Blame It on Chocolate. Jennifer Greene
“But I’m not exactly a boss,” she objected. “I never thought of myself that way. Once Ludwig left…well, we all function as a team. Reiko’s older than I am. And Fritz and Fred…well, they’re more like puppies than employees. I mean, I’ve never actually given anyone orders to do anything—”
Orson smiled affectionately. “Actually, you do, Lucy—but in a way that everyone appreciates. And I have total faith you can handle the promotion. In fact, there is absolutely no one else I want to do it.”
When he mentioned the salary that went with the promotion, she almost fell off the chair. She wanted to. Actually, she wanted to leap on the couch whooping and screaming, but of course she didn’t.
“Mr. Bernard, I’d love a chance at this. I can’t tell you how hard I’ll work and try to deserve your trust in me.” She tried to sound her subdued best, but her head was still yelling ohmygodohmygodohmygod. New car, here we come! Hell’s bells, she might even move up to an Accord.
Here she’d been so sure this day was doomed for a nosedive because of that ugly bout of stomach trouble. Had she ever been wrong. And really, she should have known. She’d worked hard and long to make a life plan come together. Her life wasn’t going so perfectly by accident, but because she’d fought so hard. Darn it, she deserved it.
But just then, she glanced at Nick again.
CHAPTER TWO
NICK STARED out the sunroom window, jingling the change in his pocket, watching Lucy charge across the lawn back to the greenhouse. The dogs had found her—no surprise. The only shock was that they hadn’t found her before this.
Baby was a full-blooded Great Dane, where Boo Boo—well, Boo Boo’s name was self-explanatory. Baby had been bred with a ribbon-winning sire and dutifully stood for him, but the minute she’d been brought home, she took off and found her own choice of lovers. Boo Boo was the result. The dog’s coloring and size were pure Great Dane, but the ears drooped and the tail was wrong and his expression was downright dopey.
Either way, both dogs were bigger than Lucy. The faster she ran, the more they appeared to be chasing her, but that wasn’t really true. They simply bounded and leaped around her, thrilled to have their favorite female visit. They adored her. When Boo Boo latched on to her wrist, he never left a mark. When they lavished kisses on her face—and she screamed—they just wagged their tails, understanding that she wasn’t remotely annoyed.
Nick wanted to shake his head.
Lucy—whose creative horticultural talents could potentially bring in a multiple seven-figure windfall for Bernard Chocolates—had a red nose, a dog-licked chin, a silly flower hat that had fallen in the snow, and jeans with a hole in the knee.
“She’s too young,” Nick said to his grandfather.
Orson stepped behind him, carrying a fresh mug of coffee. “I know she looks young. But she’s just under thirty. You were running the manufacturing operations at that age.”
“But that was only because I had to. Because Mom and Dad died. Because you were ill. And because Clint couldn’t tell a balance sheet from a bowling ball.”
“Your brother is just as smart as you are. He could have taken the ball if he’d just had the interest, the ambition. Once he got that young woman pregnant, everything went downhill for him. The point being, when your parents died, you were both too young to run a company. Technically. But you grabbed hold of the challenge and made it happen.”
Nick had heard the refrain of this story too many times before. It was Orson’s gospel. Gramps would have forgiven his grandsons all kinds of goofs—car wrecks, losing a few million, run-ins with alcohol or drugs, probably even a bank robbery—but he was ancient-old-school as far as women. A man didn’t get a woman pregnant and leave her. Period. Unfortunately, Clint had made exactly that mistake. Orson had never forgiven him, no matter what Clint had said or done since.
Every once in a while, Nick tried playing go-between. It always worked the same way. Trying to intercede always resulted in his head getting kicked from both directions. But right now, his older brother’s problems weren’t on the table. The situation with Lucy was.
“Lucy isn’t me. It’s not the same thing.”
“No, it isn’t, but we’re not asking her to run an international manufacturing operation, either.”
Nick heard the stubborn note in his grandfather’s tone and knew the old man was spoiling for a fight. Orson loved to fight and most of the time Nick gave in. The Bernard Experimental Station was one of Orson’s wild-haired follies, which in itself didn’t bother him. Orson, after all, had turned Bernard Chocolates into the multimillion-dollar operation it was. If he wanted to fritter away some money, God knew, he was entitled. This situation, though, was different.
“Lucy knows that new breed of cacao is potentially worth a fortune. She’s not used to pressure. She’s not trained for it. It’s not a fair thing to put on her shoulders.”
When Orson didn’t immediately argue, Nick focused again on the view below.
She was almost out of sight now, but not completely. A copse of tall blue spruce formed a privacy barrier between the house and experimental station. She had almost reached the woods.
Her hair looked more silver than blond, especially in sunlight, and was finer than filament. She wore it chin-length and simple, but it whished around her face every time she moved.
He knew she wasn’t as young as she looked—it had to be challenging to look mature for someone who barely reached five-three and had that baby-fine hair. He’d never seen her wear makeup. Maybe she troweled on five pounds of face paint when she went out, but he only saw her at work. Makeup made no sense in the damp, warm environment of the greenhouses. Her skin was so damned gorgeous, he thought she’d be silly to goop it up anyway.
The eyes, though. God. A guy could look into those hazel eyes, get lost and never find his way out. They were dark gold and mesmerizing, framed with a thick fringe of short lashes. Sometimes, talking to her, he could look and look and look in those eyes. Forget who he was, forget how different they were, forget how young she was.
“She doesn’t have the background to take on this kind of responsibility,” Nick said firmly.
“Oh? What kind of background is that?” Orson’s tone was wry. “She took Ludwig’s experiments and turned them completely around. On her own. Alone. She’s creative, bright, intuitive. She works harder than any three men. She’s responsible to the nth degree.”
“I know all that,” Nick said testily.
But Orson wasn’t through singing her praises. “Everybody loves her. She may not think of herself as a leader, but everyone else does. She’s always at the head of the pack, making the work fun for everyone else, bringing fresh ideas and spirit and excitement to every project she’s involved with.”
“Gramps, I know all that. And I like her, too. It’s just…” Nick wasn’t used to fumbling, but it was hard to find the right word to phrase his objections. Saying everyone liked Lucy was like saying the sky was blue. Of course they liked her. She was like a fresh breeze on a dark day, always upbeat, always finding the right thing to say. And she listened. She tilted her head just so, listening to whoever was speaking intently. She heard people. She didn’t just talk. She really heard people.
Like him.
One time—God knew how she’d gotten him talking—Lucy had definitely heard him.
Orson was still musing on the nature of the project. “Obviously there are areas we’d have to take on ourselves. I don’t know how many extra employees we’ll need to hire. And security is a critical concern—but you can take that on, can’t you, Nick? She’d be in charge of the growing, the plantings, the direct work. But you could oversee that, as well.”
“You