One of These Nights (32 page)

“I will,” Zoe said, her mouth a breath away from his, and saw her future in his eyes. She smiled. “I will.”

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Available from Signet Eclipse in March 2016

“Y
ou have frosting on your nose.”

Larkin O'Neill rubbed her forearm across her face without looking up. The fluffy clouds she was piping onto the top of the three-layer cake had to look
just so
, and a little food on her face was the least of her concerns. “Better?”

“Well . . . it's at least more evenly distributed.”

Larkin grinned and squeezed the piping bag, finishing the second cloud. “Cool. I like symmetry.” There had been a time not long ago when Larkin would have found being observed by the perfectly put-together half of the Henry sisters a little unnerving—and she didn't fluster easily. Now, though, Emma was a friend, which made her a welcome distraction. Larkin loved to talk while she baked. Or decorated. Or . . . Well, mostly she just loved to talk, provided the company was good.

One of her favorite things about Petite Treats, her little bakery on Harvest Cove's main square, was the ready availability of good company.

Larkin stepped back, planted her hands on her hips, and studied her creation.

“Is it done?” Emma asked, tilting her head as she gave the cake a thorough once-over. “I haven't seen you make one like this before.”

Larkin glanced at her and smiled. Even in the cold, miserable depths of February, Emma Henry managed to look as fresh and bright as a spring daisy. Her dark brown hair was pulled up into a bun, and she wore a dress—which in this weather demonstrated a level of commitment to style that Larkin knew she would never be able to muster—of white wool, with a thin black belt, black tights, and a pair of cute little snow boots that Larkin suspected would be neither little nor cute if she bought them in her own size. The entire effect was charming. It also required, in her opinion, entirely too much work to pull off.

Larkin feared she was doomed to wear ripped jeans forever.
Oh well. I'd rather be comfortable and smell like a cookie.

“Almost done. Can't forget the most important part.” Larkin returned to the table, opened a small plastic package, and set about bending a sweet-and-sour rainbow to arch between the whipped cream clouds. When it was done, she made a fist. “
Yessss
. Rainbow cake achieved! I do good work.”

Emma laughed. “It
is
adorable.”

Larkin admired the tall, cylindrical cake. The design was simple: three layers, with pale yellow buttercream frosting setting off the sugar confetti scattered about the bottom third of the cake and a cheerful rainbow at the top. Once it got where it was going, the cake would sit on a short pastel pink pedestal with scalloped edges, a nod to the gender of Brynn's soon-to-be-niece. And, of course, there would be more sugar confetti. There was always room for more sugar confetti.

“I love it,” she said with a nod. “I've only done this cake a couple of times before, but it's so cute for a baby shower. I'm just glad Brynn agreed with me.”

“Brynn has good taste,” Emma said. “And she really wants to make this a nice shower for her cousin. I still think she's crazy for having it at her house, but—”

“Oh, it'll be fine,” Larkin said, waving her hand. “Her house is super cute, and there are only, what, ten people going? Little party, little house, little cake, big pile of presents . . . awesome. I just have to get this over there before she starts to worry.” She popped the top onto her cake carrier, gathered the few items she'd need to finish up at Brynn's, and pulled her apron off over her head. “Want to come with? We can probably talk her into a mimosa in the kitchen before we have to clear out.”

Brynn Parker was Emma's assistant at her event-planning company, Occasions by Emma, and Larkin had worked with the bubbly redhead often enough that they'd been friendly long before they'd gotten around to actually hanging out. Brynn and her employer were two peas in a pod in a lot of ways, Larkin thought with a smile—bright, beautiful, driven, and weirdly addicted to uncomfortable shoes. Though, as she'd discovered these past few months, Emma was substantially better at karaoke than her counterpart.

“Can't. Wish I could,” Emma replied. “I've got the setup for an evening wedding to deal with, and Seth is making us a late dinner and renting movies.”

“He's cooking? Seth doesn't cook.” Emma's fiancé had some fine qualities—and he was a sexy thing to boot—but Larkin had never seen the man do anything in the kitchen that required more than the use of the microwave.

Emma frowned lightly, looking perturbed. “He bought a cookbook. And groceries. And then when I tried to look in the bags, he
physically removed
me from the kitchen.”

Larkin smiled. “Aw. He wants to make food for you.”

“He swears he knows how. I just hope he doesn't make a fire for me instead. I don't think we can handle another man who burns water in this family.”

“Poor Jake,” Larkin laughed. Emma's sister, Sam, was married to Jake Smith, the local vet. Nice guy. Legendarily bad cooking skills. He did keep trying, but the jury was out on whether that was a good thing. “So that's why you came to see me today,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “You got kicked out.”

“That's not the
only
reason,” Emma said. “I also heard you had cookies. Big, chocolaty chocolate chip cookies”—she grinned—“and I had to get a couple of things from the apartment.”

“Oh, I see how it is. I'm being used for witty repartee and baked goods. Mostly baked goods.” Larkin heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I assume you saw the cookies on your way in.”

“I may or may not have bought a bag of them for myself, which may or may not be sitting behind the counter with Aimee as we speak.”

“Hmm.” Larkin brushed her hands absently down her shirt. “The weeks I have chocolaty chocolate chip cookies are the weeks I wonder why I ever bother to make any other flavors. This is a town of chocoholics.”

“This is a world of chocoholics. Don't act like you're immune. I've seen you get into the batter while you're working.”

Larkin snorted. “I'm powered by cake batter and cookie dough. I deny nothing. So, have you decided what you're going to do with the apartment yet? I can ask around if you're looking for a renter.”

“I might be.” Emma huffed a stray lock of hair out of her face. “I don't want to sell it. That's definite. It's right above the shop, and I'm attached.”

“You also want to keep some control over who's banging around up there. I would, too,” Larkin said.

Emma had moved in with Seth just before Christmas, leaving her cozy apartment mostly furnished but generally unoccupied. It was so convenient to work that Larkin might have been tempted to relocate, but the kitchen was way too small. Even though she did most of her baking right here in the shop, she still liked to have space for it at home. Her own little house might not be a palace, but it had enough room for her to spread out the way she liked.

It was more than she'd had growing up. And that was more than enough.

“I feel funny thinking of anyone else up there,” Emma admitted. “But I'm going to have to get used to it.” She offered Larkin a small, self-deprecating smile. “We all know how good I am at change.”

“You've got all kinds of change going on. You're great with change. This is just a really big one.” Larkin walked around the corner of the stainless-steel table and wrapped her arms around Emma, propping her chin on the shorter woman's head. “Do you need a song?”

“Oh God.” Emma's voice was muffled. “No.”

“I think you need a song.”

“Please. Please no.” But the “no” ended in a desperate giggle, so Larkin began to rock Emma back and forth. She heard a groan.

“Don' worry,” she crooned, “'bout a thing. You know why, Emma?”

“Um—”

“'Cause every little thing! Is gonna be all right!” Larkin sang, increasing her volume to make up for the fact that she wasn't exactly on key.

“Larkin, Bob Marley is rolling in his grave right now,” Emma mumbled into Larkin's arm.

Larkin continued signing as if she couldn't hear a word Emma said.

“You are totally losing customers right now.” Emma was laughing again, allowing herself to be rocked from side to side.

Larkin stumbled sideways, and the two of them yelped as she crashed them, as gently as possible, into the counter. A stack of measuring cups tipped over, clattering to the floor. Larkin got one look at Emma's mussed hair and amused, disgruntled expression before throwing back her head and laughing. It was only a second or two before Emma joined her.

They were noisy enough that the male voice they heard was less of a shock than it might have been.

“Why don't I ever get invited to these things?”

Larkin took a split second to brace herself before she turned her head. Even then, it was hard not to make some sort of stupid yummy noise. It didn't seem to matter how many times she was exposed to him—and that was plenty, since being underfoot was one of his natural talents—the man only seemed to get better looking. He loomed in the doorway, his big athletic frame seeming just a little too large for his surroundings. His stance was relaxed, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans, and he wore a classic, stylish wool coat open over a plain T-shirt. Melting snow puddled around his boots. Larkin forced herself to meet his gaze, pretending she hadn't taken yet another mental snapshot of his square jaw, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the short crop of dark red hair that spiked up, just a little, and probably on purpose. Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, there was a gallery dedicated entirely to Shane Sullivan, God of Inappropriate Hotness and General Bad Idea, and that was where the snapshot went, to be savored later when no one could ask her why she was staring off into space and smiling like an idiot.

His deep-set eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned at her, and Larkin offered what she hoped was a cheeky smile to him. Even though she was surrounded by baked goods, there was nothing in the shop she would rather take a bite out of than Shane. That was a problem.
He
was a problem. And because Shane liked being a problem more than just about anything, he would continue to plague her until the day she cracked, threw herself at him, and demanded he take her right here among the pastries.

Not that she had any fantasies about that sort of thing. Or an entire collection of them with only slight variations. No sir, she did not.

“You don't get invited because you do such a good job inviting yourself,” Larkin said, releasing Emma from her clutches and laughing as her friend tried to smooth down her hair. “I didn't realize I was having a party back here. Did somebody kick you out of your house, too?”

“Not recently.” He eyed Emma. “Trouble in paradise?”

“No. I was kicked out with love, and the promise of a gourmet meal later.” Emma straightened her dress and turned her attention back to Larkin. “I'll call you tomorrow and tell you if the house burned down. Thanks for the, ah . . . whatever that was.”

“They were good vibes, and you're welcome. Don't eat all the cookies at once.”

“No promises,” Emma replied with a laugh. “Bye, Shane.” He moved aside to let Emma pass, then took a few steps farther into the kitchen. He glanced behind him, through the doorway to the front of the shop.

“She still doesn't like me,” he said.

“Emma? Sure she does.” Actually, Larkin was pretty sure that Emma's feelings about Shane fell more into the benign ambivalence category these days, but it was at least an improvement over active dislike. And it wasn't like Emma was alone in being less than warm and fuzzy on the subject of Shane. His mouth tended to be as big as he was, and he had a reputation among the female population of Harvest Cove, and the surrounding towns, for being . . . well, kind of a jerk. Kind of a
complete
jerk.

It made his appeal to her that much more mysterious.

Larkin had plenty of experience with the big mouth and zero personal evidence of his tendency to go through a string of women, but she had to believe there was some basis in fact there. The guy couldn't get a date to save his life these days. He seemed to have stopped trying.

The man was trouble, the spoiled only child of one of the town's founding families, in line to inherit daddy's law firm when the elder Sullivan decided he would rather play golf all year instead of just half. Shane had been handed everything he'd ever wanted, and he could buy most of the rest. He was a brat, and she didn't like brats. This was now a mantra she repeated to herself multiple times a day, but it hadn't worked yet . . . because no matter what she did, she couldn't seem to help liking Shane. Worse, he knew it. Otherwise he wouldn't darken her doorway as often as he did and beg for food like a big, obnoxious puppy.

A puppy she continued to feed. And hang out with. And occasionally grab a burger with when neither of them were doing anything.

Larkin sighed.

“Got any spare cupcakes?” he asked, as though he knew what she was thinking about. “If you're testing out anything new, my taste buds are available.”

She gave him a look, and hated herself just a little when she turned to pick up a small cupcake box from the counter. It was Saturday. He always came in on Saturday. And when she'd been baking this morning, she'd done a test batch of a new recipe and put a few aside for him. His smile when he realized what she'd done instantly turned her insides to mush.