Designed by Love (2 page)

And darned cute…way too cute for his own good. Which he supposed was sort of a paradox, to be so beautifully angelic in appearance yet harbor a vicious bite of attitude that seemed to be directed, for no reason he could fathom, at Dylan himself.

He'd wanted to get away from people…from memories that seemed to haunt him since he'd returned from his tour overseas. No longer on active duty, he wanted nothing more than to drown out the destruction he'd witnessed, including the death of his best friend, Joe, who'd gone on tour alongside him. Thoughts tumbled over each other as he forced memories from the forefront of his mind. He didn't want to think, didn't want to feel.

Hard to manage when the alluring woman next store, with the voice of an angel, nudged something awake inside of him. Only the music could take him away, make him mindless.

Dylan switched on his laptop, launched the sound mixer and cranked up the speaker volume to drown out the angel's voice as, despite his best efforts, his first prickly encounter with Traci Stanton came rushing back to fill his mind.

“Hi there, neighbor,” he'd called, figuring it was as good an ice-breaker as anything.

Traci turned from where she was busy watering a flurry of potted wave petunias near the walk. Her eyes, an alluring shade of blue-green ocean water, were a welcome distraction from moving day as she rose to step in front of Dylan, blocking his path up the walk. “What's that?”

“Nice to meet you, too.” He jostled the sound equipment on his shoulder, shifting to distribute the heavy weight. “I'm Dylan Jones and let me guess; you are…the welcoming committee?”

“Traci…Traci Stanton. And again I'll ask, what's that?” She jabbed a finger at the thin, rectangular box on his shoulder as the blonde hair she'd fashioned into a ponytail bobbed to sweep over her shoulders.

“This is one of my speakers.”

“It looks, well…” Her pert little nose scrunched with dissatisfaction, accentuating a light smatter of freckles along the bridge. “I hope you're not planning on blasting your music. I like things quiet around here while I'm working.”

“I guess I'd need to know your definition of blasting to answer that. But it's accurate to say that I like a little company in the form of tunes while
I'm
working.”

“Then I have just one word for you…headphones.”

“That's two words.”

“One—it's compound. Look it up.” Traci had stepped aside then, revealing the sign over the entrance to his cottage. Emblazoned in the wood was the message,
May love find all who enter here.
The same sign and message, he noticed, adorned the entrance to Traci's cottage, as well. He'd heard through the grapevine that she'd lived here at Heart's Haven going on a year and had yet to find her Romeo. With such a charming attitude—not—it was no wonder the guys hadn't come flocking.

Not that Dylan believed in any of the legends or stories about love that seemed to flit around the Angel Falls area about this particular rental complex. If he had, he would have never put his John Hancock on a lease. There was no room in his life for a serious relationship—or any kind of relationship, for that matter. And even if there was, he understood that for those who were fortunate enough to find romantic love, hanging onto that love happened merely half of the time—if one was remotely lucky. And if not, well…

Crash and burn…heartache and broken dreams. In the military, he'd seen it time and time again. Deployment, months away from a wife and kids, took its toll on a marriage. Some survived intact; many didn't. Daunting statistics, to say the least.

Similar to the statistics for coming home in one piece following a pair of tours deployed as a Navy SEAL. Not good either. But Dylan had been fortunate enough to beat the odds there. So maybe there was hope for the other, as well…

Nope. Not here, with this uptight blonde dynamo for a neighbor. She was well on her way to crushing the Heart's Haven batting average, and he was sure to follow in her footsteps to trounce the legend.

But the memory of that moving day encounter on the walk still brought a tingle of a smile to Dylan's lips. If Traci had continued her tirade, he might have had no choice but to quiet her scathing mouth with a kiss. And then—

A sharp rap on the front door followed by a heated shout drew Dylan back to the present. His right hand went to his hip while his senses launched into full alert as a shadow crossed the window.

“Open up, you moron.”

One heartbeat, two, while he gathered his wits. His pulse pounded like a string of gunshots.

It's OK…holster the weapon, Dylan. You're back on American soil, and it's not the enemy
.
It's just…

Strike that. A closer look through the window glass told Dylan maybe it
was
the enemy…clad in faded jeans and a flour-dusted T-shirt with a mass of blonde hair gathered atop her head. He strode to the door, switched on the porch light against the waning sun and there she stood—Traci Stanton.

He willed his pulse down a notch as he yanked open the door. He shouted to be heard over the music. “I hope it's not me you're referring to as a moron.”

“It's exactly you.” Traci's words struck like bullets as she marched over the threshold, crossed the living room, and with one swift motion yanked the sound-mixer's power cord from the outlet. The room plunged into stark quiet. “There, that's better.”

Dylan swore he could hear his heart thumping. Or, was that Traci's heart galloping across the room? He gaped at the power cord as she tossed it on the floor and gave it a single swift kick with the toe of her pink tennis shoe.

His voice sounded far away as his ears began to roar from a heightened blood pressure. “What do you think you're doing?”

Traci turned to face him, her cheeks flushed with fury. “I'm restoring sanity to the complex.” Both hands fisted along her sides, she reminded him of a tea kettle about to shriek…a very lovely tea kettle.

“Sanity?” It was hard to take her seriously with the white smudge painted across one cheek, a mass of blonde hair twisted into a bird's nest atop her head, and an apron emblazoned with a huge, delectable chocolate kiss along the front. Dylan stifled a laugh as his gaze captured hers. “You might want to take a look in the mirror first. I think you're molding.”

“What?”

“Your jaw here…” He ran a finger along the line of soft porcelain skin. “It's speckled with green.”

Traci's cheeks flamed as she nudged his hand aside. “That's fondant, for your information.”

Dylan tried not to think about the smooth, creamy texture of her skin, but she had him tongue-tied. “Fon-what?”

“Fondant. It's used for decorating cakes. Which I was in the process of—nearly finished with, I might add—when your music—and I use that term loosely—shocked the breath right out of me. The kitchen convulsed, and the fondant tool flew from my hand like a launched missile. It plunged through the cake's buttercream icing and impaled itself in a fondant rose. And then—”

“Whoa there. Take a breath.” Dylan placed a calming hand on her shoulder. “It can't be that bad.”

“
Then
,” she shrugged his hand away, “the middle tier listed, and the top slid, and then
plop, plop, plop
.” She paced a tight circle, slapping her hands against the thighs of her jeans. “Now the work of art I so painstakingly created is sitting like a beautiful building that's been heartlessly bulldozed—completely and utterly ruined.”

Dylan jammed his hands in his pockets and wished for the music again. The rhythm had a way of drowning out the chaos…restored sanity. But Traci stood between him and the power cord. So he went to plan B…humor. “Completely…utterly?”

“That's right, mister.” Traci stood like a concrete pillar, impossible to crack. She deflected his humor as she turned back to jab a finger into his chest, punctuating each of her words. “And-I-want-to-know-just-what-you-are-planning-to-do-about-it.”

“Me?” Dylan stepped back and splayed his hands in the universal sign of surrender. “Well, if you're asking my opinion, then I vote we eat the cake.”

“What?” The flames in her cheeks ignited to an inferno. She sputtered and grabbed her throat as if his suggestion had choked her. “Seriously, that's—good grief, that's all you have to say?”

“Well, by your account the cake might not look so great anymore, but I'm sure it still tastes incredible.” Dylan started toward the door. If he couldn't enjoy his music, he'd at least garner some pleasure from her cake. “Everyone says your cakes are the best in all of Texas. So I say we eat it.”

“You've heard people say that…
all
of Texas?” Her tone mellowed just a bit. “It's a big state.”

“That's right.” Dylan shrugged as he ambled toward the front door.

Traci grabbed his wrist, held tight. “Wait. Where are you going?”

“To your place.” Dylan glanced down at her whitened knuckles nestled along his wrist. She had no idea he could pin her in less than a second flat if he wanted to. Military training came in handy. Instead, he played along, moving toward the door as she clung to him. “You've tortured me all afternoon with that sweet, delectable aroma, not to mention your angelic humming. So the least you can do is let me have a sample of your wares.”

“The least I can do is…
what
?” She followed after him, her tennis shoes slapping the hardwood. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.” He flashed a grin as he wondered how long she planned to keep hold of his wrist and figured he didn't much mind the touch. “Today it was just the humming. Yesterday torture came in the form of your full-blown singing of a melody to Garth Brooks' throaty sound, no less.”

“You were eavesdropping on me?”

“Not any more than you were me.”

“I wasn't eavesdropping tonight. Who could miss your infernal cacophony of sound? I'll bet people heard your—that junk you call
music
—two counties away.”

“Do you make it a habit to over-exaggerate?”

“That's not exaggeration. I'm simply stating the obvious. And, for the record, I don't think the client who ordered the cake I was working on will share your sentiment about looks not mattering. Looks are everything when it comes to cakes—especially wedding cakes. Well, looks and flavor. And the cake's due to be delivered in…” she glanced at her flour-dusted wristwatch. “Exactly nineteen hours.”

“Then I suppose you'd better let go of my hand and get started on the reconstruction project.” Dylan glanced down to where their hands were now joined, and winked. “I'm willing to help with this adventure in exchange for a slice of your so-called demolished masterpiece
and
only if I can play
my
choice of music while we tackle the re-creation. You
do
own a radio with more than one station, don't you?”

“You…you…” Traci dropped his hand as if she'd been burned and swiped her palm along the front of her apron.

Dylan laughed. “It appears I've left you speechless. Good. Rebuilding this grand confection of yours ought to go faster that way.”

 

 

 

2

 

“Here.” Traci handed Dylan an apron when they both wound their way through the rear of the cottages and back to her kitchen. He'd agreed to help her, so she'd sure put him to work. “Put it on.”

“I don't wear aprons.” He tossed the last bite of cake into his mouth. “It's a man law that cannot be broken.”

“Man law doesn't apply in my kitchen.” Traci took the plate and fork from him and set them on the counter beside the sink. From the satisfied look on Dylan's face, she figured he'd enjoyed every morsel. That was something, at least, and the thought worked to loosen the ball of stress that sat in her belly. “The apron goes on.”

“You're a tough one.” Dylan grimaced but slipped the cotton strap over his head. “It's a little bit…small.”

“That's not all.” Traci stifled a laugh as he tugged the fabric over a terrain of muscles. He looked good…too good to be such a knucklehead in the music department. Maybe if he toned things down to a low roar, they could actually find a way to tolerate being neighbors.

“What's so funny?” Dylan glanced down at the front of the apron and grimaced. “Oh, man. Really?”

The oversized vanilla cupcake emblazoned across his chest was frosted in bubblegum pink with a dollop of bright red cherry on top. Mission accomplished. Traci's laughter spilled over. “It looks good on you, and payback is so sweet.”

“If you insist I wear this, then I'll need a little help here, please.” Dylan fumbled with the apron strings, gave up, and turned his back to Traci. “And just watch your back, because when it comes to pranks I give as well as I take. Fair warning.”

“I'll bet your bark is worse than your bite.” Traci smirked at him as she tugged the strings a little too tight and then tied them into a neat bow along his spine. “There, you're all fixed up.”

“Great. Now what?”

“Roll up your sleeves and put this stuff on the table.” She set to work gathering fresh baking utensils from drawers and cabinets. She handed each to Dylan, who placed them along the table ledge.

After a dozen or so utensils lined the table, Dylan cocked an eyebrow as he asked, “How much baking stuff do you have?”

Traci shot back with, “How much music do
you
have?”

“Just enough.”

“Me, too. Grab that mixing bowl. I'll show you the ropes. I hope you're ready to work, because re-creating this masterpiece will be no picnic. It's a full-day project, and we don't have a full day. We might be able to salvage the bottom tier and most of the fondant pieces, but the rest…”