Boxed Set: The Baker & the Billionaire Read online

  If only I was someone different. If only I was the sort of person that could have looked him in the eye a little more, or found some way to flirt with him—at least make intelligent conversation. ‘Do you come here often?’ Urgh. How awkward.

  As I put the key into the ignition, I realized I hadn’t even bothered to get his name. That was another thing other girls would have done—get his name. The brave ones might have even asked if he was single, then fluttered their eyelashes at him.

  That hadn’t even occurred to me. I’d been too busy feeling like a clumsy ox.

  Probably just as well. Men were never interested in me. Not once they saw my sister, anyway.

  Chapter 3

  When I got back to the cabin, Erica was nowhere to be found. I guessed she was still at the Lodge, or somewhere else in the village. Not that she would have helped me unload the groceries anyway.

  I had a plan for Erica’s meals throughout the week, and rarely strayed from it—as soon as the perishables were put away, I started pulling tools out of the cabinets to get food prepped. After preheating the oven, I placed half a dozen chicken breasts in a pan with a little olive oil, salt and pepper. Next, I rinsed a pound of quinoa and set that to cook on the stove. I pulled out the rice cooker and steamer which I’d requested be included with the other kitchen appliances and began cooking brown rice; later I’d steam broccoli and other vegetables, which I now washed and chopped.

  I peeled and diced a dozen apples and cooked them over low heat with raw honey and cinnamon. When they were soft, I would mash them with a potato masher for a natural applesauce Erica usually ate along with homemade trail mix and hard-boiled eggs before her afternoon training. Chicken breasts would be sliced up and packed with quinoa and vegetables for lunch. Brown rice was for dinner, which would be eaten with poached or grilled fish and more veggies.

  Each task was done methodically, and I felt the stress of the day melt away as I worked. Cooking had always been my meditation. Some sat in the lotus position for hours. Some burned incense and chanted. I baked and sautéed.

  While I did, I tried not to think too much about the man from the grocery store. Flirting and romance… that wasn’t in the cards for me. It never had been—if it was going to happen, it would have by now.

  I’d never had a boyfriend, and had only ever hooked up with one guy before. I found out later that his friends had dared him to pick me up at a bar.

  I’d fallen right for it. I remembered how thrilled I’d felt at the bar when he approached me, and how excited I’d been when he suggested we go back to my place. Finally, I had thought, I’m just like the other girls. The ones I saw on TV and in movies, who had full lives that included sex.

  My need to believe had been so strong that I hadn’t noticed his friends laughing on the other side of the room. Afterward, back at my apartment, I had even asked him if he’d like to get together for coffee some time. That’s when he’d snickered and said he was only in it to get his Fat Card. I could still remember that pain in my chest as he’d jumped into his friend’s truck, parked outside, and they’d all driven away laughing. The binge eating had started in earnest, then. It had taken me a long time to bring it back under control.

  To stop thinking about it, I decided to try my hand at making protein balls. I’d come across a few recipes online over time and, like always, I was inspired to create my own version. It was why I’d studied culinary arts, and why I dreamed of owning my own bakery one day—I loved cooking and baking and experimenting.

  My reflection looked back at me from the glass of the wall mounted oven. I loved eating, too. And it showed.

  No, I told myself. Don’t go down that path. That negative voice in my head was popping up again, always so ready to jump on the slightest chance to tear me down further. Meeting that cute guy must have triggered it. I’d learned over the years to spot that voice and fight it. It was hard, though. And I didn’t always win.

  I guess it was like any addiction, I thought as I mashed up the cooked apples, their fragrant aroma making my mouth water. Some people were addicted to alcohol, others to drugs. My therapist had told me I was addicted to making myself feel bad, and I used food as a device to hurt.

  For years I was a binge eater. I used to sneak food, cramming it into my mouth while standing in front of the open refrigerator. I would hide candy bars and donuts under my bed and spend all day looking forward to the moment when I could lock the bedroom door and be alone with my treasure. After the worst binges, the ones that involved whole bags of cookies and loaves of bread slathered in butter, I would purge. Those were dark times.

  The therapist helped me to understand that I’d been acting this way in an attempt to give myself the love and attention I’d been missing out on. It wasn’t easy, always being outshone by my sister.

  The saddest part was that this sort of vicious cycle was self-perpetuating. I’d eat to feel better, which would make me feel worse about myself. So I’d eat to soothe my negative feelings. Which made me hate myself even more. And so on, and so forth.

  The face of my grocery store hero flashed through my mind. Would things have gone differently if I’d had the courage to talk to him like a normal person? I might have his phone number, or he might have mine. Maybe we would have made plans to get together. I’d get dressed up and we’d go to a restaurant, or to some bar in the village. We would talk about ourselves and ask questions about each other. And we’d laugh a lot—he was that sort of person.

  And then what? Maybe we’d come back here. We’d sit together in front of the fire and talk quietly, both of us with a glass of wine. We’d sit so close our knees would touch, and eventually he would lean in and kiss me. I would revel in his kiss, and it would linger forever. He’d be an excellent kisser, of course; he’d have lots of practice, being as hot as he was.

  Then I would feel his hands on either side of my face. They would travel slowly down my neck, onto my shoulders and then down my arms. One of his arms would wind around my waist to hold me closer, while the other hand would travel down my leg. As we kissed, I would feel his fingers gripping my thigh; I would know that he was just barely holding himself back, and I’d wish he wouldn’t try so hard…

  But I didn’t even know his name, did I? I was standing in the kitchen, making food, not making out. I felt that old familiar anxiety bubble up inside of me. The feeling that I would never be good enough, never measure up to women like my sister or the million other ski bunnies here at the resort. They were all tall, and lean, and most of them blonde. They’d be able to wear the skin-tight Lycra I never could. They’d be able to meet someone at a grocery store and make something out of it.

  I looked at the protein balls—enough for a week. Maybe I should eat them all now. It wasn’t like I could ever compete with the ski bunnies anyway.

  I took a deep breath, hands trembling, then stepped away from the food. That old familiar urge was sweeping over me, but I could fight it. Eating until I felt sick wouldn’t do me any good—when I was finished eating, my feelings would still be the same. I walked out onto the balcony, determined to stop thinking about boys, stop thinking about ski bunnies, and stop thinking about food.

  Chapter 4

  The following day, Erica came limping back from her morning training session.

  “Didn’t you get my calls?” she asked in exasperation as I helped her to the sofa. I frowned; my phone had been on me at all times, and I told her so.

  “Oh, terrific. There’s probably no signal in this stupid cabin.”

  “What happened?” I asked, ignoring the complaint. I didn’t think the cabin was stupid at all.

  “I pulled my right quad,” she grimaced. “It’s super tight. I can’t risk this; competition starts in two days, for god’s sake.”

  “You’ll be just fine,” I assured her. “You know you’ve been pushing too hard lately; even the trainers at home told you so.”

  She grumbled as she folded her arms behind her head. “I called you to see if y
ou could come rub it down for me.”

  I frowned, but kept my voice light. “Don’t they have people there who can do that for you? People who’ve actually studied and know how to treat things like this?”

  Erica turned to look up at me. “But you’re better at it,” she whined.

  “Rubbing your gross, sweaty feet is not my job, Erica,” I said flatly.

  She rolled her eyes. “Your job is to do whatever it takes to make me win.” Then she pulled a face, suddenly vulnerable. “You do want me to win, don’t you?”

  I sighed. “Fine. But just this once.” I started kneading the muscles along the back of Erica’s thigh. Why was Erica always like this? She actually expected that I would have come running when I got her phone call. Even though the trainers and therapists knew much better than I did how to do this. And it was their job.

  It wasn’t entirely Erica’s fault that she expected everyone in her life to drop things for her. That was the way it had always gone, from the time she was very young.

  “How did training go this morning, aside from the pull?” I asked. I found a knot in the muscle and felt her tense up. “Relax,” I murmured.

  “Before this, it was fine,” she said. “I was outpacing everybody else.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, knowingly. “I thought so. You’re pushing too hard.”

  She sighed heavily. “That’s how I win, Lib. That’s my job.”

  “It’s not your job to hurt yourself. Next time it might be worse than a pull, Eri. It could be much worse. I would never want to see you hurt yourself just because you were fixated on outpacing everybody else at the gym.”

  She was silent for a long time. Then she spoke, and when she did her voice was small. “Have you seen some of the other competitors? They’re bigger than me, stronger than me. Faster than me. Some of them have been skiing since they learned how to walk, for god’s sake.”

  “I’m sure,” I said quietly. “But I’ve seen you out there. You’re gifted. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Gifted isn’t enough,” she said, lip trembling. “Everybody here is gifted. I don’t think I’m going to make it, sis.”

  My hands paused on her leg. I’d never heard Erica open up like this. She almost sounded… vulnerable. How much actually went on in her head that she never shared with anyone else?

  I resumed rubbing her thigh. “You’re going to be just fine,” I said soothingly. “I believe in you.”

  I continued to massage the strained muscle, making soothing sounds at Erica. She eventually relaxed, and began to tell me about her morning.

  My own morning had involved a long walk around the village. Where we were staying was like something out of a painting, each vantage point a more breathtaking view than the last. But I hadn’t taken any of the sights in—I’d spent the entire time looking for my mystery man.

  I hadn’t found him. But what if I had? I wouldn’t be here massaging Erica’s leg, that was for sure. I imagined that he was the sort of person who liked simple pleasures; after all, the chocolate croissants at the grocery store bakery were his favorite things in the world. Maybe we’d be out walking, or just sitting with a coffee, enjoying a view. I knew he would take as much pleasure in this place as I did.

  In my daydream, I could see myself telling him about the spectacular view from the deck behind the cabin where we were staying. He’d tell me he’d like to check it out for himself, and we’d walk back together. I’d lead him to the deck and watch the smile that would spread over his face, and then I’d smile too. I sighed—even in a fantasy I wasn’t sure what was more beautiful, the view of the peaks around us, or him.

  “Hello? Are you still there?”

  I blinked rapidly, shaking the daydream from my thoughts. My hands were lying completely still against Erica’s leg. “Did you fall asleep or something?”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, and got back to work.

  She grumbled to herself and closed her eyes. “Anyway, like I was saying, I don’t have a choice but to train as hard as I can. It’s all or nothing now. This is what everything’s been leading up to. All the skiing and training and working over the years has been for this. I can’t slack off.”

  I blinked several times, forcing my attention on the conversation. “You can train without burning yourself out, though,” I said. “Once you reach burnout, that’s it. There has to be a middle ground.”

  She scoffed. “How would you know? You’ve never done an athletic thing in your life.”

  My eyes narrowed. So much for the brief connection we’d shared.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to feel this sort of pressure.” She continued. “Having Mom and Dad’s hopes pinned on you, feeling like you can’t lose or else you’ll be letting them down. I mean, nobody has ever expected anything from you.”

  I pulled my hands back and sat with them in my lap. “Erica, that’s not fair.”

  “I know, right?” she said, misinterpreting my tone. “Seriously, what I wouldn’t give to be born with your body—nobody would ever expect me to do anything then.”

  My mouth dropped open.

  “Instead,” she continued, “I have to do everything, and you get to laze around all day eating croissants—don’t think I didn’t see it there in the fridge.” She sprang up from the couch. “Thanks for the massage, sis!” she said blithely, testing her leg. Then she walked to the stairs. “You’re really good at that. Let’s do it again tomorrow!”

  Chapter 5

  I was so angry with Erica I didn’t know what to do with myself. She had showered, eaten the food I’d taken all morning to prepare, and then left for afternoon training as though nothing had ever happened. Her words had hurt me, and the most frustrating thing about it all was she didn’t even know it.

  The last straw came when, just as I’d finished cooking her dinner, I received a text saying that she’d be home late, and not to wait up. She’d been invited to a cocktail reception, but could I get things ready for training tomorrow?

  I scraped her dinner into the bin, folded my apron and left it on the counter, and then marched up to my room. If anybody deserved a drink right now, it was me. I was not going to stay behind and play Cinderella while she went off and had a good time.

  I put on a long, flowing tunic sweater in a shade of purple that brought out my eyes, and paired it with gray leggings and boots. I freshened up my makeup and did a quick job on my hair with a curling iron, leaving it wavy and full.

  I remembered Erica once asking why I bothered to make myself look nice. As if I would have been better off walking around in a sack cloth. With that in mind I added a little red lipstick just for the heck of it.

  15 minutes later I was at O’Hoolihan’s Pub. It was busy; surprising, since it was early in the evening. There were no empty tables and only two free stools at the bar when I walked in. I took one for myself, then ordered a bourbon. It was at the end of the bar furthest from the door, and it gave me a good view of the people going in and out.

  I sat back, sipping, and looked around. O’Hoolihan’s was a cozy place, full of the sort of atmosphere you’d hope a mountainside pub would have; lots of warm wood and a blazing fire in the large hearth along the far wall. The people were all absolutely beautiful, too. I guessed it made sense —you didn’t come to a place like this and not do physical activity all day. That is, unless you were me. There was so much glowing skin here it might hurt my eyes, and I swear every second bunny that walked through the door had breast implants and a rib removed. I was glad to be sitting in the corner.

  Suddenly, movement caught my eye. I felt my heartbeat quicken. I couldn’t believe it.

  He looked just as delicious as he had the day before at the grocery store, no longer in grocery store chic, but instead in a cream colored turtleneck and soft wool scarf. I could almost see the brilliant green of his eyes from all the way across the bar. He took off his coat, chatting with a couple who had gotten his attention, and I watched as his muscles flexed bene
ath the tight sweater. My breath caught in my throat.

  Without the hat covering his head, I could see the deep shade of chocolate in his hair. It was thick, and slightly wavy. I imagined running my fingers through it.

  As if he’d heard my thoughts, his eyes drifted over the people in the bar, and then suddenly settled on me. I felt my own eyes widen in surprise; a deer trapped in headlights. But then he smiled, just as he had when we first met. He excused himself from the people he was talking to, and made his way toward me.

  “Hey!” he said, “You’re here! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  I blushed furiously, averting my eyes. Why had he even considered the possibility of seeing me again? He must be talking to someone else…

  But no, the stool to my left was still empty. Timidly, I looked up at him. “Hi.”

  His smile was brilliant. “I’m Jax,” he said. Then he held out his hand.

  A thrill spiked across my skin—he actually wanted to talk to me! In the grocery store, I’d wished I was the sort of person that could have asked for his number. I didn’t think I’d ever be that brave, but with a bourbon under my belt, I could tell him my name. “I’m Libby,” I replied, taking his hand. His grip was strong and firm.

  “Are you here with friends, Libby?” Jax asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t actually have any friends up here. It’s just me and my sister. I told you she’s a skier, right?”

  “Sure you did. But you never told me much about you.” He looked around the room, probably for the person he’d come here to meet. When he saw what he was after, he turned back to me. “Be right back,” he said. Then he smiled, and walked away.

  I sat back in my chair and drained my glass. What did I expect? That he’d want to spend the evening with me? A guy that good looking must surely have a date.