The Book of Sorrel, page 10
Eric swiveled around in his chair to face the overly suntanned man who was obsessed with teeth whitener. “Devon, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Eric knew how to play the game.
Devon handed him today’s paper. “I thought you would appreciate this.”
Eric took the paper, and on the front page was a picture of Clayton Palmer and Ivy Davies leaving the courthouse with their hands covering their faces. He hoped they would get what they deserved. A lifetime behind bars or, better yet, working in the same hellhole they had subjected hundreds of women and girls to.
“Palmer department store stock has plummeted, thanks to you,” Devon gloated. “I still don’t know how you got Palmer’s hired goons to talk, but I don’t care. We’re making national news, and online subscriptions are way up.”
Eric didn’t want to think about how he’d gotten them to talk. He’d come close to killing them after they’d confessed to doing more than just delivering the girls. Murderous thoughts still raged within him. He hoped the victims would get the help they needed now that the factory had been raided and shut down. He was afraid they would become nameless faces in the system that had already failed them once.
“Glad to hear it. I guess that means I’ll be getting my raise this year?”
Devon chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do. For now, I have to prep for my CNN interview. You don’t mind that I’m doing it, right? I figured you wouldn’t want the spotlight.”
And this is how he’d earned his nickname.
“It’s all yours,” Eric growled.
“I might need some notes from you. I don’t want to make us look bad.” He ran a hand over his slicked-back hair.
“Whatever you need.” Eric went to turn back around, done with the conversation with his egomaniacal boss.
“You should check out page forty-three. Your little article about the bakery came out today. Who would have thought you had a soft side? That Sorrel Black must be smokin’ hot. Did you get more than some cake out of the deal? You know what? It’s better I don’t know. After all, I’m all by the book.”
Eric clenched his fists, ready to throw a punch. “Don’t ever speak her name again.”
Devon smirked. “That answers that question. Don’t make me have to write you up. I’d hate to lose my star reporter.” He walked off, whistling like the weasel he was.
Eric contemplated showing up in Devon’s dreams tonight and scaring the hell out of him. Unfortunately, he feared he was becoming more and more like his father—using his ungodly powers for his own will and pleasure. Yet, none of this had given him any pleasure. Except for his time with Sorrel. Even that was now torturing him. The book had had its fun at Eric’s expense, as usual. But at least she was safe.
Eric turned around and flipped through the paper. It wasn’t like he hadn’t memorized every word he’d written about Love Bites and its beautiful owner, but there was something satisfying about seeing his work in black and white. He hoped Sorrel would read it and take it for what it was—a love letter and his final goodbye.
~*~
Sorrel
I knew I was being ridiculous, and I’d promised Josie I would fangirl over her next set at the Hannovers’ wedding, but I was itching to read Eric’s article for the hundredth time since it had come out a couple of days ago. I kept a firm grip on my phone, telling myself to just enjoy the wedding that I’d made the most beautiful naked wedding cake for, decorated with my favorite—pink roses. My thumb kept brushing over the screen, ready to click my email app, while thoughts of Eric swirled in my brain. I hadn’t seen him in weeks, not since I’d made him a birthday cake and we’d laughed and talked all night. I’d thought he would have at least called. So he didn’t have my number, but he knew where I worked, and he had the bakery’s number.
Maybe it was because of the big story he’d written that exposed a huge illegal sweatshop ring in Atlanta. One of my customers, Sadie, had mentioned it to me, and I had been obsessively following it ever since. I was proud of Eric, as odd as that sounded. And I was glad to know he could use his cutthroat ways to take down real criminals, not cake makers with weird lineage. But I got the feeling it wasn’t his big story that was keeping him away.
I couldn’t stop thinking of the dream I’d had about him. It was weird how it had come true, at least the part where he said he was never going to see me again. It was an unfortunate coincidence, I kept telling myself. Except I hadn’t dreamed about him again either. No matter how hard I’d tried, Eric never appeared. It was like he had vanished, just like in my dream.
I knew it was all for the best. Or at least I tried to make myself believe that. I was failing miserably. Honestly, it hurt that he hadn’t contacted me. I thought we had a connection. Apparently it was one-sided since he didn’t even tell me that the article he wrote had been published. Raine Peters, the lifestyle reporter who was supposed to have written the article, had emailed me with a link.
Dear Sorrel,
Eric asked me to make sure you got a copy of this. He was certain you had canceled your subscription. He mentioned something about you two getting off on the wrong foot. I’m not surprised. He’s a bit of a heavy hitter around here and keeps to himself. I’m still not sure how and why he got assigned to cover this story in my absence. But I have to admit, he did a better job than I would have. In fact, I’m kind of jealous of his prose. You must have really impressed him. Which isn’t surprising. I tell everyone I know they should make the drive from Atlanta to Riverhaven just for your cupcakes and the chance to talk to you.
I hope this article brings you tons of business. You’re a real gem.
Toodles,
Raine
Her note was sweet, and I was glad she was feeling better after her appendectomy. She had been in the hospital longer than she had expected. If only I could have sneaked in and given her some of my special vegetable juice with fenugreek and almond oil, she would have healed in a jiffy. Better yet, if I’d known earlier, I could have given her some and she’d still have her appendix. I knew I couldn’t save the world, but I wished I could. It would help me to feel better about my lonely existence.
I gave a big thumbs-up to Josie, who was on stage singing her heart out for the newly married couple and half the state of Tennessee. She was belting out a fabulous rendition of “Signed, Sealed, Delivered I’m Yours.” Not to mention she was totally rocking it in her tight coral dress. I wasn’t sure she saw me among the large crowd of inebriated wedding goers, but I pretended she had and scooted off to an empty table near the cake display, where only crumbs of my masterpiece remained.
In the glow of the lantern centerpiece, I clicked on the link to Eric’s article. Butterflies erupted in my stomach just knowing I was going to read his beautiful words. Words that on one hand led me to believe he liked me as much as I liked him but on the other hand confused me. Why couldn’t he have at least sent the article to me? It was as if he was purposely avoiding me. Like my dream was real. Which was insane, right? My dad used to tell me that dreams were important and I should pay attention to them. Now, as an adult, I assumed he meant that in a metaphorical way, because when I was a little girl, I used to dream all the time that I lived in a castle made of mostly windows and that my pink teddy bears were real and could talk to me. Dad used to laugh and smile when I told him that. He would say, “Your world will be as magical as you want to make it.” Eric was pretty magical. At least in my dreams. No. Not just there. His article made my heart sing.
When I walked into Love Bites, I expected I would be writing an uninspired story about another wedding cake baker whose highest aspirations were to be discovered by a televised baking competition where they manufactured drama and chose the winner before the contest even started. But this hardened reporter was pleasantly surprised by the owner, Sorrel Black. From the first moment I met her, I knew this wouldn’t be a run-of-the-mill, feel-good story. Because there is nothing run-of-the-mill about Sorrel.
To start with, her bakery looks like a dollhouse decorated in every imaginable shade of pink. It invokes feelings of hope and happiness—two words I would use to describe the owner herself. Even her customers seem to feed off the energy of the place and her. You will hardly find a face there without a smile. That is unless you happen to be daring enough to book a wedding cake tasting appointment with her. Then you should be prepared to have your deep-seated secrets come to the surface. Sorrel has an uncanny way of bringing out the truth in the future brides and grooms. Some say it’s the cake. I would say it’s the way Sorrel can look into your soul and make you wish you were a better person—the person she can see deep inside of you. She will have you longing to do anything to become that person, even if it means facing the truths that scare you the most and announcing them to the world. But don’t worry, all is not lost, she has a gift for healing rifts too. Just a touch of her hand calms the most agitated hearts.
To top that off, her cake, though deliciously sinful, will make you feel so good you won’t think twice about treating yourself to the extra calories. Her customers swear on their Bibles it’s the best health food since God created kale. It’s no surprise, as Sorrel has traveled the world looking for the best ingredients and has studied with one of New York’s finest pastry chefs. I would say the protégée has become the master.
However, all of this isn’t what truly makes Sorrel special. What makes her unique is her ability to treat every customer like they are her best friend and her community like they are her family. I was privileged to join her one sunny afternoon while she delivered her specially-made tea that helps with seasonal allergies to half the residents of the sleepy town of Riverhaven. You would have thought that the Queen of England herself was visiting the lucky recipients of Sorrel’s kindness by the way they revered her. I heard story after story of how Sorrel had helped them in their time of need, whether it was her cure-all soup or just a hand to hold after losing a loved one. Though she wouldn’t like the praise or recognition, she deserves every bit of it. I for one will always count myself a lucky man for being able to meet her. And though my time with her was brief, I’ll never forget it. But don’t take my word for it. Visit Love Bites yourself and see if Sorrel doesn’t have you believing in magic.
I wiped my eyes and set down my phone. To see myself through his eyes made me want him all the more. Yet it made me wonder what I had done to cause him to fall off the face of the earth. As odd as it sounded, I felt as if a piece of me were missing with him gone. That was more than odd. It made me sound downright certifiable, but it was true. Ever since he’d walked into my life, something inside of me had changed. I couldn’t put it into words, but I certainly felt it.
Josie interrupted my pity party. I was a terrible friend. I hadn’t even noticed that she’d quit singing. She pulled up a chair next to me and rolled her eyes at my phone. “Why don’t you just contact him?”
I clicked out of my app. “I thought you didn’t like him.”
She crossed her long, lean, mostly bare legs. “I don’t, but I get the appeal. Heck, if you didn’t like him, I would totally have a one-night stand with him.” She wagged her brows.
“You’re so romantic,” I teased.
“Romance is so overrated.” She stared at the newlyweds groping each other near the buffet table while people wished them congratulations. “No matter how good the relationship is in the beginning, eventually you wake up one morning and have to stop yourself from smothering him with your pillow. And that’s only because you don’t want to share a shower with a dozen women in prison.”
“All relationships can’t be like that.” I played with some of the heart-shaped confetti scattered around the table.
She shrugged. “It’s all I’ve ever known. Though I might not be the best example. I did, after all, marry a man who was required to wear a hot dog costume to work and greet every customer by saying, ‘We have the best wieners in town.’ To make it worse, he thought he was talking about himself.”
I laughed. “You could always date Mateo.”
“And have a normal relationship? I’m not sure what I’d do.” She tilted her head. “Why haven’t you ever dated anyone? And don’t try to sell me that malarkey that it’s because you’re saving yourself for Mr. Right. There’s no such thing.”
“What if there is?”
She patted my hand in that Oh, you poor naive girl way. “Honey, there are billions of men in this world. Odds are that more than one of them can make you happy.”
“What if I want more than someone who can make me happy? Happiness is fleeting.”
“What more do you want?”
I wasn’t sure I could put it into words. And honestly, I basically had zero experience, unless you counted my very brief—all of four hours—relationship with a handsome Swiss man on the train from Zurich to Saint Moritz. And when I say relationship, I mean we’d made out for two of those hours, and I never saw him again. “I just want to feel connected. Like I’m his person and he’s mine.”
She puckered her lips and narrowed her eyes. “And you think Eric Knight is that person?”
Yes. “No.” I waved off her ridiculous, spot-on insinuation.
“Good. Though I have to give him props for how beautifully he captured you in his article. If someone wrote about me like that, I would probably marry him . . . and then divorce him after a few months.” She giggled. “But you deserve someone as good as you.” She pointed near the open bar. “Speaking of which, the best man has been eyeing you all night. I hear he’s a doctor from Nashville.”
I took a peek, and sure enough the handsome man with tousled blond hair was looking my way. Sadly, it was hard to take him seriously since he was wearing a camouflage tuxedo, like all the men in the wedding party. “He’s cute,” I commented.
“Cute? Um, he’s freaking gorgeous.”
“Why don’t you go ask him out?”
Her eyes lit up like an evil genius. “Do you mind?”
“Why would I?”
She popped up and patted the bun on top of my head. “Someday you’re going to meet your person. I just hope I’m around to see it.”
What if I already had met him?
Chapter Fourteen
Eric
Eric set his laptop on his coffee table, so tired the words on the screen had begun to blur. Devon already had him on a new assignment investigating a local hospital’s misuse of government funds, allowing himself to take all the glory for the Clayton Palmer scandal. The guy really was a douche. If Eric could quit, he would. Unfortunately, the book had always directed his career path, even if it didn’t always make sense. When he had lived in Prague, he’d been forced to finish his political science degree, which had been useless to him. He’d ended up working an IT job until the book told him to come back to America and pursue a career in journalism. At least this job was more satisfying. Anything was better than answering phones all day, trying to explain to people how to fix their internet connections.
He leaned his head against the back of his cracked, faux-leather couch and rubbed his eyes before closing them. Visions of Sorrel filled his mind, so much so he almost gave in and went to her in her dreams. He was sure she would be walking in the vineyard, but he could convince her they should be on the beach and she should wear a bikini. Pleasure like no other overcame him as he thought of them together on the warm sand with hardly a thing between them. After resisting the call to go to her, he drifted off to sleep. If only he could dream of her on demand. Instead he found himself in his old childhood room, frightened.
He was a child and covering his head with his ratty old blanket while he cowered on the stained mattress lying on the floor. He could hear his parents screaming. His mother, Portia, was accusing his father, Vincent, of cheating on her again, thereby killing the woman who lived below them. His father readily admitted to sleeping with the woman, then blamed it on Portia for growing fat and ugly. Vincent swore he would have killed Portia by now except the curse prevented him from doing so. Eric held in his sobs. If his father heard him crying, he would punish him for being weak. Selene men were supposed to be strong and emotionless. Bastards. They were supposed to fight for what was rightfully theirs and never stop until they broke the curse and killed off every living member of the traitorous Tellus family. It didn’t matter what they had to do, even if they had to give their lives—they would see the Tellus family die.
But Eric didn’t want to be like that. His breathing became more labored before he remembered he wasn’t a little boy anymore and this was a dream. He needed to wake up. He came out from under the blanket, trying to come to his senses. He almost had until someone pounded on the dilapidated door with peeling gray paint.
“Open up the damn door,” his father shouted. He was no dream.
“No,” Eric whispered. He pushed himself back into the corner, as far away as he could from the man who he’d always promised himself he would never become. He covered his head with his hands, worried that was exactly who he had become. He had used his dark powers to extract information and inflict pain. He had almost killed two men. Did it matter if his intentions were good? That he had done it to protect the purest thing he had ever known?
The pounding became louder. “Don’t make me kick down this door,” Vincent shouted.
Eric slowly stood and smiled, remembering something. “You can’t. This is my dream. And I’m not a child.” He would no longer be a willing victim.
Vincent barked out an evil laugh. “Finally learning some control, son? It’s about time.”
“I’m waking up now,” Eric informed him.
“That’s too bad. I suppose I’ll have to make a personal visit. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. When I get there, you can introduce me to Sorrel Black. She sounds like someone I should meet.”
Eric faltered; his blood ran cold. How did he know about Sorrel? A better question was, why was he interested in her? Though he loathed to, he walked toward the door, in the name of protecting Sorrel. He grabbed the handle and cursed under his breath before opening it. There stood his father. It was as if he were staring into a mirror. Except for their clothing—his father always wore all black, no matter the season—they were almost identical. But Eric liked to think his eyes weren’t as dark and cold as his father’s.
