No Weddings (No Weddings #1)(7)
I nodded and walked to the front area of her store. She passed me, heading toward two chairs stacked upside down on a table. I went beside her and grabbed one as she pulled down the other, righted it, and took a seat.
She regarded me casually, as if she had all the time in the world. An eager potential business partner would show more interest, but I got the impression nothing Hannah did would reveal what lay hidden beneath her now-shellacked expression.
I glanced at her bare forearm that was splattered in frosting, thinking if she had a mirror, she might be less confident about her chances of winning a business negotiation. When I met her gaze, however, her calmness left me uncertain. She looked like she could wrestle an alligator and win.
I almost smiled, but forced a hard expression. Her distracting appearance aside, I focused on the task at hand. Two could play hardball, and I’d been trained by the best.
“As I’m sure Kristen explained, we’ve formed an event-planning and hosting company. We need a supplier for cakes, and you come highly recommended by Kiki.”
Her head tilted, her expression shifting from cold to curious as her gaze searched mine. “Only by Kiki? Didn’t you taste the cake I made for your club’s opening? What did you think?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, it was good.” Fucking amazing, actually. But I wasn’t about to tell her that. This was a negotiation.
“Good?” Amusement flashed in her eyes. She glanced out the window, getting a faraway look as a smirk played at the corners of her lips.
Then she shifted back in her seat and regarded me.
And I took a good hard look at her as well. She was nothing like the Hannah Martin I’d expected before I walked into her kitchen. I grew more fascinated by the second with the hard-edged woman across the small tabletop from me. And although she was interested in the business portion of this meeting, instinct told me she was curious about what lay under my outer shell as well.
Well, good luck with that one.
“Since Kristen was supposed to be here, I don’t have one of the subcontractor agreements with me, but I’ll email it to you later today. Essentially, we need someone as the sole supplier of our events. We’re demanding no less than three weeks’ notice from our clients, so that’s the possible amount of lead time you’ll receive as well. At the time of booking, we can ask them if they have a cake preference, but ultimately, most will have no say, as we’re trying to keep control of the creative details once they pick a theme.”
A spark of interest showed in her eyes. “I’d have total creative control?”
I gave her a nod. “Unless they make a specific demand when they book.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. Her nails were perfectly manicured but short and free of any polish. “How many parties are you doing a month?”
“We figure it will be a couple of parties a month to begin with. Our preferred themes center on holidays, but we’ll still do the occasional charity event or special occasion.”
“What are you paying?”
Those greenish eyes held mine, and I think she stopped breathing. Although I could’ve drawn out the suspense, I wasn’t a masochist. Still, I found it oddly reassuring to see the fracture in Little Miss Calm, Cool, and Collected. Maybe Kiki had been right—Hannah was possibly not an Ice Queen after all. But one had to look past the glacial exterior she tried valiantly to maintain.
I leaned forward, holding her gaze. At closer range, I became consciously aware of her scent. Not one hint of over-drenched, alcohol-based perfume. Instead, a slight sweetness drifted up, different than all the cake makings in her kitchen—something floral.
“We’ll pay whatever it costs.” I held my tone soft but firm. She hadn’t known until now that we weren’t negotiating price here. Only her availability. Her commitment.
“Whatever I charge?” she clarified. Smart girl.
“Within reason, of course. Decide what your time is worth per hour. Make works of art, and you can charge accordingly. Heavy-hitting names in social circles, both here and from Manhattan, will attend these events.”
She blinked. Her gaze fell to the surface of the table, her eyes scanning back and forth in thought. “What’s the catch?”
I leaned back with a nod. “You can’t ever say no. We need to rely on you without exception. You’ll be required not only to create the cake, often solely from your imagination, but it also must be the perfect one-of-a-kind cake. You’ll be expected to deliver to the function, no matter where it’s held, which may be here in the Philly metro area, at a location in Manhattan, or possibly anywhere in between. We’ll expect you to remain at the function, serving to the guests when the time comes, and then packaging and disposing of the cake when the party’s over.”
Sitting now on the edge of her seat, she listened to the list of requirements my sisters and I had created over the last week in a volley of back-and-forth emails. I’d taken no notes then. Hannah took no notes now.
“Is that all?” Her eyes gleamed, even though her tone was smartassed; it was a lot to ask of a baker. But at the same time, when she had the ability to name her price, details became inconsequential.
“No. One last demand. You can’t create or cater cakes for any other event-planning company. We’ll have your exclusivity during our business relationship and for two years after termination. A noncompete clause is built into the contract.”