Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (13 page)

Her mouth, full and bruised-looking from his kisses, jarred open. He almost closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see what he was giving up. “Why?”

His blood pounded, hard and primitive.
Because if I don’t I’m going to take you inside and bend you over a table. Take you up against the wall.

He tried to force some circulation back to his brain. “Because that’s why I’m here. I need to bang”—
Not
bang
, don’t say
bang—“this out.”

She tilted her head, regarding him with grave, gray, considering eyes. “I see.”

He was afraid she did. He started to sweat, running scared.

“Do I get any say in this decision?” she asked.

“There’s no decision. We’re not doing this.”

His words stung color to her face. Her soft chin firmed. “I’m not offering to marry you and have your babies. It was only a kiss.”

It was more than a kiss and they both knew it.

“It was a mistake,” Gabe said.

Her flush deepened. But, being Jane, she continued on bravely. “If I did something wrong . . .”

“What? No. It was fine.”
Fine?
God, he was such an asshole. She deserved so much better. How about
fantastic
?
Amazing
. The thought of her, hot and round, soft and sweet, in his arms, almost destroyed him. “You were great.”

She looked confused. He couldn’t blame her. He was confused himself.

“Not a mistake that way,” he explained. “I liked kissing you. I like you.”

“Then . . .”

His jaw set. There was no help for it. He was going to have to tell her the truth.

“I can’t do this,” he said tightly. “I can’t do this with you. I’m one paycheck away from being homeless.”

“I’m not interested in your paycheck.” She sounded . . . hurt? Insulted?

He was getting this all wrong. He was trying not to hurt her, damn it. “It’s not just the paycheck. I come from nothing. I’m fresh out of jail. You deserve better. More.”

“You sound like my father.”

Gabe winced. He supposed he deserved that. But he was doing the right thing—trying to do the right thing—for both their sakes. Any relationship with Jane would involve her kid. Her skinny, scrappy, appealing kid who was currently not Gabe’s problem.

And then there was Jane’s father, who could make himself Gabe’s problem at any moment.

Getting involved would only set up both of them—Gabe for failure and Jane for disappointment.

“Your dad has a point,” he said.
Damn it
. “The thing is, I can’t be with you, with anybody, right now. I’ve got a lot of shit to deal with. Probably more than I can handle. You have enough going on without taking on my problems.”

Her chin went up. “Fine.”

“Good.” They understood each other. Gabe tried to feel glad about that instead of tense and miserable. Suppose he hadn’t stopped. Suppose he’d hoisted her in his arms, her
legs wrapped tight around his waist, and carried her into the kitchen? Laid her down on a counter, peeled her jeans from her sweet . . .

“Perfect,” she said and went inside and slammed the door.

A
WEEK
LATER
, the sounds of construction penetrated the bakery walls, rattling the windows like gunfire.
Pop pop. Bang bang. Rizzzzz.

Jane set her teeth and concentrated on tying string around a bakery box.

The place wasn’t exactly jumping. But business was picking up. More vacationers taking advantage of off-season rates, more property owners coming to see how their rental houses had fared over the winter. Her regulars dropped in, buying doughnuts after church and special-order cakes to celebrate this birthday or that anniversary.

But this Sunday morning, they did not linger as they usually did over lattes on the front porch or brunch in the dining room. Nobody wanted to dawdle in a construction zone. Even the seniors had abandoned their usual table.

At least she had fewer tables to bus. A good thing, since she was working alone.

The whine of the saw cut through her concentration. Not alone.

Gabe and the crew had shown up around ten, after most of the early-morning joggers and beach walkers had come and gone. Sleeping off Saturday night, Jane thought, and wondered how Gabe had spent his off-hours. Not that it was any of her business what he did or who he did it with.

He didn’t want to get involved with her, fine. She could still feed him. Nobody ever turned down her food.

Every day this week when the crew showed up, she’d had breakfast waiting. Egg sandwiches with thick Canadian bacon and tangy hollandaise. Glazed sticky buns the size of lunch plates, oozing butter and cinnamon. Ham and cheese brioche, flaky and melting. Jay and Tomás had fallen on the food with thanks and gratifying hungry sounds. And Gabe had given her a long, measuring look, as if he suspected her of wanting to poison his coffee.

Heat surged to her face. Not that she ever would.

The tic behind her eyeballs pulsed in counterpoint to the nail guns outside. She had been up since four this morning. Normally she enjoyed the quiet, productive hours as the sky shimmered from gray into gold. But this morning she felt beaten, exhausted. For the past eight nights, she’d tossed and turned, her mind replaying that
knee-weakening heart-shattering
stupid kiss.

How could Gabe kiss her like that and then stop?

Okay, she understood why he had kissed her. He was a guy. She was blond and had boobs. Sometimes that was enough.

But she couldn’t get past the way she had responded, arousal blooming inside her like proofed yeast, soft and hungry.

Or why he had left her shaking with desire and frustration.

“Extra-large decaf soy, no-foam, sugar-free vanilla latte,” ordered Suzy Warner.

Awful drink. Everything about it artificial. But there was no arguing with an acquired taste, Jane had learned. People wanted what they wanted.

And didn’t want what they didn’t. Her mind skittered to Gabe. Her jaw clenched.

The pop of a nail gun filtered through the newly installed patio door.
Don’t look
.

“Make that to go,” Suzy said. “Extra hot.”

Jane kept her smile in place. “Of course. Emmalee?”

Emmalee Swanson, Suzy’s walking companion, jerked her attention from the double glass doors, where Gabe and Tomás were outside propping up a ladder. “Oh, a Glorious Morning Muffin, please. And a large coffee.”

Jane pulled a cup from the stack and reached for the bottle of syrup. “Coming right up.”

Suzy took off her sunglasses to inspect the dining room. “What a mess. Bless your heart. I’m surprised you’re even open.”

Jane tamped the shot with a little more pressure than was strictly necessary. “Actually, the crew’s been very considerate.”

Before Gabe left on Friday night, he’d cleared away the chunks of old drywall, tearing down the temporary frame he’d built to support the weight of the roof. But the raw wood stood out like a wound in the smooth-skinned walls, the wiring exposed like bare nerves.

“How long are they going to take?”

“End of the week,” Jane said, steaming the soy milk. “You’ll have to come back and see our new patio space.”

“It’s a wonderful view,” Emmalee said. “Is that Marta Lopez’s boy outside? My, he’s grown up fine. Who’s that with him?”

Jane resisted the urge to look. “Gabe Murphy.”

Suzy’s eyes swiveled like a ghost crab’s, dark and beady. “The convict?”

Her voice was loud enough to attract attention. Lauren Patterson, behind her in line, raised her head from her phone.

“He’s a friend of Luke Fletcher’s,” Jane said. “They served in the Marines together.”

“I heard he killed a man out West someplace.”

Jane snapped the lid on Suzy’s latte. “He was acquitted.”

“Well, you know what they say. No smoke without a fire. I wouldn’t have him around my place. I’d be afraid I’d be murdered in my bed.”

“I’d like him to come around my bed,” Emmalee said. “Look at those arms.”

That long, lean body, those rippling arms, those hard, competent hands.

Bang bang.
Jane flinched.
Pop pop pop.
Like nails on a chalkboard, but much, much louder.

“Let me give you a hand,” Lauren said, sliding behind the counter with a loaded dishpan. “Hi, Emmalee. Suzy. How was your walk?”

Jane took advantage of the interruption to serve the next customer. By the time she’d bagged their order—one cheese Danish, one chocolate chunk scone, and half a dozen cupcakes—Lauren had loaded the tray of dirty dishes into the dishwasher and was checking the levels in the milk pitchers.

Lauren had worked part-time at the bakery last summer, when she was supposed to be writing a follow-up book to her first bestseller about her experience as a hostage in a bank robbery. According to Marta Lopez at the police station, Lauren was actually sort of famous. She didn’t need to work for tips and wages.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jane protested.

“I enjoy it. And you’ve got your hands full.” Lauren shook the thermos of half-and-half before unscrewing the top. “I didn’t think the season started until Memorial Day.”

That’s right, Jane realized. This was Lauren’s first spring on the island. “Things start to pick up around Easter. I’ve already hired more help.”

“Thalia?”

Thalia Hamilton, Josh Fletcher’s girlfriend, had worked for Jane last year.

Jane swept crumbs from the counter, running an eye over
the tables. “I e-mailed her. She’s not sure yet if she’s staying in France this summer. So I hired another girl for the front of house, and someone to help me in the kitchen. He’s a dishwasher at the Brunswick now, but he wants to train as a pastry chef. I’m really flattered he’s leaving the restaurant to work here.”

“Of course he wants to work with you.” Lauren refilled the sugar dispenser. “You’re the best. Don’t you make all the desserts for the Brunswick?”

Jane flushed, pleased and surprised. She was competent. In her whole life, nobody had ever called her the best at anything. “Except for the gelato. And the crème brûlée.” She watched as Lauren grabbed a rag and the bottle of sanitizer from under the counter. “Here, I can do that. You go home to Jack.”

“Jack’s directing traffic out of the Methodist church parking lot.”

“In that case . . .” Jane wiped her hands on her apron. “Do you have a minute to stick around? I did want to talk with you. If you have time.”

“Absolutely.”

The bakery bells rang as more customers straggled in, a father with three little kids, a young couple stuck together at the hip.

As Jane filled the father’s order, the boy behind him in line hooked one arm around his girlfriend’s neck, pulling her closer. She leaned into his side, tucking her fingers into his back jeans pocket. Something about the way they touched each other, so casual, so confident, so
young
, made Jane’s throat ache.

She swallowed and looked away, focusing on the father’s order. “Sorry, we’re all out of bear claws. How about an apple fritter instead?”

Pay me in muffins
, Gabe had said.
Or chocolate chip cookies. Or dog food. Whatever you want.

What she wanted apparently wasn’t on the table.

She bagged the apple fritter along with the last two
cinnamon buns and a chocolate chunk scone and handed them across the counter. “Have a nice day. What can I get you?” she asked the young couple.

“What do you want, babe?” the boy asked.

She snuggled closer under his arm, pressing her breasts to his side. “Whatever you want, babe.”

Jane gritted her teeth. It wasn’t Gabe’s fault he’d stirred her up and then refused to do anything about it.

Okay, yes, it was.

But he was right about one thing. She wasn’t some teenaged girl hanging on to her boyfriend. She was a grown woman. She had enough going on in her life without getting her panties in a twist over Gabe Murphy.

She rang up the couple and then counted her remaining pastries. Two apple turnovers, three berry muffins, four scones.

“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.

It was almost time to flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED. Should she risk running out? Or bake another half dozen Danish and risk throwing some away?

“What?”

“You seem distracted,” Lauren said.

“I’m fine.” She could always give the leftovers to Lauren. Or to the crew outside.
Eat
that
, Gabe Murphy.

Which sounded vaguely dirty. Sexual. She flushed.

“You need to take something home with you,” she said to Lauren. “What about the lemon ricotta tarts? Jack likes those.”

“Sweetie, I would never say no to your tarts. But you don’t have to pay me in pastry.” Lauren smiled. “Contrary to what you may have been taught, help doesn’t always come with strings attached.”

Jane opened her mouth to explain. Shut it again. She wasn’t paying Lauren back, exactly. Feeding people made her feel good. Made her feel valued on a deep, human, fundamental level. Everybody needed to eat. Why shouldn’t she be the one who got to feed them?

The bell over the bakery door jangled, and Gabe walked in, bringing the scent of the outdoors into her warm, fragrant bakery: sea air and sweat, freshly cut wood and machine grease. Man in tool belt. Ridiculously hot. Whatever he’d been up to last night had not involved shaving, because the sexy pirate stubble was back, tempting her to test it with her thumb. Her breath came faster. Beneath her apron, between her breasts, a sheen of perspiration formed.

He nodded to Lauren. To Jane. “Heard you’re closed tomorrow.”

The simmering inside her bubbled over into speech. “It’s Monday. We’re closed every Monday. It’s usually a slow day anyway, and I need the time to catch up on paperwork. Plus, you know, it’s nice to have one day off a week.”

Lauren glanced at her, clearly wondering what provoked her babbling.
Why are you talking? Shut up, shut up.

Gabe sent her another long, level look. “Forecast is for rain. Sam’s pulling the crew to install cabinets on some upfit in town.”

Ashley Ingram’s coffeehouse
. Jane clamped a lid on her boiling emotions, fighting to match his cool delivery. “All right. I appreciate you letting me know.”

“I told him I’m taking a personal day. Got some business in the morning. But I can be here in the afternoon to do your drywall.”

Oh
. Her knees just melted. “I . . . Thank you. That’s really nice of you.”

He gave her a long look. “Just finishing what I started.”

Her heart quivered.

“Really?” she asked sweetly. “Because I thought that wasn’t happening.”

His eyes shuttered. He turned without another word and walked away.

“Wow,” Lauren said as the door closed behind him. “What’s up with you? That was almost snarky.”

Jane opened the cash drawer, hoping Lauren wouldn’t
notice her hot face. “Nothing’s up. Why would you think anything was up?”

“You said you wanted to talk.”

“About
Aidan
,” Jane said. “I was wondering . . . That is, I hoped . . . Did you have a chance to talk with his teacher yet?”

“Caught her in the break room on Friday. I should have told you first thing. The good news is, he’s doing well in class. Sylvie says he’s paying attention and following directions.”

“I check his homework. His grades are good.”

“His grades are great. Socially, he’s on the quiet side, but he has a couple of friends he usually plays with at recess.”

Jane nodded. “Chris Poole and Hannah Lodge. But what about the fighting?”

“Sylvie hasn’t seen anything that concerns her. Some roughhousing on the playground, but that’s not unusual.”

“Bullying?”

“Not that she’s observed.” Lauren hesitated. “Of course, teasing is common at this age. Sometimes it’s a way for children to cement their own social status. Boys especially are very conscious of their rank within the group. So they look for weaknesses, things that may set another child apart.”