Second Chance at the Sugar Shack (7 page)

She did battle with a knot of fire in the pit of her stomach as she tried to dream up a way to help her father and attend, at least, her top three clients at the same time. Out of those three clients, two were her most difficult. It was too much for her to expect Josh to be able to handle all of them in her absence. But she was a pro. And it did make more sense that she be the one to stay and help. Her job wasn’t expendable but it certainly was easier to maneuver than having to be in a courtroom every day. Or flying across the country from game to game. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t juggle things. Heck, she was the queen at multitasking. Last year hadn’t she handled a movie star’s fantasy wedding, a red carpet arrival, and a charity fashion show all in one day? Easy cheesy.

Right. And Valentino gowns grew on trees.

Amid her misery the bell over the bakery door chimed. She glanced up as the door opened. A gust of air blew in, bringing with it the scent of rain on the sidewalk, autumn leaves, and Matt Ryan. Her nerves unraveled with an unexpected tingle.

In a wide stance, he paused before her mother’s lace-draped window and swept his gaze across the shop. When that gaze landed on her, his broad shoulders stiffened beneath the khaki uniform. The star pinned to his chest pocket lifted on a sharp intake of air. Slowly he removed his aviators from the bridge of his straight nose and that icy blue glare burned a hole right through her core.

Great.

Now all she needed was mean old Edna Price and her moose-head walking stick to show up.

Before the thought filtered from her head, the bell above the door jingled again. Kate cringed at the sight of the gray-headed woman as she hobbled through the door.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

M
att stepped from the autumn chill into the sweet, warm smells of the busy bakery. He gave a nod to Robert Silverthorne, who was placing flaky triangles of baklava into a pastry box for one of Deer Lick’s most notorious man-eaters.

“Hey there, Matt,” Robert said with a wave. “My helper’ll be happy to take your order.”

Helper?

Matt swept his gaze to the lunch counter and the redhead standing behind it.

The very last thing he expected when he stopped in for his customary tuna sandwich was to see her behind the counter frosting cupcakes. Like she belonged there.

She lifted her gaze and their eyes met. A flash of irritation seared him from behind those green depths. When the color returned to her pale cheeks, she tilted her head and her sleek auburn ponytail dusted the top of her shoulder. He could almost read her mind. Or at least the curse words bouncing around on her tongue.

Happy to take his order?

He didn’t think so.

Last night he would have bet money she’d have been on the first plane out today. He didn’t imagine the icy reception she’d received had been pleasant or comfortable for her. But she deserved nothing less.

Behind him the bell over the door jingled and Katie’s lips pursed like she’d tasted something bitter.

“Afternoon, Matthew.”

He turned toward the gravelly voice. “How are you today, Mrs. Price?”

“Oh, just fine and dandy. Course, my old bones aren’t liking this cold weather none.” She lifted her walking stick and gave it a wave. “You keeping your tradition of coming in for lunch?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Matt held back a smile at the pinched expression surrounding her rheumy hazel eyes. He figured she suspected he’d come in for a different reason—a shapely reason that stood behind the counter in snug jeans and a figure-hugging sweater. “I’m hoping Letty’s special recipes will still taste just as good as if she’d made them herself,” he said, reassuring her he had no other motivation.

“Well, aren’t you just the sweetest thing.” Mrs. Price reached up and patted his cheek. “You’d best get that sandwich to go. Don’t know what in blazes
that
one’s doin’ here . . .” She gave a head wag toward Katie. “. . . but you’d best check your order. See she don’t cheat you.”

Matt figured the target of their discussion could come up with a whole list of rotten things she’d probably like to do to his food. Cheating him on his order might be the least of them.

When Mrs. Price hobbled over to the display case, Matt stepped to the small lunch counter.

Katie looked up, gave him half a forced smile, and then slid a pencil between her fingers. Her hands were small and feminine, with short manicured nails painted a soft pink. If he closed his eyes, he could still imagine those warm hands on his skin, in his hair, cupping the fly of his jeans—

“Can I help you, Matt?” Her fascinating mouth formed the word that made up his name, but he barely heard it past the blood pulsing through his veins.

He let his gaze roam over her, stopping at the interesting places along the way. The little pearl buttons on her yellow sweater brought forth memories of a stormy spring night they’d once shared in the cab of his battered pickup truck. Memories of hard rain beating down on the metal roof and warm breath fogging the windows. Unbuttoning her cotton blouse and slipping his hands beneath the crisp fabric to touch her silky skin.

Every nerve in his body went on alert.

He remembered her warmth. Remembered her peaches-and-cream scent when he’d buried his face in the smooth curve of her neck. He remembered the taste of her on his tongue—all sweet and fresh and eager.

From behind the counter she watched him, and he couldn’t help but remember the way she’d gazed up at him that night. Back when she’d been everything he’d ever wanted.

Back when he’d been nothing a damned fool.

“Hel-lo?” She wiped a smear of purple icing down the front of her white apron. That simple slide of her hand sent a responding upward tug inside his uniform pants.

“What are you doing here?” He crossed his arms and widened his stance, proclaiming this to be
his
territory. “I figured this would be the last place you’d want to be.”

She shrugged. “Dad insisted on opening up shop today. We all told him it was too soon but—”

“Everyone grieves in their own way.”

She glanced over her shoulder at the man in question. The hint of a sigh whispered through her lips. “I guess.”

“Are you?”

Her gaze shot to his face. “Am I what?”

“Grieving.”

While Kenny Chesney sang about the good stuff from the radio perched on a shelf above the mixer, the smooth skin between her perfect brows drew together. Then she flattened her hands on the counter and leaned forward.

“Is there something I can help you with,
Deputy
? A donut perhaps? Or did you specifically come in here to attack my moral fiber?”

Silence stretched between them as he debated whether or not to inform her he didn’t believe she had any moral fiber.

But then she folded her arms beneath her breasts and shifted her weight to one enticing denim-clad hip and the thought flew from his head.

“Well?”

“Two tuna subs,” he said. “No tomato. Two iced teas.”

“For you and your evil twin?” she asked with a snarl. She jotted down his order then rang it up on the cash register. “That will be nine fifty-six.”

“Don’t need a twin,” he said. The sleeve of his uniform rasped against his utility belt as he reached into his pocket, withdrew a ten spot and handed it to her. “I can get into trouble all by myself.”

A simple curl to the corners of her mouth showed a bit of the sassy side he remembered so well. She handed him back his change and her fingertips swept across the center of his palm. Electricity snapped between them.

She looked up, obviously aware. Maybe even surprised. “Is that something you do frequently?”

“Shock people?”

She shook her head and that sleek ponytail swung gently against her back. “Get into trouble.”

He smiled.

She waited for his response, her eyes shifting from light to dark green. When she realized all she was going to get was a smile, she slapped his receipt down on the counter and pushed it toward him. “I’ll have your order ready shortly.”

He picked up the receipt, careful not to make contact with her again. One shock a day was enough for him. He’d already had two.

Since Edna Price had put some pretty awful thoughts into his head, he stepped back to watch Katie prepare his and James’s lunch, making sure nothing but tuna salad went on his sandwich. She sliced through the crusty picnic rolls with such ferocity he expected to see blood drawn.

Reaching for the lettuce, she bent over the workspace and gave him an excellent view of how nicely her jeans fit. Then she flung lettuce leaves on each side of the bread, smashed down scoops of tuna salad, and slapped on wedges of Letty’s homemade kosher dills. Her movements were swift and jerky, sloppy and careless. And he enjoyed watching every single movement, even though he had no business doing so.

Without so much as a glance in his direction, she rolled the sandwiches up in crisp white paper and stuffed them and the bags of chips into a sack. From a pitcher she poured two cups of home-brewed iced tea, then slid the bag and drinks across the counter.

“Have a nice day, Deputy Ryan. Come again soon.”

Her polite business tone would have made her mother proud.

“Hopefully next time I won’t be here,” she added.

Okay, maybe not.

He didn’t know why it gave him so much pleasure to have the ability to rile her up. Just a little. Paybacks were childish. And he was far from that. He was a man on a mission. He had an agenda. He needed to stick with that.

“Why Miss Silverthorne,” he said, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get rid of me.”

“That’s
Ms. Silver
to you. And . . .” Her bowed lips curled upward. “. . . you’re a lot more perceptive than I gave you credit for.”

He laughed—at her audaciousness and at his own reaction. He didn’t know why that sassy smile made his stomach flip. He had no interest at all in what she called herself, what she did, where she did it, or who she did it with.

As long as his poor demented brain managed to remember that, he’d be good. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single inch of the rest of his body that
wasn’t
interested.

W
hile her sister finished packing her luggage for an early morning flight, Kate tore down the sheet divider in their room.

“What are you doing?” Kelly asked.

“If you think I’m going to be stuck in this miserable town and stuck on one side of this miserable bedroom too, you’re crazy.”

Kelly neatly rolled the black silk blouse she’d worn to their mother’s funeral and pushed it into her Liz Claiborne bag. “You’re still mad.”

“I’m not mad.” Kate glared at her sister’s reflection in the mirror above the vanity. “Just . . . I don’t know. Tomorrow, while you and Dean go back to your normal lives, your normal jobs and your normal worlds,
normal
will no longer be a word in
my
vocabulary. In one short day my entire dialogue has flipped from St. Laurent, Hilfiger, and Armani to a dozen red velvet cupcakes, a double layer chocolate cake, and two tuna subs, no tomatoes—to go.”

“I’m sorry, Kate. I really am.”

Kelly looked duly apologetic and Kate tamped down her temper tantrum long enough to say “I know, Kel. I understand you have a child murderer to put behind bars. I know Dean has a multi-million dollar contract he can’t walk out on. It’s just—”

Her cell phone rang. She grabbed it up off her bed and answered without looking at the number. “Hello?”

“Please do not tell me you were serious about staying in Deer Poop or wherever the hell you are.”

“I wouldn’t lie about that, Josh. I can’t come back until I get things here settled.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Inara just showed up at Coco de Ville in a pair of mom jeans that would make Jessica Simpson cringe.”

Kate closed her eyes.
God help her.
She had no doubt this whole staying in Deer Lick thing would shred her career. “Josh, I told you to watch her.”

“Honey, you could shackle Robocop to her wrist and she’d still manage to create some kind of fashion catastrophe. The girl is a walking nightmare.”

There was no use arguing with him. He was right. But she needed him to be her eyes and ears while she figured out how to juggle things between Glitter Town and Hick Town. Cajoling her assistant was the only weapon she currently held.

“Come on, Josh. I know you’re up for this. Right now you have the perfect opportunity to step up your game. Weren’t you the one who convinced Paris the yellow chiffon was a disaster for that Vegas nightclub opening? Weren’t you the one who took Beyoncé aside and suggested her outfit would rock if she’d only remove her distracting bangles?”

“Well . . .”

“Come on, Josh. You are solid at stuff like that.” God, she could almost hear him preen through the phone.

“I guess you’re right.”

Her stomach uncoiled half a knot. “I’m totally right. Sooo, can I count on you?”

“I guess so.”

“Great. Then I have one more teensy-weensy favor to ask.”

“You wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”

“I need some clothes. Would you pack me up a few week’s worth, mostly jeans and sweaters, my Chucks, and . . .”

“I am
not
invading your underwear drawer. I don’t do chicks’ panties.”

He didn’t do chicks. Period. “You want me to go commando?”

An exaggerated sigh squeezed through the phone. “Fine.”

“Ship them overnight,” Kate said, “so I don’t have to dig into the high school wardrobe my mother never threw out.” She ended the conversation with a promise to conference call him and Inara tomorrow afternoon regarding the singer’s red carpet choices.

“Problems?” Kelly asked. The smooth skin between her brows crinkled.

Kate grabbed her old leather bomber jacket and cowboy boots from the back of the closet and shoved her feet into them. Her luck they still fit. She hugged her sister. “Go put that child-murdering bastard in prison, Kel. I’ll be fine.”

Kelly hugged her back and Kate felt her sister’s warm tears press against her cheek. “Where are you going?” Kelly asked.

“I just need to get out of here for a little while.”

“Want company?”

“Not this time.” Kate gave her sister one more squeeze. “See you in the morning.”

Kate didn’t need company.

She needed a drink.

T
he Naughty Irish was a local bar that made no bones about living up to its name. Music might be the only exception, because good old American boys Mötley Crüe blasted from the jukebox as Kate walked through the door.

A nontraditional blend of dark wainscoting, green walls, and deer antlers decorated the place. And if you felt lucky, you could spend ten dollars on a raffle ticket to support the local 4-H for a chance to be the proud owner of a Browning X-Bolt rifle. Or so said the hand-printed cardboard sign.

Neon beer signs provided much of the interior lighting and had been strategically placed to provide dark corners for those who got a little horny when under the influence. The P in the Pepsi stained-glass light above the pool table had been knocked out and the bulb beneath shot a streak of white across the room.

Kate allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim light. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket and wove her way through the haze of smoke toward the long oak bar at the back. She studied the crowd as she scooted up onto one of two empty stools and wasn’t surprised to find the place packed with camo jackets and ball caps labeled Mossy Oak. After all, it was prime-time hunting season. Of course, that didn’t matter much to the people of Deer Lick who seemed to believe that camo went with every season and every outfit—including wedding attire.

The bartender slid a cocktail napkin in front of her and asked what she wanted to drink. The man looked like a military tank with a beer gut the size of a prize-winning pumpkin at the Harvest Hoedown.