasn’t going to let it go. “Your eyes. They’re just so...so...”

She raised her gaze to meet his, giving him the full treatment and watching him react with a wonder mixed with impatience. It was odd what her eyes sometimes did to people. They felt like normal eyes to her, but most passersby did a double take when they noticed them. She’d gone through periods where she’d cursed having such attention getters, and gone through periods where she’d been downright proud she was different in some way. Lately she’d just been bored with the whole thing. She had a life to live and attention to her unique eyes got in the way.

She watched as he struggled for words to describe them. “All-seeing?” she suggested, only slightly sarcastic. “All-knowing?”

He frowned, his face quite serious as he studied her. “No, that’s not it.”

Her wide mouth quirked at the corners. At least he wasn’t merely pandering. “Eerie? Outlandish? Creepy?” This was actually starting to be fun as his expressive face reacted to each word she threw out. “Otherworldly?”

“No. Not exactly.” He was shaking his head, his straight, dark brows drawn together in concentration.

She widened her eyes dramatically and batted the lashes. “Spooky?” she guessed.

He shook his head. “No, not at all. They’re quite beautiful. They...they give me shivers.”

He wasn’t kidding. There was something in his tone, something in the light in his eyes, that caught her up short. He had the look of someone who’d just seen something that had touched him, found a chord in his soul and elicited a response, like someone who’d heard a beautiful piece of classical music that had surprised him by sending emotion slicing through him.

Their gazes seemed to lock, and things on the street behind them seemed to fade and run like watercolors. She felt funny, light-headed, and she shook herself, as though to bring back reality.

“What?” he said, looking at her strangely.

“I didn’t say anything,” she told him, trying very hard to frown. She stared at him for a beat too long, then recovered her senses and made an impatient gesture meant to encourage him to move on.

“Look, I’m really going to be busy here in a few minutes, and I need to get things ready. So if you don’t mind...”

“No, I don’t mind,” he murmured, but his words didn’t really make any sense.

She hesitated, then turned from him and set up her cash box, determined to ignore him if he wouldn’t go away. And for the first time, he seemed to rouse himself from his trance, to take in the booth and the baked items she’d been arranging on her counter.

“What’s all this?” he asked, blinking as though he’d just woken up.

She put her hands on her hips and swept the counter with an evaluating glance and began a catalog. “Bear claws. German Chocolate cake. Almond cookies...”

“I know, I know.” He gave the items another look, then met her gaze. “What I mean is, where did you get these pastries? They look great.”

She shrugged and said simply, “I made them.”

He frowned. “You?”

That certainly set her teeth on edge. This was what she hated about men. It happened every time. Just because she had what many considered a pretty face and a pleasing figure and those startling eyes—just because she was a blonde—it always seemed to come as a total surprise to men that she might have a talent or two up her sleeve. Sometimes she thought they actually resented it—as though she were supposed to concentrate on being attractive and leave the hard work to the homely chicks. Her jaw set. For a moment she’d thought he might be different. Wrong again.

“Yes, me,” she said, barely holding back the impulse to snap. “All by myself in my own little apartment kitchen.”

“You’re kidding.” He gazed at the wares before him and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “If you can do this in a little kitchen,” he murmured almost to himself. “Imagine what you could do with commercial ovens at your disposal.”

She blinked. Just when she’d been ready to pigeonhole him, he’d surprised her again. She hesitated and shrugged. If he was interested in bakery items, far be it from her to discourage him. Customers were what she lived for.

“Would you like to try one?” she asked.

“Yes, I would,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “Let’s see...how about a slice of cheesecake. And a Napoleon. And one of those cherry tarts.”

She blinked and started to laugh. “All three?”

He grinned and nodded as though he were glad she was showing signs that she might warm up eventually. “All three.”

She shrugged, amused but at a loss. “Do you want me to box them?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ll try them here. Put them on separate plates, please.”

Now she was completely confused. It seemed a little early in the morning for gluttony, and he really didn’t seem the type. Then a possible answer occurred to her.

“Oh, do you have friends with you?” she asked, craning to look behind him. There were others on the street. The place was beginning to come to life. But there was no one who looked as though he or she belonged to this strange man.

“No,” he said, confirming her original judgment. “There’s only me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh.”

The man wanted three pastries and that was what he should have. She glanced back to make sure Kevin was busily playing with his blocks, then pulled out three paper plates and went to work, picking out nice specimens and setting all three plates on a tray. He put a few bills down on the counter and took the tray from her, murmuring his thanks. Taking the plastic fork she’d provided, he took a bite of the cheesecake and rolled it around on his tongue. She leaned back against a stack of boxes with her arms folded, watching curiously, as his eyes seemed to get a very distant look. Either the man loved cheesecake or he was a very discerning connoisseur.

When the bite was finished, he prodded the confection with the fork, examining the crust, mashing the creamy center through the tines in a way that made her wince. Then he turned to the Napoleon and did the same to it before popping a large bite into his mouth.

She frowned, toying with the idea of saying something to him about his unusual way of eating, but before she had a chance, Kevin threw a block out of the playpen and she bent to retrieve it. When she rose again, she turned and found the man breaking apart the cherry tart as though he might find something sinister hidden in its depths. She handed the block to her son absently, frowning as she watched the man put a taste of the tart in his mouth and narrow his eyes. He looked as though he were listening to something she couldn’t quite hear, and as she watched, she had to hold back a flash of annoyance.

What the heck was he doing, anyway? Didn’t he have any respect for decent food? She bit her tongue. After all, he’d bought the pastries. She had no right to complain about the way he ate them. But she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it at all.

Oblivious to her emotions, he looked at her again, nodded with a trace of a smile and put the plate down, reaching for a napkin. “Thanks,” he said as he wiped away a few crumbs. “Great stuff.”

She stepped forward and looked at the tray in dismay. He’d had one bite of each and done a lot of damage along the way. “That’s it? You’re not going to finish them?”

He let out a short laugh. “Are you kidding? I’d turn into a bowling ball if I ate whole portions.” He tossed his napkin into her trash can.

“Listen, I work with food. I have to test it all the time. And I’ve got to say, these are some dam good pastries.”

She looked from him to the demolished plates again, still at sea. “I...I’m glad you like them.”

He nodded, thinking. “I do.” He looked her up and down, assessing more than her baking abilities. A smile lit his eyes and he nodded as though agreeing with something he’d just thought of. “Listen, how would you like to come work for me?”

“For you?” She drew back suspiciously. She hadn’t expected anything like this. “Doing what?”

“Believe it or not, I need a pastry chef.” He pulled out his wallet again and found a business card to show her. “I’ve got a restaurant, the Max Grill in Pasadena. Our pastry chef quit last month and we’ve been making do with a local bakery.” He gestured toward her wares. “I like what you’ve got here. How about giving it a try?”

She studied the card to keep from meeting his gaze. The Max Grill. She’d heard of it, though she’d never eaten there. Her budget ran more to fast-food hamburger stands.

“I don’t think so,” she told him, holding the card out to him. “Thanks anyway.”