novelxo Irresistible: Chapter 2
The bride had toilet paper stuck to her shoe.
I was at the reception desk of the Cloverleigh Farms Inn, which the wedding couple had rented out for the entire weekend, when I saw her exit the lobby bathroom, trailing six or seven embarrassing white squares behind her. Quickly, I scooted out from behind the desk and hurried toward her before she could re-enter the inn’s restaurant, where the reception was taking place.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Radley?”
The bride, a forty-something woman with deep chestnut hair and a slender figure, turned to me and smiled at the use of her married name. “I guess that’s me, isn’t it? That will take some getting used to.”
I returned her smile. “Congratulations. Um, I just wanted to let you know you’ve got some toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe.”
She looked down at her feet, clearly visible beneath the knee-length hem of her ivory bias-cut dress. “Oh, my goodness. Thank you so much—that would have been very embarrassing.”
“No problem.”
She reached down to grab it, and right as she did, one of the dress’s tiny satin spaghetti straps popped. Gasping, she tugged it up and held it in place. “Oh my God, I’m a mess!” she whispered. “And we’re about to do our first dance. Help!”
“Don’t worry,” I said, taking her by the arm. “Come with me. We’ll fix it.”
Pushing open the door behind the reception desk, I led her down a hallway lined with the inn’s administrative offices. First, I tried my mother’s, but the door was locked. Next I tried my sister April’s—she was the inn’s event planner and always prepared in case of an emergency. Right now she was in the restaurant overseeing the dessert service, but her office door was open.
However, a quick search of April’s desk didn’t turn up anything I could mend a dress with, not even a safety pin. “Shoot,” I said, glancing up at the fretful bride. “You didn’t happen to pack a sewing kit in your purse, did you?”
Mrs. Radley shook her head, her expression guilty. “No. I didn’t even think of it.”
I closed April’s top desk drawer. “Okay, I have one more place to look, and if that doesn’t work, I’m going to run up to my apartment and grab a pin.”
“Oh, do you live here?”
“Yes,” I said, pulling April’s office door shut. “I’m Frannie Sawyer. My family owns Cloverleigh Farms.”
“Oh my goodness, of course,” she said, following me down the hall. “My husband James is one of your father’s golf buddies. And I met your mother yesterday. Such wonderful people. Now there are five of you girls, right? Which one are you?”
“I’m the youngest. Okay, let’s try this one,” I said, pushing open the last door on the left and switching on the light.
As I entered Mack’s office, I couldn’t help feeling a little swoosh in my belly. It smelled like him—a manly combination of wood, leather, and charcoal. It sounds weird, but I’d always loved the smell of a hardware store, and that’s what Mack’s office smelled like to me. Maybe it was because I had fun memories of tagging along with my dad to the hardware store as a kid, and he always bought me an ice cream cone afterward.
Or maybe it was because Mack was hot as fuck, and I fantasized about him endlessly. There was that.
“Is this your dad’s office?” Mrs. Radley asked, glancing around as I went over to the desk.
“No, it belongs to Mack, the CFO. But I think he might have a little sewing kit in here. I gave him one for Christmas as a joke, because twice last year I had to sew a button on his shirt after he popped it off at work.”
Feeling slightly guilty to be rummaging around in his desk while he wasn’t here, I pulled open his top drawer and shuffled things around: pens, pencils, a yellow highlighter, a torn-out page from a Disney coloring book one of his daughters must have done for him, Post-It notes, Life Savers mints, his Cloverleigh Farms business cards. Momentarily distracted, I picked one up.
Declan MacAllister, Chief Financial Officer and Business Manager
I always forgot that his real name was Declan, since everyone called him Mack, but I liked it. Sometimes I whispered it to my pillow in the dark.
“Are these his girls?” She gestured to a photograph of his daughters on his desk. There were more pictures of them on the shelves behind me too. He was such a devoted dad. I knew firsthand because after his wife left last year—she had to be crazy—I became a part-time nanny to the kids. They were adorable, smart, and sweet.
And Mack was just … everything.
“Yes,” I said. “Aren’t they cute? Aha!” At the back of the drawer I found the tiny sewing kit I’d given him. I held it up triumphantly, remembering the way he’d laughed and thanked me with a hug that I still hadn’t recovered from. His chest was so hard.
Mrs. Radley looked relieved. “Oh, thank God.”
Grabbing Mack’s scissors, I came out from around the desk and stood behind her. “Okay, I think I can manage this with you still in the dress, but try not to move too much. I don’t want to poke you. White or yellow thread? Sorry, no ivory in the kit.”
“White.” She stood still while I threaded the needle. “Is that him?” she asked, gesturing toward a framed photo of Mack with his daughters I’d taken last July at the staff picnic. Winifred was on his shoulders, and the other two were hanging from his thick biceps. All four were smiling and laughing. I recalled how grateful Mack had been that day because I’d organized crafts and games for the kids, showed them all the fun places to hide, let them dip their feet in the creek, taken them into the barns and let them pet the animals. He said he hadn’t seen them so happy in months and had put an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. (In my fantasies, things progressed rapidly from there, but in reality, I’d simply said, “You’re welcome.”)
“Yeah,” I said, carefully securing the edge of the strap to the dress. “That’s him.”
“Handsome.”
“Yes.” My heart beat a little quicker.
She laughed a little. “That was a very emphatic yes. Are you two a thing?”
Only in my dreams. I cleared my throat. “No.”
“Is he married? I don’t see a wife in any of his photos.”
“He was. Now he’s divorced and a full-time single dad.”
“Are you married?” the bride asked.
I laughed. “No.”
“Boyfriend?”
I shook my head.
She inclined her head toward the photo of Mack and his girls. “I bet this guy could use a Saturday night out sometime. You should ask him.”
“He’s more likely to hire me to babysit on a Saturday night,” I said wryly, knotting the end of the thread.
“Are you that much younger?”
“Ten years. I’m twenty-seven, and he’s thirty-seven.”
She waved a hand in the air. “That’s nothing. James is twelve years older than I am. Age is just a number.”
Maybe, but I was 100 percent certain that Mack looked at me and saw a kid. Not once in the five years he’d worked here had he ever given me any indication otherwise, despite the fact that I could hardly breathe when we were in a room together.
It was a hopeless crush, and I knew it.
I snipped the thread and made sure my handiwork didn’t show. “Speaking of the groom, we’d better get you back there for that first dance.”
“You’re right. Don’t want to let him off the hook. He’s dreading the dancing.” She laughed and faced me. “How do I look?”
“Beautiful. All lit up inside.”
“No lipstick on my teeth? No wine stain on my dress?” She glanced at her shoes. “No toilet paper?”
I laughed and shook my head. “You’re good to go.”
“Thank you so much, Frannie.” She gave me a quick hug. “You’re a doll.”
“You’re welcome. Give me one sec to put this stuff away and I’ll walk you back.”
“I can find my way, no worries.” She headed for the door. “And I’d better hurry—those macarons on the dessert table looked divine. I don’t want them to be gone when I get there.”
“Oh, I made those. I can always get you some extra if they are.”
She turned around, her mouth falling open. “You made those? They’re beautiful! And absolutely delicious! I tasted one when we visited the first time—no joke, they were one of the things that sold me on having the wedding here.”
Blushing, I smiled. “I’m so glad.”
“You’re really talented. Are you a pastry chef? What on earth are you doing at the reception desk?”
I shook my head. “I’m not a pastry chef. But I was taught by one who worked here years ago—Jean-Gaspard. He was kind enough to tolerate my constant presence and endless questions in the kitchen, and I memorized everything he said.”
She laughed. “Well, it paid off. Do you sell in stores?”
“No. Just here.”
“You need to be in business!”
“Maybe someday,” I said, tucking the needle back into the kit.
“What are you waiting for?” she cried, tossing her hands up.
“I don’t know. A lightning bolt?” I suggested, laughing self-consciously. In truth, I’d imagined it a thousand times—just a tiny little storefront with a couple glass cases lined with rows of beautifully-colored macarons. But would it succeed? What if it was too specialized? What if tourists up here just wanted fudge and ice cream? What if I failed and lost tons of money? It’s not like I had any experience or know-how when it came to business—I was just a girl who loved to bake.
“Listen, I don’t have a business card on me right now, but when I get back from Hawaii, I’m going to send one over to you. I’m in commercial real estate, and sometimes I invest in local businesses as well—especially those started by female entrepreneurs. If you ever want to talk about this some more, you let me know. It’ll be my way to show my appreciation for your saving me from eternal embarrassment at my wedding.”
“Okay,” I said, although it didn’t seem too realistic. “Thanks.”
She gave me one last grin and disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in Mack’s office.
I packed up the sewing kit and replaced it in the top drawer along with his scissors. I knew I should get back out to the reception desk, but I couldn’t resist taking a moment to sit in his chair. Lowering myself into the worn leather, I placed my arms on the rests, closed my eyes, and inhaled deeply.
His ass sits here every day. It’s like my ass is touching his.
“Frannie? What are you doing?”
My eyes flew open and I saw my sister Chloe staring at me from the doorway.
I jumped up. “Nothing,” I said quickly, coming out from behind the desk. “I was just looking for something,”
“In Mack’s office?”
“Yes.” After flipping the light switch off, I edged by her into the hall, shutting the door behind us. “The bride broke a strap on her dress, and Mack has a sewing kit in his desk. I fixed it.”
“Yeah, I just saw her rush by.” Chloe glanced over her shoulder. “Hey, have you seen Dad? Is he around tonight?”
“He was earlier. He’s not in the restaurant?” I began walking back up toward reception.
“No. Maybe he went to bed already. He’s been so tired lately. I’m worried about him.”
“Same,” I admitted, pulling open the door at the end of the hall and letting Chloe go through first. “He should slow down a little.”
“I agree. I wish he’d let me …” She sighed. “But he never will.”
“Let you what?”
“Never mind. It’s nothing. I’m heading out.”
“Okay. Night.” As I watched her head out the front door, I tried not to feel disappointed she hadn’t confided in me. But it was nothing new—although Chloe was the closest to me in age, only five years older, we had never been particularly tight.
Part of me thought maybe it was because of all the attention I’d gotten as a child due to the problem with my heart. She’d been the baby until I’d come along needing all kinds of attention and care, including three open-heart surgeries before age ten. Maybe she’d gotten ignored.
Or maybe it was the age difference. She was always growing out of things just as I was growing into them—Barbies, friendship bracelets, boy bands. Our interests never seemed to align, and she was off to college before I even hit high school.
I often wished things were different between Chloe and me—between all my siblings and me, actually. The Sawyer sisters, people called us.
There was Sylvia, the oldest, who lived with her husband and two children in a big, beautiful home near Santa Barbara. I’d never visited, but Sylvia posted lots of pictures on her social media accounts with hashtags like #blessed and #mylife and #grateful. All my sisters were pretty, but I’d always thought Sylvia was the most striking. Her husband Brett, an investment banker, was attractive and successful, their children were adorable and smart, and they seemed to have the perfect life. Which was why it was always a little strange to me that Sylvia never seemed to be smiling in any photographs she was in.
April was thirty-five and had her own condo in downtown Traverse City, not too far from Cloverleigh. She’d moved to New York City after college and worked there for seven years. After that, she’d come home and taken over event planning here, single-handedly turning Cloverleigh Farms into the destination for luxury weddings in a rustic setting. Her eye for design and her ability to anticipate trends and adapt to them was incredible. She was a romantic like me—and she lived for weddings—so it was sort of odd to me that she wasn’t married, but whenever our mother hinted around, April always just shrugged and said she hadn’t met the right person yet.
Our middle sister, Meg, was thirty-three and lived in Washington, D.C. She’d always been wildly passionate and outspoken about her causes, from preventing animal cruelty to women’s rights to fighting poverty. After graduating from law school, she’d taken a job working for the ACLU but now worked on staff for a U.S. Senator. She was so busy she didn’t get home much. I thought she still lived with her boyfriend, a high-powered government something-or-other, but I wasn’t sure.
Chloe, who lived in Traverse City, handled all the marketing and PR for Cloverleigh and helped manage the wine tasting rooms. She was ambitious and smart and creative, always coming up with new ideas, and she worked her ass off. It never seemed to me that my mom and dad recognized all the work she put in on a daily basis. I sometimes wondered if it was because Chloe had been a really difficult teenager—defiant and headstrong, an unapologetic rule breaker who loved pushing boundaries and sometimes forgot to think before speaking. The total opposite of me. Even as an adult, she often butted heads with our parents, and never seemed to back down. I often wished I was more like her.
I often wished I were more like any of them. I envied Sylvia’s happy marriage and family, April’s confidence and creative instincts, Meg’s fiery passion, Chloe’s outspokenness … they all seemed fearless to me. Sometimes I felt I was a Sawyer sister in name only. After all, I was the only one who’d never left the nest, not even for college.
It’s not that I hadn’t wanted to go away to school like my sisters had, but my parents, especially my mother, had encouraged me to attend classes locally so I could live at home. “That way, you’ll be close to doctors you’re familiar with,” she told me. “And you’ll be more comfortable and less stressed. I know you feel like you’d be fine, but why take the risk?”
How many times had I heard that question in my life—a thousand? A million? My mother put it to me constantly, regarding any number of things she wasn’t comfortable with me doing. And I could have answered any number of ways.
Because I’m an adult and want to make my own decisions? Because I’m tired of being treated like I’m made of glass? Because I don’t want to end up with zero mistakes and a thousand regrets?
But I never said those things.
Deep down, I knew that my parents only sheltered me because they loved me so much, and I couldn’t really complain about anything. I loved the farm and the inn and the nearby small town of Hadley Harbor—I couldn’t really imagine myself living anywhere else. I had my own suite with plenty of privacy, and there was nothing I needed that I lacked. My job at reception wasn’t hard, my hours gave me plenty of time to bake, and I liked meeting new people, greeting the guests, showing off everything we offered. I knew this place like the back of my hand.
Of course, it might have been nice to have a few more friends my age, but we lived in a rural area without much economic or social opportunity for young people, especially during the winter. And because I’d missed so much school and gotten behind due to surgeries and hospital stays—not to mention my parents’ fears about infection—my mother had decided to homeschool me after second grade, so I didn’t have any childhood besties to call up, either.
But I had my parents and my sisters and the people I worked with. I’d even had a few flings during the summer tourist season, when the inn and the town were packed with people, and I definitely wasn’t the innocent lamb my parents thought I was. If I sometimes felt a little lonely, I supposed it was a small price to pay for having such a comfortable life.
Still.
I slipped my hand into the pocket of my black work pants and pulled out the business card I’d tucked in there earlier.
Declan MacAllister.
It would be nice to have someone to share it with.