Holding You Series

HOLDING YOU

Chapter One

“Here’s all you have to know about men and women: women are crazy, men are stupid. And the main reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.” ~George Carlin

Leaving the Midwest was my goal. I craved oceans and mountains. So when I got my big chance to make my escape, I loaded up the moving truck and said goodbye to Chicago and hello to … Milwaukee. My mom, God rest her soul, was right when she said, “Mother knows best,” and “Bloom where you’re planted.”

Milwaukee was magnificent in the spring. I loved living by the water. It wasn’t the Atlantic or Pacific, but Lake Michigan wasn’t a shabby body of water. The majestic view never failed to amaze me. Living so close to the water was symbolic of my state of being—always teetering on the edge of drowning, a swaying pull from both directions.

I was a thirty-one-year-old orphan.

Love without fear.

Life without death. After all—I was already dead.

Being a self-proclaimed free spirit, I never missed an opportunity to stop and smell the roses, or the lilacs in the spring. I had all the time in the world—no need to rush. My weathered sneakers tracked the familiar path along the Milwaukee shore of Lake Michigan to the vacant one-way street in front of my business.

Lilacs.

God, I loved the smell of lilacs. Halting in the quiet street to soak up the last bit of sun before stepping into the shadow of the building, I closed my eyes. The crisp spring air seduced me. I raised my arms up like angel wings, tilted my head back to feel the glorious sun bathe my face, and inhaled a slow deep breath, relishing the exquisite fragrance.

A horrifying clash of sounds punched the air from my lungs, jerking me back to reality.

“ADDY, WATCH OUT!”

A car’s horn, screeching tires, a familiar voice.

The essence of lilac still filled my nose. A tingling chill washed across my skin, my vision hazed from the sun, the salty taste of blood filled my mouth, and shouting voices vibrated through my ears.

“Adler Sage Brecken what are you doing?” Mac squealed in a winded panic.

My best friend’s face came into focus. Green eyes narrowed at me, brows furrowed behind a wispy curtain of windblown strawberry blond locks. Her mouth twisted into a grimace. It was never a good sign when she used my full name. I released my bloodied lip from the death grip of my front teeth.

Through the deafening whoosh of blood in my ears, I registered a deep, angry voice coming toward me. I held up my finger to silence Mac and tilted my head in the direction of the voice. Although clearly agitated, it was laced with a hint of Spanish accent.

Did I just hear someone call me a spaced-out, seventies throwback, pot-smoking, dumb blonde? What the hell?

In slow motion, my peripheral vision picked up a pair of men’s black leather, designer shoes, just a few feet from me. Directly in front of me was a white SUV with the words Range Rover in chrome.

Turning to my right, I homed in on a white linen, button-down shirt that exposed the top of well-defined chest muscles wrapped in the perfect shade of olive skin. My gaze trailed north, capturing a strong, sharp jaw line, ruddy lips pursed in a formidable line, a Roman-sculpted nose, reflective brown eyes framed with thick lashes, and a full head of rebellious black hair.

Well done, God.

As if I had all the time in the world, I finished my sight-seeing tour by working my way back down Michelangelo’s clothed version of David to those shoes that presumably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.

“Hello? What the hell is your deal?” ‘David’ growled between clenched teeth.

“She’s just got a lot on her plate today, sir, sorry for the scare. You’re good. She’s good. Everyone is good. Come on, Addy.” Mac huddled me to her side, looking over her shoulder at the almost-accident while leading me toward the sidewalk.

I jerked away from her grip and crossed over into ‘David’s’ personal space. My squinted eyes darted up to his, demanding his attention.

“First, I was not spaced-out,” I call it meditation, “second, my style is organic and earthy, not seventies throwback,” maybe modern hippy, “third, I don’t smoke pot,” anymore, “and finally, I may be blonde, but I am NOT dumb!”

What was that new smell?

A new fragrance overpowered the lilacs—an unwelcome aphrodisiac. It had to be some ridiculously expensive cologne made from thousands of poisonous chemicals, and I cringed just thinking about the headache I would get from the toxic cocktail. However, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to inhale it like a drug and live off the high. Everything about David was a heady combination. Especially that damn sexy accent.

“Well, I about ran your organic, earthy, smart-mouthed, blonde pigtailed, sexy ass over, Pippi.” Each perfectly-accented word tumbled from lips molded into an arrogant smirk.

“You’re supposed to yield to pedestrians in the crosswalk, you egotistical, reckless maniac!” A second later, my emotions regressed just long enough for my brain to catch up.

Sexy ass?

His eyebrows peaked as he gripped both of my arms and turned me around. “The cross walk is about fifteen yards that way, Pippi. Maybe you should think about using it next time to practice your role as Maria in the Sound of Music.”

Shit, shit, double shit!

**

The morning sun reflected off the lake on one side and my brick building stood on the other. Sure enough, the stoplight was another half a block up the street.

“Let’s go, Mac, we’re going to be late.” I tilted my chin up, threw my shoulders back, and walked to my café, with its recessed entry framed by two large arched windows, green awnings, and Sage Leaf Café in white with a light green sage leaf as the accent on café. After sneaking a quick glance back to look for Mac, I noticed Mr. Tall Dark and Hot as Hell slipping on his sunglasses while pulling away from the curb in his feed-a-small-country-for-a-day SUV. A rush of relief washed over my body. That was until Mac walked through the door and donned her Cheshire Cat grin.

“OMG, LMFAO, Maria in the Sound of Music, did you catch that? That is what you looked like out there and the Pippi comment …”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it, whatever. And what’s with all the acronyms? What are you, twelve?” I grumbled over my shoulder, walking toward the kitchen while flipping my braided pigtails over my shoulders.

My small but growing business was closed because we landed a great catering gig at Zen Garden, Milwaukee’s newest “green” hotel. We were the only all-vegan café in Milwaukee. The morning’s unexpected events put us a bit behind. Thankfully, I padded our schedule with an extra hour.

Lizzy McDonald, one of my most loyal patrons, was part of the hotel’s management team. She oversaw accommodations for VIP requests. Some financial guru from Chicago was holding a meeting there with local land developers and a few bigwig city officials, to talk about expanding green business trends in Milwaukee. Nothing said eco-friendly like a catered vegan lunch.

“So, Addy, want to talk about what just happened outside?” Mac asked, not making any attempt to hide her devilish grin. Her personality was as wild and untamed as the red curls that escaped her messy bun to tease her face.

“No, I want to finish packing all this food and bag the fresh garnishing herbs so we stay on schedule … anyway, there is nothing to discuss,” I mumbled, keeping my eyes focused on my busy hands.

Mackenzie “Mac” had been my best friend since college. Her twiggy figure had at least three inches on my five-foot, six-inch, somewhat curvy stature. We met our freshman year at a peaceful protest in front of the University of Chicago’s Student Union. There were over two hundred protesters there that day demanding the school source their meat from small local farms instead of large factory farms. It was friendship at first sight. I wore a “Runs on Veggies” T-shirt and she wore a “What the Kale?!?” tank top. Of course we were not in support of meat consumption from any farm, but rather a step in the right direction. Our make-love-not-war brains believed the logical step after local farms was veganism—us and less than one percent of the population.

Twelve years later we were still two peas in a pod, two kale leaves from the same plant. Our relationship was deep-rooted and forthright. We kept no secrets from one another, therefore lying to her was like lying to myself.

“I guess it must have been my imagination that the fine physical specimen you were inches away from in the street had your panties drenched and nipples at full attention, huh?”

“Oh my gosh, Mac! He about ran me over. I could have died this morning and you’re trying to turn this into some smut novel you like to read!”

“WE … some smut novel we like to read. Don’t act like you don’t have your iPad library filled with every smut novel published in the last ten years. That’s why you don’t date, you know no man will ever satisfy you like sex-script.”

“First, I don’t read that much, and second, you know that’s not why I don’t date. Just get the rest of those bags and let’s go,” I narrowed my eyes at her with an end of conversation finality, lips quivering to hide my grin.

Our small crew arrived at Zen Garden Suites by eleven forty-five. With the help of a few hotel staff, we had everything unloaded and into the kitchen by noon. Lunch for twenty was to be served in a small conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan.

I oversaw my staff plating the mixed garden-greens salad with pickled beets, asparagus, and ginger-fig dressing, while Mac assembled the roasted vegetable sandwiches. The hotel serving staff distributed the cucumber-mint water and raw juice spritzers while Lizzy McDonald paid a visit to the kitchen.

“Listen up, everyone. Here are the rules of the luncheon.”

Rules of the luncheon? What the hell?

“Mr. Jamison requests the hotel staff serve the meal and tend to any needs of the guests. After dessert is served, Addy will be invited to the front of the room where Mr. Jamison will shake hands with you, publicly thanking you for the meal, and posing for a few photos.”

The old Addy would have blown a gasket, insisting the Sage Leaf Café staff serve the meal that we prepared. It was a real testament to my growth that I willingly allowed my staff to be hidden in the kitchen until Mr. High Society Jamison decided it was socially acceptable to make a token appearance at the end of the meal. The new Addy practiced yoga, meditation, and control. I smiled and nodded at Lizzy in agreement.

More like submission.

“Rules?” Mac whispered.

“Just go with it,” I said through gritted teeth. “Flying under the radar will allow me more time to add the coconut cream and raspberries to the raw cheesecake.”

“At least you dressed for the photo op.” She smirked. I looked down at my dirty apron covering my café logo T-shirt and wrap skirt. “Shit.”

“I’ve got the cheesecake. Go.” Mac shooed me out of the kitchen.

Stealing a quick minute I didn’t have, I made my way to the ladies’ lounge to freshen up.

I tore out my ponytail holder, letting my hair fall down my back as I finger-combed the tangles with little success.

I braided my unruly bangs and clipped them off to the side, then pinched my cheeks to add color to my makeup-less face.

Sweat. I wadded some paper towels and shoved them in my armpits for a few seconds. Some days the no-antiperspirant thing bit me in the ass. My deodorant was good. I didn’t smell, but man did I sweat. The good news? My pores weren’t clogged. The bad news? The pits of my shirt were drenched. Lovely.

Mac found me on my way back to the kitchen. “Addy, they’re serving dessert. Lizzy said Mr. Jamison is ready for you.”

Deep breath … I am peaceful, I am strong.

I made my way to the double doors of the conference room. Deep breath … I am peaceful, I am strong.

I pulled on the door to the right but it didn’t budge, so I pulled the door to the left. No luck.

What is this, a top secret meeting? What’s with the locked doors?

Deciding I didn’t care if I received any recognition for the catering, I turned and leaned back on the doors to wait for someone to come out. Before I could catch the weight of my body, I found myself falling into the conference room and landing flat on my ass. I closed my eyes. Push, Addy, not pull, you idiot.

Deep breath … I am peaceful, I am strong.

Just when I thought my seven years of bad luck were over, the proverbial black cat crossed my path again.

“Well, well, you are just an accident waiting to happen, Pippi,” an all too familiar deep voice filled my ears.

Breathe dammit … peaceful … strong … peaceful … strong.

It was an unwelcome moment of déjà vu as my eyes made the journey up Michelangelo’s sculpture for the second time that day. My face flushed under his cocky but damn-if-it-wasn’t-still-sexy smirk. He offered his hand.

These feet have pounded too many miles of pavement and these arms have held countless inversion poses. I will NOT be needing help up, thank you very much!

“Addy? Are you all right?” Lizzy whispered, sharing my nervous embarrassment. “Mr. Jamison is ready for you.”

After righting my clothing and pulling the stray hair away from my face, I once again threw my shoulders back, tilted my chin up, and walked toward the front of the room and away from David.

Mr. Jamison started his introduction. “I’d like to introduce the chef and owner of Sage Leaf Café, Ms. Adler Brecken.”

I let the warm response calm my nerves while I told myself that most people were, in all likelihood, too busy chatting to have noticed my grand entrance.

“Ms. Brecken, you’ve outdone yourself with this superb lunch. I hope to visit your restaurant the next time I’m in Milwaukee,” Mr. Jamison boasted with the cheesiest fake smile I’d ever seen. It matched his fake tan and complimented his weak handshake, stiff comb-over, and, large, overfed figure.

He had perhaps been a football linebacker in high school or maybe even college. However, money, lack of exercise, and a taste of the “finer” things gave him the classic indulgent lifestyle appearance. I didn’t bet a single penny that I’d ever see him in my café.

While the photographers finished, I fixed my gaze to the back of the room. Mr. Smug Ass (he’d been rechristened after this latest humiliation) leaned against the back doors with his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest and one leg casually crossed over the other at his ankle.

Was he undressing me with his eyes?

Jesus, Addy, where did that come from?

Or was he just bored with the whole ‘giving credit where credit is due’ spiel? Why did he rub me the wrong way?

Maybe because I was frustrated with myself for imagining him rubbing me in another way. ADDY, get a grip!

In a desperate attempt to exude confidence in my stride, I carefully navigated to the conference room exit. Why was he there? Cocky arrogance oozed from him as he stood by two other guys who looked like some form of security or bodyguards. They were dressed in black suits, but Mr. Smug-Ass-slash-Smirky-Face wore the same semi-casual attire he had on that morning. The absence of a camera or notepad suggested he was not part of the press, and everything about him screamed money. And sex.

He blocked my exit, and with each approaching step I prayed he would move, but he didn’t. His indifferent expression and his self-assured posture said he owned the place, and worse than that, his look said he owned me.

Deep breath … I am peaceful, I am strong.

“Excuse me, please,” I whispered, disappointed in myself for not mustering more of a voice.

I kept my head down with a stoic face.

“By all means, let me get the door for you, Miss Brecken, although I think odds are you’ve figured it out by now.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

Once I made it through the door and past the parameter of his panty-dropping aura, I sucked in a deep breath, attempting to cool my inflamed body.

“Oh, Miss Brecken?”

All vocal abilities failed me, which was very uncharacteristic. I looked up at him with raised eyebrows, relinquishing a barely-detectable nod.

“I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot this morning. However, I’ve come to find your presence very … stimulating.” The corners of his mouth slowly turned up into a grin.

“Good God … uh, I mean, good day, Mr. um?”

Shit shit, double shit!

“Cohen, Quinten Cohen.” A smile that reached his eyes graced his perfect face and I had to get the hell out of there.