"Pies and Prejudice" Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“You got this!”

Catarina Valentini’s eyes stared back at her in her rearview mirror—fierce, smoky, and with even winged eyeliner. Thank God.

“You’re going to walk…” She paused, her voice filling the car as she turned off the engine, the radio flickering to a sudden stop. “No, Cat. You’re going to strut into that bakery. You’re going to convince them to hire you to market their company. You’re not going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Satisfied with her pep talk, she nodded, her thick dark hair tickling her neck. She dropped her keys into her designer bag and glanced at her watch.

“You won’t let them say no, even if you’re already ten minutes late.”

She paused again. “And even if you’re still talking to yourself.”

She checked her lipstick one last time in the mirror. Cat needed this bakery account. She knew her bosses had their eyes on her to see if she could wrangle in her own client, and this referral could open the door for her.

Figuratively speaking.

She had to literally open her own car door.

Cat’s heels wobbled over the broken concrete as stepped out of her sleek Audi. A gust of wind knocked a stray lock of hair away from her clip as she slammed the door shut behind her. She gripped her purse tighter. Her mother had raised her to be cautious in her old neighborhood. Despite the so-called improvements this last decade, she still felt a shiver of fear trickle down her spine whenever she had to walk through here.

The old Catholic school building towered over her. Dingy, deteriorating, abandoned, with a large “for sale” sign taped in the front window. She cringed, remembering that Mama used to say when the Catholic schools closed, the neighborhood plummeted downhill. When she was fifteen, her mother hightailed her and her family out of there before she could say “arrivederci.”

Cat clicked the lock button twice on her car key, not leaving her baby alone until she heard the reassuring click and honk. The headlights flashed once, telling her it was time to get a move on.

Her potential client was waiting.

And thanks to I-95 traffic leaving the city, she was twenty minutes late.

Early is on time. On time is late. Late is unacceptable. She was already starting this meeting off on the wrong foot, and it hadn’t even started yet.

Would her first solo client reject her proposal on the spot for making them wait? Bridget Kennedy, her hopefully-soon-to-be-client sounded sixteen on the phone. Sixteen or not, Cat was hungry for a new client—one of her own. This was the perfect opportunity, and just the stepping-stone she needed for her promotion.

Soon, the entire city would know about Ms. Kennedy’s store—the Mad Batter Bakeshop.

And if she failed, Cat might have to beg Bridget for a job as a bakery counter girl.

Cat strolled around the corner, almost tripping in her stilettos as a flash of neon streaked across her vision.

A neon pink bakery. With an Irish flag.

Nonna would have a stroke if she saw this place. Her spunky Italian grandmother hated all things tacky, neon, gaudy, and most of all, all things Irish. It was an old-school rivalry between the Italians and the Irish in the neighborhood. While the Italian families fled, it seems the Irish held their ground.

The neon pink paint was chipping in corners already, though the shop had been open for nearly a year now. The stucco walls reminded her of the bodegas she grew up with just down the street. There had to be about thirty in this neighborhood alone.

Stock images of cupcakes lined a six-foot-wide sign on the corner of the building. “Mad Batter Bakeshop” was scrolled across it in bright orange calligraphy. Above the doorway, a second sign swung in the light breeze. “Mad Batter Bakeshop” in bold, metallic silver with a cupcake in each corner.

“No cohesion. No color concepts. No solid brand. No plan,” Cat mumbled to herself. Had an eight-year-old designed this bakery? Had the owner lost a bet to a mental patient? Maybe Ms. Kennedy was color-blind?

Hopefully the owner wasn’t attached to, well, any of this. It all had to go.

Cat straightened her back, kept a firm grip on her purse, glanced over her shoulder to be sure no one was following her, and crossed the street.

Through the front window, Cat could see the display case. Rows and rows of colorful cupcakes lined silver trays, gleaming in the overhead lights. They looked like they belonged in a jewelry shop, not a bakery. The cakes sparkled— fucking sparkled— in the lights. How much edible glitter was safe for a person to eat?

She allowed herself one last sour look and one—just one—eye roll before opening the door.

A small brass bell tinkled overhead. The familiar sound pulled her right back to her childhood for only a moment. She remembered when this shop used to be a deli. Frank, the old owner, had that same bell. She and her brother Renato would come here after school on Fridays and each pick out a piece of candy with their allowance. Cat caught herself smiling.

At least the baker had good enough taste to keep the vintage bell.

“Be right there,” shouted a voice. Not a squeaky sixteen-year-old’s voice. This deep, rich voice floated through the air like velvet, mixing with the sweet scent of vanilla and raspberries. Something stirred in Cat’s lower belly. A hunger for something much sweeter than cupcakes.

“Take your time,” she semi-shouted toward the open door leading into the kitchen. Cat took a moment to survey the bakery.

The inside was tame compared to the carnival-colored exterior. Black and white checkered walls circled the room just above her waist. Brilliant purple and green wood paneling met in the middle of the walls, covering the bottom half of the bakery like a cupcake wrapper. Clever. The floors sparkled with flecks of glitter trapped beneath clear sealant. And under that were peaches-and-cream-swirled tiles.

A loud clanging noise filled the back of the bakery, followed by a series of clunks and a small crash. “Fucking hell!” the voice roared from the kitchen.

Cat hurried towards the end of the counter, her heels clicking on the floor.

“I’m alright!” he shouted. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Fucking Ikea shelves. Good for nothing—” His large figure stepped into the doorway.

Cat’s mouth went dry as a buzzing noise rang in her ears, drowning out the rest of his words.

“Cazzo,” she swore.

Killian Kennedy.

Killian fucking Kennedy stood before her, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel and smiling down at her like she was a complete stranger. His broad shoulders filled the doorway as he slung the towel over one shoulder, slipped his thumbs through the belt loops of snug jeans hung low on his hips, and leaned against the wall with a cheery grin.

“Can I help you, miss?” he purred.

Thirteen years. She hadn’t seen the man in thirteen years, though he had been a teenager. Only a couple of inches taller than her back then. The first time she saw him he had been thin and gawky, with a nose like a bird and feet like a pair of flippers.

The years had been so much more than kind to him. Those years spoiled him.

His blue eyes twinkled under the horrible lighting. A small bit of flour dusted his deep copper hair in a way that made Cat’s hand twitch. She wanted to run her fingers through his hair and shake out that last bit of flour. The trimmed beard matched his flaming Irish heritage hair, framing his lips. His smile blazed white-hot and brilliant, like the edible glitter that covered those cupcakes.

Glitter.

Cupcakes.

Client!

“I’m here for an appointment,” Cat blurted out.

“Oh?” Killian glanced at a teacup shaped clock on the wall. “Guess you’re a wee bit late then.”

Wee bit. Oh, Nonna would be dragging her out of the bakery by her ear for gawking at an Irishman. Even the son of an Irishman.

“Traffic,” Cat sputtered. She forced herself not to wince. Her muscles fought to keep straight when her insides were whipping around like leaves in a tornado.

Words. She knew them. So why did she suddenly forget almost every single word in the dictionary right now?

Heat crept up her neck as she fought to keep her composure. “I’m sorry.”

Killian shrugged and strolled out from behind the counter. “It’s okay. That sort of thing happens to me all the time. My brothers always said I’d be late to my own funeral.” He winked, his smile twisting into a smirk that left Cat a bit too weak in the knees. “Killian Kennedy.” He held out his rough hand for her.

“Catarina Valentini.” She firmly gripped his hand and gave it a solid shake. She waited as their handshake broke away.

Nothing. Had he forgotten her?

“Well, have a seat in my office. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?” He pulled out a chair from one of the small bistro-style tables near the front window. The bay window opened up to give a nice view of the church across the street and cars driving along Tyson Avenue.

“Tea would be perfect.” She sat down in the chair as he walked behind the counter. He busied himself with pulling a delicate porcelain teacup off a shelf. Cat watched the muscles roll under his pale skin as he reached up for a box of tea, dropping a bag into the cup before filling it with hot water. Steam rolled up around him, caressing his cheek.

“Lemon? Sugar?”

Cat’s mouth watered as he glanced over his shoulder at her and flashed another cheery grin. “A bit of cream, if you have any,” she replied.

Killian strolled around the counter, placing the mismatched teacup and creamer in front of her. “So, I have to be upfront with you, Miss Valentini.”

“Please, call me Cat.” She poured a bit of cream into her tea and stirred it with her small teaspoon.

She lifted the teacup, admiring the handiwork. Tiny diamonds crisscrossed over the edge of the cup, cascading down the edges in a falling diamond pattern like drops of rain, splashing onto the matching saucer. “These are beautiful,” she noted. “Handmade?”

Killian nodded. “Yeah, by a local artist in Fishtown. Gryphon, a guy I went to high school with. He’s making a name for himself out there with the hipsters.”

She smiled as she lifted the rim to her lips and sipped.

Milk and cinnamon and tea coated her tongue, warming her to the tips of her toes. “This is delicious.”

His smile lit up like a Christmas tree under her praise. “Thanks. My cupcakes are even better.”

She smiled at him and took another sip.

“You know this meeting wasn’t my idea, right?” Killian said, leaning on the edge of the small table. His thick forearm was dusted with deep red hair, his fingers tapping out a strange rhythm on the tabletop. “My sister was the one who called you.”

“Oh.” Cat tried to hide the defeated feeling caving in her chest as she took another sip of tea. She waited for him to continue.

“The business is doing great,” he said.

Cat noted the edge of defensiveness in his tone but decided not to comment. She needed to sign him up as a client before she could start criticizing his business.

“My numbers are excellent. I have to hire a new cake designer just to keep up with custom cake orders. But Bridget thinks I could be doing more.”

“So, the Bridget I spoke with on the phone is your sister? Bridget Kennedy?”

Killian nodded. “She guilt-tripped me into this marketing scheme. I’m sorry, but this meeting is probably just a waste of your time.”

“It’s worth it for the tea.” She smiled over the edge of her cup and took another sip. Milky heaven warmed her mouth as she watched his eyes drop to her lips.

He leaned back in his chair and ran his hand through his hair, moving some of the flour away. “I’m not even sure how you can help me, to be honest.”

Cat placed her teacup down, readying herself for the soft pitch. “Well, the bottom line is if I’m doing my job right, I’ll help you bring in more customers. More customers mean more money, obviously. But, like they say, you have to spend money to make it, which is why people hesitate to put money into marketing and PR.”

“But what do you do?” His brows furrowed into an auburn caterpillar over his eyes.

“I help you market. I help you build a brand and sell that brand along with your products. And frankly,” she waved her arm around the shop, “we have a lot to use. The name is perfect. Very hipster.”

Killian winced. “My brother, Seamus, picked the name. He’s as much of an avocado-toast-eating, cold-brew-sipping, ‘I liked that band before they were cool’ hipster as you can get.”

“Does he have a mustache?” Cat raised the cup to her lips, watching his eyes dip back to her cup. She tried to fight the flush creeping across her chest and up her neck.

“Worse. Seamus has a lumberjack beard. And matching flannel T-shirts. He looks like the Brawny paper towel man.”

Cat choked on her tea as a laugh punched through her belly. A bit of it dribbled down her chin.

Killian laughed, offering her the icing coated towel over his shoulder. The decadent sound of his low chuckle brought her belly stirring to life with excitement.

Cat clutched the towel, covering her chin with her hand to hide the mess and carefully wiped away the stray droplets.

“He didn’t think it was so funny when I told him that.”

“Well, my nonna said the Irish don’t have much of a sense of—” Cat stopped. Damn, she’d just insulted him.

“What, humor?” Killian smiled broadly, leaning further back in his chair. He rested his hands behind his head, and his large frame swallowed up the small corner of the bakery. “Well, clearly your nonna was wrong. I’m a fecking delight, lass,” he crooned in a fake Irish accent.

Cat’s laughter echoed around the room. She laughed so hard she snorted in front of him, which made her laugh even harder. This only seemed to egg him on.

“And I’m magically delicious at that.” He winked.

Cat’s laughter rolled to a slow stop. Her ribs ached and a wicked need stirred in her lower belly. Those silvery blue eyes of his stopped glittering and started to spark with heat.

Energy hummed around the table as Cat gazed into his eyes. Like a mouse trapped by a viper.

The brass bell tinkled behind her.

Killian glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be right with you, Tino.” He rose from his chair, pinning her to the spot with his stare. “Don’t go anywhere, kitten.”

Cat opened her mouth to say something, didn’t know what to say, and closed it. Speechless. She had never once been struck speechless in her life. As he walked away to help one of his regulars, she wondered what on earth had gotten into her.

Thirteen years and she suddenly had a crush on the boy who broke her heart as a teenager all over again. The boy from the most magical night of her life. The boy who never called her. The boy who she had been too proud to call herself.

Teenagers are stupid. Teenagers in love are damned fools.

“Thanks, take care, Tino.” Killian handed Tino his change and watched the old man stuff the fist-full of coins into the pocket of his worn-down Eagles jacket. Tino turned and smiled at Cat, tipped the brim of his Phillies baseball cap to her, and walked out with half a dozen cupcakes.

“Enjoy your morning,” Tino said with a small chuckle as he shut the door behind him, the laughter mixing with the tinkling brass bell.

“I’m glad you kept that,” Cat said on a whim.

“What?” Killian scrunched his eyebrows in confusion.

“The bell,” she said. “I remember it from when I was a kid. The old deli used to be here.”

Killian frowned. “Yeah, Frank passed away about five years ago. I bought the place from his widow, Wilhelmina, for cheap. After Frank passed, she moved to Wisconsin to be with her daughter.”

“Marissa, right? The girl with the snaggle-tooth. She used to walk her poodle around the neighborhood every Sunday before church.”

Killian chuckled. “Sometimes Father Keenan would hear it yapping in the park when he was saying his homily, and out of the blue he’d start swearing at the window for her to shut that dog up.”

“Father Keenan?” Cat asked.

“Saint Elizabeth’s Parish,” Killian said with a frown. “They closed the church a couple of years ago and merged it with Saint Bibiana’s. Horrible mistake.”

The hairs on the back of Cat’s neck bristled. “How was it a mistake? They kept the better church open.”

Killian shook his head. “My dad was the accountant for Saint Elizabeth’s. The archdiocese closed our church because we were in the black. The other church was losing money hand over fist so they had to shut it down to keep Saint Bibiana’s afloat.”

“Pride goeth before the fall.” Cat shook her head.

“Pride bankrupteth the church,” Killian teased. “Anyway, enough talk about the neighborhood. Unfortunately, my delivery driver is out sick today and I have a couple deliveries to make.”

“Who’s going to watch the bakery while you’re out?”

“My cousin, Sarah, is in the kitchen. Probably has her earbuds in and has no idea if I’m still here or not. That kid lives and dies by her playlists. At least she doesn’t sing along.”

Cat smiled, then frowned when the realization dawned on her. “I’m sorry. We were talking so much that I barely had a chance to discuss my marketing proposal.”

Killian’s eyes glittered with a hint of mischief. “I know. Looks like I’ll have to see you again, won’t I?”

Cat waited for a witty comeback to spark somewhere in her brain, but nothing came. Instead, her heart did a little somersault in her chest. She would get to see him again.

“How’s your schedule next week?” he asked.

“Um, hold on. Let me check.” Cat fumbled through her purse, pulled out her phone and scanned her calendar. “I’m free Tuesday morning and Thursday afternoon. If neither of those work I can—”

“Great. I’ll see you Thursday.” Killian took a few steps closer to the door and waited.

Cat’s weak knees tingled as she stood in her heels. She stuck her manicured hand out and shook Killian’s hand one last time. His thumb traced through the palm of her hand, his rough fingers leaving goosebumps rippling up her arm.

Thank God she wore a long-sleeved blazer so he couldn’t see them.

She opened the door and stepped down the small step onto the sidewalk.

Cat turned to him with a smile. “I’ll see you back here on Thursday at three o’clock then.”

“See you next week, Kitty Cat.” He winked before shutting the door behind her.

Through the hazy glass door, Killian turned his back and retreated behind the counter. Although there was no sound, his shoulders shook with laughter.

Kitty Cat!

He remembered her!

Bastard.

Buy "Pies and Prejudice" here: https://amzn.to/46BJ7l7