Criminal Confections Read Free Page A

was.
    Especially someone reliable, trustworthy, and hyper-intelligent. Someone like Travis. If you had to have a keeper, he was the kind to have. But I’d rather have heard him talk than me. I’d rather have heard more of his bedroom voice.
    â€œSo,” I went on, still gazing out the window at the chocolatiering crowd milling around on the verdant grounds. “About that question I asked before. What are you wearing?”
    Travis laughed. I liked the sound of that, too.
    It was really too bad we’d probably never meet. Travis was (inexplicably to me) phobic about air travel. He couldn’t even drop off friends at the airport without getting antsy. Whereas I . . . Well, you already know all about my footloose ways.
    Sadly, Travis and I are fundamentally incompatible.
    â€œAre you wearing . . . a kilt?” I guessed. “A loincloth? A—”
    â€œI’m wearing a sandwich board,” Travis interrupted before I could get too carried away. His seductive voice sounded amused, though. “It reads, STOP PROCRASTINATING , H AYDEN M UNDY M OORE. ”
    â€œMmm. Anything else underneath that sandwich board?”
    â€œJust take the hint, Hayden. Get to work, okay?”
    â€œOkay. But be careful. Sandwich boards chafe.”
    â€œNot if you wear them correctly.”
    â€œLeave it to you to know the correct way to do everything.”
    â€œThat’s right. I do.” Travis’s deep voice made it sound as if he were right in my hotel room with me. “Don’t you forget it.”
    But just at that moment, I could scarcely concentrate on what Travis was saying . . . even as (I swear) his voice gave me goose bumps on my goose bumps. Because just at that moment, I glanced down at Maison Lemaître’s lush lawn, saw a familiar-looking fortyish redhead in a skirt suit and Bluetooth headset handing out colorful Lemaître-brand T-shirts to the retreat attendees, and realized I had just been offered a get-out-of-jail-free card.
    The woman in the corporate kit and headgear was Nina Wheeler, Christian Lemaître’s right-hand gal and the company’s PR exec. I recognized her. The T-shirts she’d handed out came in conspicuously matching colors, three shirts per shade, to what appeared to be teams of players. It didn’t take a genius to notice that pattern. If the recently unfurled banner snapping in the breeze was any indication of what was to come, I knew what was next, too. Specifically, a 100 PERCENT CHOCOLATE SCAVENGER HUNT.
    Because that’s what the banner said.
    I was quick with details like that.
    I was relieved, too. Spouting niceties about current events while making knowledgeable comments about Napa Valley Pinot Noir wasn’t my scene. But an icebreaker game was right up my alley. I wouldn’t even have to stand still! Scurrying around to find chocolate scavenger hunt items suited my monkey mind perfectly.
    Besides, I liked winning almost as much as I liked listening to Travis talk. Being humble was not my strong suit. Not when it came to things I did well. Like chocolate.
    â€œI never forget a thing, Travis,” I told him truthfully. “ Especially when it comes to you. Talk to you later!”
    Then I signed off on our call, heaved a regretful sigh for Travis’s refusal to indulge me with sexy talk, and grabbed my bag. Within moments, I’d eschewed the hotel’s molasses-slow elevators and was headed downstairs the old-fashioned way (via the chilly, deserted-but-efficient staircase), ready to show the San Francisco chocolate world a thing or two about Hayden Mundy Moore . . . and what she could accomplish when it came to being the world’s first (and only) chocolate whisperer.
    I even made house calls. For the right chunk of cacao and a nice referral, of course. A girl had to have standards.
    And maybe, today, she had to have the right color of T-shirt, too. When it came to that, time was wasting.
    For the sake