PERFECT (4 page)

Darcy hoped she
hadn’t offended Dylan with her comment insinuating he wasn’t very good in the
kitchen. Lifting the warm ceramic mug to her lips again, she admired the span
of the mountain man’s shoulders and his nice tush as he walked out of the bar.
She bet he had talent elsewhere.

Searing want
flooded through her veins and she hooked the collar of her sweater and pulled
it away from her neck. She sat the hot drink down, not needing it any longer.
In Charleston, she was a known workaholic, putting in eighteen-plus hour days
at least six days a week and only twelve hours on the seventh. Not many men
caught her attention, unless they were in the business. A talented pastry chef
always got her attention, but not for the same reasons that Dylan Kincaid had
piqued her interest.

However, she was
on forced downtime because of the fire. In a matter of a few minutes, Dylan
Kincaid had not only snagged her interest, with his raven hair that feathered
back over his ears and kissed his shirt’s collar, he’d stolen her breath with
his dazzling coal-colored eyes and easy smile. His rough palms against her soft
skin forged sizzling daydreams of him running his hands over her body.

She grabbed the
Irish whiskey and filled her mug. Damn. The fates were still against her and
luck’s name was still sucky. She tossed the used swirl stick into the trash.
Her boot heels echoed off the wood flooring as she rounded the bar and
meandered into the foyer. The high-hat lights above were now set to a medium
setting, probably by the cleaning person who had left moments after she had
arrived. Seeing the handsome hunk cross the lot with long strides, his head
held proudly, she felt the urge to run after him and ask Dylan to stay and keep
her company while Tom dealt with his kitchen staff. But, that would be
pathetic.

He climbed into a
truck and a shroud of despair fell around her. Why did she feel sad over
Dylan’s sudden departure? She knew nothing about the guy. He could be the
town’s bum, for all she knew. The truck he drove certainly wasn’t shiny new.
But knowing he was Tom’s friend, she doubted being a bum was the case. He was
probably a very nice guy. Responsible. A town leader. A freakin’ gorgeous,
nice, responsible town leader.

Darcy sighed. What
the hell was she thinking? She hadn’t come to Vermont looking for a
fling—although a serious steamy lay might do a world of good for her blood
pressure. She had made the trip on Tom’s advice to put serious distance between
her well-being and her problems. The guy was right. She needed a clear mind
while devising a plan to get additional funds to cover her ten-thousand dollar
insurance deductible and set the wheels in motion to reconstruct her restaurant.
She was going to miss the holiday season and the chance to end her fourth
quarter in the black. Now, she’d be lucky to stay above water at year’s end.

Thinking about the
whole ridiculous situation of having to wait until an official arson
investigation was completed and filed constricted her back muscles and her
shoulders bowed under the weight worry created. Her fry man had simply
forgotten to turn the fryer the off. He sort of had admitted to doing so. At
least his body language had stated so when he’d been questioned.

The holidays were
going to delay the report an additional three weeks for sure.

She blew out
another sigh, this one filled with frustration. “There’s no use fretting over
something you have no control over.” She smiled at mimicking her grandmother’s
gutsy tone while stating one of the old woman’s mottos.

The beam from
Dylan’s headlights cut across the dining room windows, lifting the decision to
run after him from her mind. She walked further into the dining room, between
tables set with linen tablecloths and upscale utensils, while watching the red
glow of the handsome local’s taillights until they disappeared into the night.

A fling would
certainly be a distraction. However, Dylan wasn’t an option. He was taken and
that’s why Lady Luck’s name was Sucky with a capital S.

Putting Dylan out
of her mind, she walked around the spacious dining room. It really was quite
lovely in a rugged way. A huge stone fireplace anchored the wall opposite the
entrance, situated between two sets of picture windows. Outside a frozen pond
sat in the distance, set back from the highway and concealed from the road by
sturdy pines, which were the reasons she hadn’t noticed the area while driving
toward the Lone Grist Mill. She could just imagine the cozy setting the view
created for patrons who were seated next to the window, feeling the fire’s
warmth, listening to logs crackle and watching skaters glide across the ice.
Lovely.

She turned around
and noted that on the north wall, between the windows, hung four beautiful oil
paintings. She stepped closer, meandering between tables. The colors used by
the artist were magnificent. Each four by three canvas showcased the gristmill
in its prime during the peak of a season. The spring landscape before her had
maple trees scattered across the property, daubed with vibrant shades of green,
showing their new growth. A bucket hung from a tap drilled into the wide
trunks. The two men carrying pails, seemingly walking away from the maples and
toward a larger canister, looked to be close in age and features—like brothers.

She heard voices.
The staff was saying goodnight. She turned back to the painting.

“Do you like
them?” Tom asked as he entered the dining room.

“Yes.” She flashed
him a smile over her shoulder and nodded. “Very much. Are they antiques?” She
leaned in closer, inspecting the brush work. She was no expert. “The frames and
canvas look old, but the oil paints look newer.”

Tom had removed
his chef whites and was dressed in a comfortable shirt and jeans and carried a
coat. He aimed a hand toward the parking lot and pushed a button on his key
chain. Outside in the lot, the lights on a black SUV blinked. In the quiet,
Darcy heard the vehicle’s engine kick over.

“You have a good
eye. I commissioned them. I wanted old and lucked out. The artist’s grandfather
had also been a painter and never used the canvases. The frames, I found at
several antique sales.”

“They’re amazing.
It seems like the artist sat outside and painted them while looking down on the
place.”

“He’s a local.
Born and raised. Pretty much knows the whole mountain like the back of his
hand.”

“Really?” She
raised a brow. She shouldn’t be surprised someone of this artist’s talent was
hidden away on the Green Mountains. Vermont had a reputation of being an
artistic state. Squinting, she searched the lower corners. “I don’t see a
signature. Who is he and does he have more for sale?”

“You’ve met him,
and yes.”

She pointed toward
the exit. “Dylan?” She pointed back to the painting. “He painted these?”

“Yup,” Tom
clipped.

Her eyes widened,
surprised that the farmer had so much creativity, evoking an overwhelming
longing of home and peace. “I thought he was a maple farmer. And ski-patrol
guy.”

“He is, and an
artist. Painting isn’t his only talent. I’ll have to take you out to his place
sometime this week. You’ll be amazed by all of his projects. He builds works of
art out of nothing. Junk really. It is amazing.”

She studied the
spring scene. So creating was his hobby. Hard-working, humble, sensitive and so
freakin’ handsome. “Really, really, sucky.”

“What?” Tom tilted
his head to the side, like he hadn’t heard her correctly.

Oh, my God. She
had spoken out loud. She coughed and cleared her throat before connecting with
his eyes. “It’s sucky I don’t have a bigger car. These are amazing works. I’d
love to take a few home. Maybe find a place for them in Sweet Grass…”

There was no Sweet
Grass. The happiness she’d felt during the last thirty minutes seemed to slip
away like a mist that couldn’t be held onto. She had spent the last week of her
life emotional and weepy and didn’t mean to get all choked up again. Pressing
her hand to her throat, she hoped to stop the emotion welling up inside of her
and looked to Tom because he would give her courage.

“Hey, babe, it’s
okay.” His large hand massaged her shoulder. “Things are going to work out.”

“I don’t know
how.” She drew in a quick breath and exhaled, pushing back stinging tears. It
was a wonder she didn’t resemble a red-eyed devil.

“Believe me. I
know all too well what you’re handling.”

She knitted her
brows together, while her mind tumbled over everything she knew about Tom. He’d
never suffered a tragedy that she knew of. If he had, he hadn’t shared that bit
of information with her. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a long story
and we have a lot of catching up to do.” He slipped into his coat. “Why don’t
we head back to my place and we’ll get comfortable. Maybe have a hot chocolate
or some of my special hot cider. That will help you unwind, and forget.”

“You have my
curiosity aroused, Tom Angleman. You never told me you had a fire.” Carrying
her cup, she followed him out of the dining room.

“I didn’t. I lost
something else. I’ll explain later.” He reached along the wall and switched off
the lights to the dining room.

Rarely did Tom
frown, but before he turned off the high-hat lights above them she’d caught a
glimpse of much more than a bit of sorrow darkening his expression.

Twinkle lights
lining the rafters of the foyer were the only remaining lights, besides the red
glow of the exit sign.

“So where does
Dylan live?” She sensed Tom wanted to change the subject and Dylan was the
first to jump to mind. Not because she was interested in the man or anything.
He was a topic they had mutual interest in. Damn.

Tom spun on his
heel and faced her. “I knew it.”

She pulled up
short, swallowing. Tom sensed interest as well as a hound could sense a nearby
raccoon. “Knew what?”

“That twinkle in
your eyes.” He waved a finger in front of her face. “I’ve seen it before, when
you found the building that became Sweet Grass, but, this time, it’s brighter.
You like Dylan.”

Her hair fell
forward as she darted her gaze at the floor and blinked before looking at her
friend. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I like him? I mean, I really don’t know him, but
he’s your friend and I like you.” She brushed by him, concealing the flush
rising to her face. If Tom bought that line of BS, she’d sell him interest in
something ridiculous, like a vacation home on Mars. The truth of the matter was
she wouldn’t mind running into Dylan again. She placed the ceramic mug in an
empty dish cart, then flung her scarf around her neck. “So did you find your
pork loins?”

“Don’t change the
subject, Darcy,” he said, shaking the same finger in her direction.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I saw
you check him out.”

She chortled and
gave him a look of confusion. Tom was a matchmaker. That she knew. He had
worked his magic on Mark and Tony. The pair openly credited Tom as the reason
their relationship started. But damn—Tom knew she was not looking for a man.
She was content with her life. “Okay. I checked him out. He’s a good-looking
guy and yes, he seems like a nice guy. What else do you want me to say about
him?”

Tom crossed his
arms over his barrel chest and stared down at her. “Don’t you want to know if
he’s married or seeing someone?”

“I thought he
was.”

Now Tom’s
caterpillar brows pulled together. “Why would you think that?”

“He said he had to
get home to the girls. I assumed that meant he had someone waiting for him.”
She lifted on her toes slightly. Maybe “girls” meant two beautiful Irish
Setters. “Doesn’t he?”

“Yeah. His two
nieces.”

Her heart stopped,
dreading an imminent tragic story. “He’s raising his nieces?”

Tom nodded. “Don’t
look so sad. Their parents are okay. It’s a long story. Let’s get going, and
I’ll tell you all you want to know about Dylan on the way. Then you can make up
your mind.”

She shook head,
wondering what the heck Tom was taking about. “About what?”

“Whether or not
you’re going to give the guy a chance.”

“Whoa. I’m not in
the market for a holiday affair,” she exclaimed, even though the notion to get
friendly with Dylan had entered her mind only minutes ago.

“Who said anything
about a fling? I was thinking something a little longer.”

Wait. Was Tom
plotting something more permanent, which involved a ready-made family? She
grabbed his arm and looked up him, flashing heat in her eyes. “Is he the reason
you asked me to come visit for the holidays?”

“No.” He peeled
her fingers from his arm, took her by the shoulders, and steered her toward the
door. “But you two are perfect for each other. Put your gloves on. It’s cold as
hell outside.”

Like a small child
she listened to him while pulling her gloves from her coat pocket and sliding
her hands into the soft leather.

“Perfect?” She
looked up and over her shoulder and nearly tripped over her own feet. Tom
caught her before she stumbled to her knees and sat her straight on the path
toward the exit. “How can you say that? We don’t know each other. Besides, I
live in South Carolina and he lives here in the frozen north.”

“Logistics.” Tom
opened the door.

“Long-distance
relationships never work.” The cold air smacked her in the face and immediately
she gathered her arms closer to her body.

Tom locked the
door into place and then looked down at her. “Does that mean you’re thinking
about having one?”

“Hell no! It
doesn’t mean that.” She stamped her feet more in frustration than trying to
keep Jack Frost from snapping at her toes. “I’m just stating a fact I heard or
read somewhere. I’m not interested in dating anyone. Not in Charleston and
certainly not here. I have enough problems and a ton of work to do getting
Sweet Grass up and running again. I don’t have time for a relationship.” She
opened her car door and slid inside. That was the first time she had said Sweet
Grass out loud since before the fire and hadn’t felt like blubbering.