Smooth as Silk, page 20
“Why don’t they stop them?” Hyacinth demanded from Ava Grace.
“They will. Soon—after the crowd gets to enjoy it a little.”
Not soon enough. If people wanted to see fighting, they ought to watch boxing. Now there was blood—on both faces, though it looked like Robbie had gotten the best of Mr. Anaheim.
Even after the ref finally separated them, Robbie continued to punch the air and yell. She expected him to go to the penalty box, but he skated off the ice and disappeared behind the bench.
“Where did he go?” Hyacinth demanded. “Do you think they’re taking him to the hospital?”
Ava Grace shook her head. “I’ve seen this before. He’s gone to the locker room. The penalty for fighting is five minutes and since there’s less than two minutes left in the game, he went straight to the locker room.” She patted Hyacinth’s arm. “Don’t worry, Hyacinth. He’s not really hurt. They’ll clean him up.”
“I’m not worried,” Hyacinth said, though her heart had turned into a drum. “I mean, naturally, I don’t want him hurt. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“So you say.” Ava Grace gave her a sidelong glance. “He’s fine. But his face is going to be a real mess for All Dressed in White tomorrow.”
Hell. She hadn’t even thought of that.
* * *
“Hey! Stop.” Robbie was seated on his new couch, with Hyacinth looming over him, wielding the first aid kit she’d produced from her purse. “That stings.” He caught her wrist before she could press that alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the cut under his eye again. Hoping to distract her, he kissed the inside of her wrist, but that didn’t slow her down a bit.
She jerked out of his grasp and did it anyway. “You should have thought about that before you declared war on the ice tonight.”
“I didn’t start it,” Robbie said. “He started it when he touched my goalie. Don’t touch my goalie—ever.”
She put the cotton ball aside.
“Can’t say I ever knew anybody who carries a first aid kit around,” he said.
“I like to be prepared. I have a sewing kit, too.”
“I guess I should expect nothing less from a woman with a bug-out bag. Got a fire extinguisher in there?”
“Make fun of me if you want, but there may come a day you’ll be glad I’m prepared. In fact, you ought to be glad today.” She dove into her bag and brought out a tube of Neosporin.
He liked that she alluded to the future, no matter how vague. “Aye, lass. I am glad.” It wasn’t just sex he wanted. He wanted her—all of her. He stroked her cheek. “Maybe I’ll bring you my jersey from tonight—the one I bled on.”
She nodded emphatically. “Do that. I’m a crackerjack stain remover. Blood is a tough one, but hydrogen peroxide usually does the trick. I can probably make it good as new.”
He worked not to laugh at her. “I was going to bring it to you for wearing, not cleaning. You wouldn’t want to get the blood out. That’s a badge of proof that it’s game-worn. The blood is beyond bonus. That’s what everyone wants.”
A look of horror took over her face. “I don’t. That’s disgusting. Are all you people so bloodthirsty?”
She didn’t want his jersey? That stung a bit, but then he remembered the women who’d drifted through his bed for the express purpose of obtaining a jersey. He’d given a fair number away, too, because he liked to make people happy—though he’d never given his blood away. Apparently, it was going to take more than that to make this woman happy.
“Hyacinth, Hyacinth, Hyacinth. You do not know the ways of hockey.”
“Make me a list.” She tapped the tube of Neosporin against her palm for emphasis. That seemed to make her remember it. She squirted some onto her finger. “Hold still.”
“I told you the team doctor took care of me.”
She smeared it on his cut. “And I told you, you can’t be too careful about infection. Since then, you’ve walked around the arena, signed autographs for people who could have been carrying God only knows what, driven through Burger King, and I’ll bet you’ve been to the restroom. No telling what germs you’ve picked up.”
“Probably the black plague. Maybe salmonella.”
She sighed. “I still don’t understand why you did that. You don’t even like Dietrich Wingo.”
“I don’t exactly dislike him. He just annoys the shit out of me. But none of that matters. If you go after the goalie, you’re going to get your ass beat. Every hockey player knows that.”
“Seems like it was more face than ass.” She was going after his split lip with her Neosporin now.
“Hey! Don’t do that.” He jerked his head back. “It tastes bad.”
“You don’t have to taste it. It’s on the outside of your mouth.”
“Ah, lass.” He circled her waist with his arms. “It’s you I was worried about tasting it.” As unnecessary as all this medical ministration was, the attention was nice.
“Not sure your mouth is up for kissing. You’re going to have a black eye, too. That ought to play great on TV.”
“Ah.” He pulled her into his lap. “Sorry about that, lass, but—”
“I know. I know. Don’t touch your goalie.” She slipped her arms around his neck.
“I was the closest one. Had to do it.”
She ran her finger alongside his swollen eye. “Maybe they’ll cover it with makeup.”
He bristled a bit inwardly, but let it go. He was going to do everything he could to make this go like she wanted and if that included wearing makeup, so be it. He was so committed that he’d spent all day making a little surprise for tomorrow. She was going to be thrilled.
And right now, he wanted to thrill her in a different way—and let her thrill him. They’d eaten the food he’d picked up, she’d played doctor, and now...
“Cuddle into me like this.” He turned her so that she was straddling him, just so.
She smiled a little like Mona Lisa. “That’s a cuddle?” Her whisky eyes went a shade darker; she wanted him, too.
“The best kind.” He pulled her tighter against him and kissed her neck.
“I need to iron your new clothes,” she said, but she didn’t sound very committed.
“Do you, now? More than you need this?” He moved his hips against hers until she answered his strokes with her own.
“I don’t want to hurt your face. And shouldn’t we put an ice pack on your eye?”
“I’m not worried about my face. Let’s do this instead.” He pulled her sweater over her head and got the surprise of the week—which was saying plenty.
Until now, she had only worn plain white bras without so much as a whisper of lace. Not that he cared. He was more interested in what was beneath. But he had to admit that wispy little red thing with the sparkles was right enticing. The idea that she might have bought it with him in mind was even more enticing.
“Well, lass, I didn’t see that coming.” He ran his hands over the silky cups. She was so lush, so beautiful. “Is it new?”
“Yes. Do you like it?” Her cheeks were almost as red as the barely there, transparent lace. She placed her hands on top of his and moved them against her.
“Aye. Quite a lot—almost as much as that little black nightie.” Then he had another thought. He ran his finger under the bra strap. “Any chance this has a matching companion below?”
Her blush deepened. “Maybe.”
He swung her into a reclining position. Knickers would be quite acceptable, a thong almost too much to hope for. But he was going to find out. Good thing he’d bought a large couch. There was no time to get to the bed.
“I guess I could iron your clothes in the morning.”
It was a sweet time there on that couch and a sweet time later in his bed.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Everything looks great, Hyacinth. No glitches.” Alex took a sip of the latte Brad had brought in. “Deb’s happy with the way things are shaping up.”
“I’m glad. Let me know if there’s anything that needs tweaking.” Though they probably wouldn’t let her do anything about it, even if there was. They had insisted on doing her makeup and having someone stage the M & C Champagne and snacks for Jules and her posse. Hyacinth was trying to be grateful for the help, rather than feeling out of control.
Deb Carmichael joined them. “We appreciate you getting here so early.”
“I was happy to do it.” It hadn’t been hard, since she’d barely slept, even after Robbie had passed out from exhaustion.
She had met Brad, Patty, and the production crew here at five thirty; it was almost seven now—the time she’d told Robbie to be here. They weren’t scheduled to begin taping until eight, but she wouldn’t breathe easy until he was here. Plan B was to send Brad to get him. “Robbie should be here any minute,” she said to reassure herself.
“Jules and company should be here by seven thirty,” Alex said.
Deb added, “Jules brought her own hair and makeup people, so they’ll be good to go when they arrive.”
“I suppose I ought to mention this,” Hyacinth said with dread. “Robbie got into a fight last night on the ice. Your makeup people might need to do some work on him. His face is pretty messy.” If possible, his face had looked worse this morning than last night. She should have insisted on the ice pack.
Alex and Deb exchanged glances and looked positively gleeful. Strange.
“Black eye?” Did Alex sound hopeful?
“I’m afraid so. Split lip. Cut under his eye.”
Alex and Deb high-fived. What the hell? “Can you believe the luck?” Deb said.
Luck? “Excuse me?” Hyacinth said.
“Sorry,” Alex said. “It’s too bad he got hurt, but it’ll contribute to the whole hockey player vibe. We even played with the idea of having the makeup people give him a black eye.”
“But we wouldn’t really do that,” Deb hurried to add. “We don’t script or deceive. It was just wishful-thinking talk on the plane.”
That didn’t set well with Hyacinth, but there was nothing to be done about it. It wasn’t like they had battered Robbie’s face themselves.
Before she had to respond, the bell jingled and Hyacinth turned to see Robbie coming through the door.
Damn.
Hell.
Where to start, where to start?
It wasn’t his appearance. No. He was wearing the freshly pressed clothes and new shoes and he’d shaved. His hair was even combed.
But he was carrying a wedding cake. A wedding cake—albeit a small one—three tiered, with swirls, rosettes, and a garden of multicolored icing flowers. It was exquisite, but what the hell? She had not specially said to him, “Robbie, don’t bring a wedding cake,” but wasn’t that a given?
“Hello, lass.” He beamed at her. “Will I do? I need you to roll my sleeves like you want them.”
Had he not noticed he was carrying a wedding cake?
“Where did you get that?” And why do you have it?
“This?” He held up the cake and beamed, so proud of himself. “I made it.”
Deb and Alex closed in. “Robbie, I’m Deb Carmichael. This is my assistant, Alex Leman. I’d offer to shake hands, but—” She gestured to the cake. “You made that? Really?”
“He didn’t. He couldn’t have.” Her tone was sharper than she had intended. “He’s kidding you.” But why?
“Aye. I did bake it. Yesterday. Hyacinth didn’t know I can make wedding cakes. I wanted to surprise her.”
“You certainly achieved that.” What alternate universe had she landed in?
“This is surprising,” Deb said.
“As Hyacinth knows, my family is in the wedding business. I started helping my granny with the cakes when I was a lad. Now I can make a whole cake on my own and not just a wee one like this—one that will feed three hundred people, but I don’t have those pans. Not that I have any pans. Not here. I borrowed these little ones from Kristin at the bakery. The decorating bags and tips, too.”
Bunny trail, but Hyacinth did not have the wherewithal to reel him in. She didn’t know what bowled her over more—that he was a cake decorator or that he’d had the nerve to borrow equipment from Kristin so he could make what she sold.
“I could have borrowed big pans from Kristin, but the cake had to fit in my car. It’s a Corvette. Not made to transport a cake for three hundred, to be sure. Anyway, we don’t need one that big today.”
We don’t need one at all. I have tea sandwiches, petit fours, cheese straws, and French Champagne. That was the plan!
“I brought it to celebrate Jules and Reynolds, since I can’t attend their wedding. I thought it would be a right nice treat for the whole crew here. I bake a tasty cake, if I do say so.”
Hyacinth still couldn’t speak, but Deb could and she looked even more elated by this latest development than she was over his battered face.
“This is fabulous!” Deb said. “We can definitely use this.”
“Use it?” Robbie wrinkled his brow. “In what way?”
Deb and Alex looked at each other for a beat.
“How about this?” Alex said. “You leave and come back in with the cake after Jules and Reynolds are here. We’ll get their surprise on camera. This is great stuff.”
Not great and not the beginning Hyacinth had pictured. She’d thought there would be introductions, small talk, and a toast to finding Jules the perfect dress. After all, this was a show about finding a wedding dress, not a hockey player making wedding cakes.
“I thought you didn’t script.” Hyacinth finally found her voice.
“We don’t,” Deb said. “This is providing an opportunity for spontaneous interaction. It would be scripting if we’d brought the cake and told Robbie what to say.”
“At the end of the day,” Alex said, “after Jules has settled on a dress, Reynolds can come back and we can cut the cake to celebrate.”
“I like it,” Deb said. “Are you all right with that, Robbie?”
No! What about, Are you all right with it, Hyacinth? After all, this is your shop and nobody warned you about a cake party. She didn’t have any cake plates or forks—just the four china appetizer plates Ava Grace had brought over. And what about something to drink? Coffee? She only had a Keurig and disposable cups. Champagne? Claire had only sent three bottles of the good stuff. She had some of her standard in the fridge, but not enough flutes unless she broke out Emma Frances Fairchild’s Waterford—broke out being the appropriate phrase because that’s what would happen.
“Am I all right with it?” Robbie glanced at Hyacinth.
He was willing her to give him an answer. She knew all she had to do was shake her head and he would say he wasn’t okay with it, but she nodded instead. What else could she do? Now that they’d seen it, Alex and Deb were practically salivating.
“I suppose,” Robbie said. “My teammates—most of them—don’t know I can make wedding cakes. But I can take a little ribbing if it’ll make this a better show. That’s what I’m here for.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Alex said. “There’s one other thing. This wasn’t quite the look we envisioned for you.”
“No?” He looked down at his clothes. “What’s wrong?”
“You look nice,” Deb said, “but we were hoping for the same look from the viral video.”
Oh damn. Oh fuck. This was turning into an out of control merry-go-round, switching between clockwise and counterclockwise rotation. No wonder she was feeling queasy.
“I’m not sure.” Robbie glanced at Hyacinth again. “I mean, I don’t remember what I was wearing...though I guess I could find the video.”
“A kilt,” Deb said. “An I heart New York T-shirt and light-up running shoes. It doesn’t have to be the exact garments—but a kilt and T-shirt. No vulgar words on the shirt.”
He looked at Hyacinth with a question in his eyes. She nodded. Again, what else was she to do? Deep breaths. While he should not have brought that cake without consulting her, the clothes were a different matter. He’d done exactly what she’d asked.
“Do I have time to go change?” he asked.
“We’ll wait for you.” Alex stepped forward and took the cake. “Let me take this. When you get back, can you go around back? We’ll let you know when we’re ready for you. You can come in carrying the cake—like before, but wearing a kilt.”
* * *
The merry-go-round was in hell, with Satan himself at the controls. Not a Wonder Woman golden lasso in sight.
Robbie had returned wearing a kilt that he might have plucked from the dirty clothes, a faded black T-shirt with Runrig—whatever that was—plastered across the front, mismatched socks, and those blinking shoes. Somewhere along the way he’d messed up his hair. Or maybe not. Maybe Deb had instructed someone on her staff to do it. Either way, it was falling in his eyes, which was attractive when he was lying over her, coming in for a kiss. For national television, not so much.
You’d have thought with all the hugging, kissing, and carrying on, that Robbie, Reynolds, and Jules were triplets who’d bonded in the womb and were lost without each other. As for the cake—he might as well have handed them his first born and a yacht.
The sister—Leslie, who was almost as good-looking as Jules—got in on the hugging, too. So did Shelia, the mom. Robbie had not called any of them lass. That was something.
They were all very nice, but everything seemed wrong. Here, at Trousseau, she usually felt like queen of her domain, confident, professional, and effective. Today, she was a shop girl, bowing and scraping to her betters.
But she would get things on track. She’d checked to make sure the dresses she’d put aside were in pristine condition and sent Patty to Heirloom to ask Ava Grace for forks and cake plates. Robbie had been working the crowd, making everybody love him, but he hadn’t destroyed anything. Now, Reynolds was gone and the women were settled on the sofa with full glasses of champagne.
