Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (2 page)

She'd barely managed to get her car to the garage before it sputtered and died right in front of the island's only repair shop. She prayed it would survive this latest bout of operational ennui. A new car wasn't in her tightly detailed budget. Nor was an old one, for that matter. She needed the one she already had to hang in there.

Fortunately, the mechanic—Dylan Ross of Ross & Sons—hadn't seemed to think her car was a complete lost cause, though that might have been wishful thinking on her part. It had been somewhat hard to tell what he'd been thinking, actually. He gave new meaning to tall, dark, and brooding. James Dean could have taken lessons from that guy. Truth be told, Dylan Ross had it all over the movie icon in the looks department, too. He was the poster boy for every broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, six-pack toting, pouty-lipped hunk of modeling clay who'd ever slid a pair of perfectly faded jeans over muscular thighs and very fine ass to pose, all smoldering intensity, in front of a camera lens.

Only hotter. He wasn't some smug, young dude. More like . . . well, it was hard to tell how old he was, but he was no kid. He was all man, and . . . seasoned. Experienced. Grooves at the corners of his eyes and a pouty-lipped mouth lent character to the chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. His gray eyes had that wise-beyond-his-years look as if they'd seen far too much already and would be perfectly happy to tune out what came next. It made her wonder what the story was behind the attitude . . . although she quite honestly hoped she never had the opportunity to find out.

He was the polar opposite of the cheerful young man—Dell, he'd said his name was—who'd greeted her at the desk and taken her keys and information, before taking off on his motor bike to run an errand. Conversely, Mr. Ross had been rather abrupt, almost bordering on rude, while asking a few more questions to help determine her situation. She'd been thankful for that, though. Mostly. A little less curt wouldn't have killed the guy. Or her.

She'd heard so many stories from Bea about the goodwill of the island denizens that she'd spent the last two states of the drive bracing herself for the physical onslaught that could quite possibly envelop her upon her arrival. Dell had certainly lived up to those standards, although thankfully without the hugging, but it was only after Mr. Ross had been so abrupt, with minimal conversation and little or no eye contact, that she'd realized how grateful she was for his brevity. And his distance.

She would handle whatever was coming at her, but she wasn't ashamed to admit it would help enormously if she could get a good night's sleep first

Unfortunately, nothing was going according to plan. She'd anticipated curling up in Bea's old apartment, which, as emotional as that was likely to be, would also be a haven of sorts. She hadn't realized how much she'd been counting on that safe and secure landing pad . . . until it had been quite unexpectedly yanked out from under her.

“Miz D'Amourvell?”

Her head jerked up at the sound of her name. Spoken the way he said it, in that deep, southern drawl . . . well, it did surprising things to her insides. She pushed her glasses up again, tugged on her sticky blouse, and shoved the strap of her satchel up over her shoulder, all while trying not to look directly at him. Or his chest. Or his hips. Or his mouth, for that matter. And definitely not those eyes. Oh boy.

“Is it ready?” she asked, making a big show of checking and double checking that she wasn't leaving anything behind. Though she'd never taken anything out of her satchel other than her phone.

“Afraid not. Needs a few parts, amongst other things. There's more wrong with it than right with it. You stayin' on the island?”

She nodded, trying not to feel more defeated. “I'm . . . not sure where.”

“Barbara Hughes has a B&B a couple blocks off the square, heading toward the docks. I imagine she probably has a room.”

“Okay. Thanks. Is it walking distance? I have a lot of stuff.” She thought about the suitcases—none of them on wheels—and all the tools and supply boxes presently crammed into her car. Not that she needed much for the night, but some of her work things wouldn't do well sitting in this kind of heat overnight. Much less however many days it might be until her car was fixed.

“Shop's locked up at night,” he said, apparently reading her concerns from her expression. “Not that anyone around here would take anything.” His voice was deep, gravelly, and oh so sexily Southern. The kind of voice that vibrated along the skin. Hot, slick skin.

She shook that image off—could her thoughts be more inappropriate?—and tried to relax. Terse or not, he was trying to help her out. Yet it was almost impossible to ignore the tension that seemed to emanate from him. That, combined with the heat, the fatigue, the massive screw up she hadn't even begun to figure out how to fix, and her suddenly perky hormones made her feel jumpy . . . and restless.

“It was more the heat I was worried about. Some of the things in my car probably shouldn't be left—never mind. I can deal with that tomorrow.” She sent another pensive look in the direction of the work bay. “How long will it take to get it fixed, do you think?”

She hitched the satchel strap up again—even her shoulders were sweaty—and resisted the urge to scratch her neck. Not that she cared how she looked—good thing—but she was a woman, after all. Standing in front of a guy who looked like . . . well, who looked like Dylan Ross, she imagined any woman would want to feel at least marginally not disastrous. She was pretty sure she fell short of even that low bar.

“Two or three days. Could be a week. Parts for your car don't run in stock anywhere local. Have to order them, then get them sent over from Savannah.” He turned around and headed back inside, leaving her to follow him or . . . walk down the alley and out into the square, presumably to find the Hughes's place on her own. He didn't seem to much care either way. Of course, he had her car and a goodly part of her worldly possessions, so it wasn't like he had to worry she'd take off and not pay him.

She sent another look across the back alley at the cupcakery, her gaze lingering on the whitewashed brick building next to it.

It was every bit as perfect as Bea had claimed it would be. She couldn't deny she'd felt a buzz of excitement when she'd taken that short walk around the square after her car had been pushed into the service bay. It had been something of a thrill, more than she'd anticipated feeling, spying the tiny shop on the corner for the first time.

Honey had assumed Bea had romanticized the little town, the island, but Sugarberry was exactly as she'd described it. It had all the charms of every Southern town she'd ever read about . . . along with the added twist of a more bohemian island vibe, which was just eccentric enough to appeal to her Aunt Bea . . . and to her. Enormously, in fact. Despite the swelter. And the bugs.

Don't ever settle for less when there could be so much more. Life is not meant to be lived in the shadows.
Bea's words had been on her mind as she'd crossed the square.

Don't assume there is no welcome mat out there for you. There is one right here . . . waiting for you.
Honey had embraced that benediction, had allowed herself to truly believe that maybe, just maybe, Bea had been right and this was her very real chance at the life she'd wanted so very badly, but had been too afraid to reach for.

It had made the blow that much worse as she'd gotten close enough to see the G
RAND
O
PENING
sign in the window of her newly inherited, supposedly empty building. The same whitewashed brick building that had once housed Aunt Beavis's tailoring shop and the apartment she'd lived in above it. The building Honey had planned to transform into her very own, very real, storefront business where customers could come in and browse, to see and touch her work firsthand. More important, to see and talk to the owner and artist firsthand. No more hiding behind her mail-order catalog and computer screen. The same building was now Babycakes, the mail-order and catering adjunct to Cakes by the Cup, right next door.

Yeah. It had been such a special day. Oh so very . . . special.

She clamped down on the fresh wave of frustration and anxiety that had started a vicious little whirl in her gut. She still had the farm. It hadn't sold yet. She could simply turn around and go home.

Instead of feeling reassured, the idea of driving all the way back to Oregon and out to Juniper Hollow, to the old farmhouse and the barn . . . felt like, well . . . it felt like failure.

She glanced one last time over her shoulder before following Dylan into the building that housed Ross & Sons.

She found him in the small office tucked in the front of the shop. It was surprisingly tidy and clean for an old time, family-owned auto repair business. In fact, the whole place had a rather . . . fresh feel to it. The bench out back had been brand new, too. But Dylan Ross was too young to have sons working for him so she assumed he was one of the sons.

“Want to get anything?” he asked, head bent over a clipboard on his desk, not bothering to look up. “From your car,” he elaborated, when she didn't respond.

She'd gotten kind of caught up looking at his hands. Broad, strong, capable. Beat up a bit, but given his profession, no more so than could be expected.

“Yes? No?” he asked, finally looking up.

She jerked her gaze to his, then realized that for the mistake it was, and immediately looked toward the front of the shop, anywhere, really, but into those eyes. Eyes that met hers quite directly. Unflinchingly. With a gaze that probed, assessed, and summed up, without even trying.

She could feel the . . . beginnings of things. Stirrings. And not just
those
kinds of stirrings. Skittering around the edges of her consciousness were the kinds of things she'd spent many long years suppressing. Feeling them rattled her, adding to the jumpiness she already felt around him. Though she knew by leaving her barn and Oregon, and coming out into the world, she'd given those stirrings carte blanche to resurface—but she wasn't going to allow them to do so now. And, God help her, not with him.

“Just . . . a suitcase,” she managed when he lifted an eyebrow. “I'll . . . figure out the rest tomorrow.”

He shoved back his chair and stood, and she realized too late that she was far too close to him, almost crowding him in the small office space, standing between him, his desk, and the only door out.

He was tall, towering over her as he looked down with an expression that clearly asked if she was going to move out of his way sometime in the next millennium.

“Sorry,” she said, moving at the same time, in the same direction he did, which had the unfortunate consequence of brushing her up against him, which had the even more unfortunate consequence of making her gasp.

His eyes widened momentarily; then he gave a short shake of his head. When she remained standing there, frozen, staring, he bodily—if gently—took her by the arms with those broad, strong hands of his, and set her aside.

She locked up at his direct touch and had to clench her jaw to keep from screaming. It had been a very—very—long time since anyone had put their hands on her. She'd made damn sure of that. And though he probably already thought her a bit of a fruit loop, she didn't much care at the moment. “Let me go,” she said—begged—almost strangling on the words.

He looked momentarily stunned, then scowled and lifted his hands away, palms out. “Just trying to get out of my own office so I can go home.” He gestured to the open doorway. “After you.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, mortification and resignation filling her in equal measures. Apparently time hadn't healed anything. Nor had it diminished her curse. At all.
Here we go. Again.

Suddenly Oregon wasn't looking so much like failure as it was the smarter option. “I—”

She realized even as she opened her mouth that there was no explanation that could possibly repair the moment, none that she was willing to give, anyway, or that he'd believe, much less understand. “Sorry,” she repeated, and ducked out in front of him, careful not to come into so much as a speck of contact.

She walked back to her car, realized she didn't have the keys and turned back around, almost bumping right back into him. He held up the keys between them, his tight expression somewhere between
what the hell is your problem
and
please, dear God, just let me get out of here.

She'd seen it before. Many times.

So, it shouldn't have felt so . . . disappointing. She snatched the keys from his fingertips and turned quickly toward the car, feeling an irrational surge of anger. At him, herself, or a little of both, she couldn't take time to figure out, but it got her through the motions necessary to dig into her car and drag out her father's old leather suitcase. She manhandled it to the cement floor of the garage, then took one last look inside the car, and immediately decided she'd dealt with all she was going to deal with at the moment.

She gripped the hard, camel leather handle and started to heave it up . . . to go where, she really had no idea, but she'd figure that out as soon as she got herself out of the garage and away from the intense gaze of Mr. Ross. How a gray-eyed gaze could be so piercing, she wasn't quite sure, but his was. Piercing and penetrating. As if he'd figure out all of her secrets without even trying, much less meaning to.

Of course, he hadn't. No one could.

“I'll just get this outside, and you can lock up for the night.”