Authors: Donna Kauffman
Sweet Stuff (11 page)
She entered the galley just in time to see Quinn hop from boat deck to pier, and watched him, thinking about all kinds of things she had no business thinking, but mostly about what he’d said about her when she’d thought he’d meant the old jersey.
Then she was sliding the rear door open, almost falling over Brutus, who was sitting like a sphinx, watching his now-beloved Quinn walking away, leaving him behind. If she hadn’t been so busy gathering the courage to follow up with one final question, one she knew would plague her overactive mind otherwise, she’d have been a little wistful about Brutus’s obvious bout of lovesickness. He’d never once, as far as Riley had ever seen, looked after Jeremy that way. She rubbed his head. “I’m sorry, too, big guy,” she said, admitting that much was true. “Quinn,” she called out, before she lost her chance. “Wait. Can I ask you one more thing?”
He turned around. If he was surprised, or annoyed, he surely didn’t show it. His smile was as easy and amiable as ever. “Sure.” He raised his voice just slightly to be heard over the sudden whip of wind, despite only being a few yards down the pier.
She walked to the side of the boat and looked up at him as he moved a few yards closer. “You said you hoped my ... um ... partner, knows what he’s got. I know now that you meant me, but I still don’t know what you meant. Not specifically. I realize you were probably just being polite and charming, but on the off chance you meant it ... can I be horribly gauche and ask what is it you think he’s got in me?”
A slow smile curved Quinn’s lips, and even with the short distance between them, there was no doubt the warmth in it invaded every speck of those crystalline eyes. “A woman who can ever-so-sincerely ask that very question ... and honestly not already know the answer.”
And with that, he turned and walked away.
Brutus’s head bumped her hip as he ambled over to sit beside her. Riley draped a hand over his neck, rubbing his still-damp fur as she watched until Quinn was no longer in sight.
“I wish I knew what he meant by that,” she told her faithful, currently sorrowful companion. “But maybe it’s just as well I don’t.”
Chapter 6
Q
uinn wanted her so bad he could taste her. He’d written books around the theme of forbidden fruit, but he’d never once been tempted by it himself. Yet, he couldn’t seem to get Riley Brown out of his mind. Not to mention her lingering impact on other parts of his body. All he had to do was walk into the damn breakfast nook and he got a hard-on. It was insane.
uinn wanted her so bad he could taste her. He’d written books around the theme of forbidden fruit, but he’d never once been tempted by it himself. Yet, he couldn’t seem to get Riley Brown out of his mind. Not to mention her lingering impact on other parts of his body. All he had to do was walk into the damn breakfast nook and he got a hard-on. It was insane.
Quinn flexed his grip on the handle of the paper shopping bag he carried and glanced up at the shop signs as he walked past the row of stores circling the small square in the middle of the tiny town of Sugarberry. Other than the docks and Biggers’ place down on the pier, it was the only commercially developed area on the small island. Even with houses lining the streets extending out from the square, and those scattered along the loop road that circled the entire island, it was still largely marshland, dunes, and beach.
The streets that weren’t paved, or set with bricks as they’d briefly been in some generation gone by, were most often composed of hard-packed sand and dirt, with a healthy layer of crushed shells ground in for good measure. The town itself was an odd amalgam of rural Southern charm and the more bohemian lifestyle often found in island culture. Sugarberry was only connected to the mainland by a single causeway over Ossabaw Sound, and even that was a relatively new development. As a teen, he’d had to take a ferry over. He couldn’t recall seeing any ferry signs now, so maybe it didn’t exist at all anymore. Understandable, though sentimentally speaking, somewhat disappointing.
Quinn also noted some of the shops had changed ownership over the years. More surprising were the ones that still remained the same, all these years later. There was some comfort in seeing the town square was still much as he remembered it. The grassy park in the middle, with the large fountain at its center. That much hadn’t changed at all.
He spied the colorful and whimsical sign for Cakes by the Cup and slowed his steps. Hopefully just the sight of the cupcakes wouldn’t have the same effect that thinking about them in the privacy of his own home had. Maybe he should have considered that before deciding to drop by. He’d come to Sugarberry with problems that needed solving. Thus far, the problem that was Riley Brown was preventing him from getting on to anything else.
After another fruitless morning alternately spent staring at his computer screen, or at the waves crashing against the dunes behind his bungalow ... or her baseball jersey ... he decided it was time to drop the damn shirt and towels off and cut the strings once and for all. Not that there were any real strings left between him and Riley. He could have dropped the stuff off at any time over the past week and that would have been that.
The borrowed items had made it from the dryer to the back of the chair across from where he sat to work. The really pathetic part was it wasn’t even her damn jersey. Worse, it likely belonged to the man who got to see her in it. Nightly, for all he knew. But that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about as he’d pondered the shirt.
It was the only tangible thing of hers still in his home. The bigger issue was how much he felt her presence without any tangible representation. How someone could have imprinted herself so viscerally into his thoughts, in a space they’d shared for less than an hour, he couldn’t say, but he felt her there all the time. In the Florida room, the kitchen, the foyer, the breakfast area ... his shower. And he didn’t want to. Not any longer. He hoped the act of getting rid of the shirt and towels would somehow symbolize the total disconnect he needed to achieve so he could get on with more important matters.
“Right,” he said under his breath while jiggling the bag in his hands, still staring up at the sign and not entering. Yet. “Good luck with that.”
It would be one thing if it was just the farm girl freckles sprinkled across those often blushing cheeks, or that mouth, those lips, all abundant and beckoning, like ripened fruit begging to be suckled and savored, or the siren curls of gold that made him want to tangle his fingers in them, or the God-given curves that filled out her lush body. A body made for a man to sink himself into, to find pleasure in, and to pleasure in return. She was all fresh-faced innocence mixed with pure, molten carnality, in one unexpected package.
And yet that wasn’t what made his body behave like a randy fifteen-year-old. Or certainly not all of it. It was the direct talk despite the pink cheeks, the vulnerability so clearly present in her big brown eyes despite the dry, often acerbic humor. She spoke confidently about her work, yet was openly self-deprecating. There was the natural openness, her vibrant buoyancy, the inquisitiveness that had her sincerely asking about his family. And, most perversely, it was the way she moved through the world like a woman on a mission, but was a bit of a goofy klutz. She accepted those shortcomings with humor, which was its own brand of dignity, and also happened to be endearing as all hell.
She was unique and fascinating and he wanted to know more, to talk to her, to watch her move, to find out what she thought about ... everything. She would be a woman with opinions. He wanted to know them all, to debate them, to laugh with her, kiss her inevitable boo-boos ... then make wild, passionate love to her, and revel in all she would be capable of giving in return.
His hands tightened on the handle of the shopping bag until his knuckles hurt. He forced himself to relax his grip, the tension in his neck and shoulders, and all the rest in between. Maybe even more, the part between his ears.
She’d come into his orbit less than ten days ago, had crossed his path only twice in that time ... so how was it that he’d found himself where he was? Maybe he was so wrapped up in the direction his book was taking him that he was projecting raw emotion on her. Or maybe he was merely using her as a distraction to keep him from thinking about the bigger thing, the major issue he’d come to Sugarberry to resolve.
But he didn’t think so. He really, truly didn’t want any distractions. He wanted to figure things out, make some hard, very serious decisions. Taking on new problems had been nowhere on his agenda.
It didn’t matter why she fascinated him. Couldn’t matter. What mattered was finding his way past the initial little buzz of fascination and getting back to his original purpose.
He pulled open the door to the bakery and stepped out of the sultry midday heat, into cool air redolent with the rich, buttery scent of baking cakes, the darker pull of melting chocolate, and an unknown variety of other treats that combined to make his mouth water. It was a decadent, multi-faceted assault on his senses and he couldn’t help pausing to breathe it all in.
“Well, hello there, young man. Something I can do for you? Our fun special today is the Dreamsicle cupcake—mandarin-orange-soaked cake, a cheesecake filling, and orange whip on top. Our indulgent special is a truffle-infused chocolate pumpkin and ginger cupcake with mascarpone and cream cheese frosting.”
Quinn hadn’t initially noticed anyone in the shop when he’d first entered, so the friendly welcome caught him slightly off guard. “They both sound fun and indulgent to me,” he said, running his gaze along the taller counters to the gap where a much lower counter held an old-fashioned, antique cash register.
It was there, behind the oversized register, that he finally spied the tiny bird of a woman. Her white-blond hair was set in a beehive of perfectly formed, meticulously preserved curls ... and she was wearing what appeared to be an apron featuring a puffy white horse with purple neon mane and tail, over what otherwise appeared to be a sensible blouse. Pearls circled her neck and were clamped to fragile looking earlobes. He smiled, charmed and a bit flummoxed.
“You look like the indulgent type to me.” She eyed him up and down. “Perhaps a mixed set? We have our standard menu as well, each and every flavor combination guaranteed to make you sigh in pleasure with every bite. Can I fix you up a box?” Her blue eyes twinkled merrily as he stepped closer to the counter. “Well, my, my.” Her eyes widened as she got a better look at him. “Look at you, all grown up.” Her gaze skimmed over him and up until their eyes met. “You’re Gavin Brannigan’s grandson, am I right?”
Quinn grinned. Apparently she wasn’t done surprising him yet. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had recognized him for being a Brannigan first, and anything else second. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in quite some time,” he told her sincerely. “Yes, I am Gavin’s grandson, Quinn. It’s a pleasure to be back.”
“I remember you from those summers you used to come down to fish with your grandpa. Didn’t come around town much while you were here.” A hint of scold was there, despite the merry twinkle, as if it were still something of a personal affront, all these many years later.
Given what he knew personally about some Southern sensibilities, especially in small towns, that wouldn’t be entirely out of the question.
“Granda Gav kept me quite busy, sunup to sundown. On the rare occasion we didn’t head out, Grams had a long list of chores for me to help her with.” Quinn grinned. “I would have much rather been sampling the penny candy in those jars on the counter of Caner’s Hardware, but I never had the time.”
Her smile said he was forgiven and likely always had been. He suspected the pint-sized oldster just enjoyed being feisty. Of course, if he made it to her age, he hoped he’d enjoy indulging in a bit of that himself.
“He was so proud of you. Talked about you all the time. Track star, I seem to recall. Or something like it.” She eyed him again, and the twinkle took on a clearly more feminine spark. “I must say you’ve filled out—and up—quite a bit, since those days.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, still smiling. He hadn’t thought, given what little time he’d spent mingling with the locals, that anyone would really remember him. “I believe maybe I have. You, however, look exactly as I remember you, and as lovely as always. Mrs... . Liles, am I right?” He reached way back, proud and relieved that he was able to pluck the name from the flotsam and jetsam comprising his vast stores of beloved Sugarberry memories. “I remember you used to come down to the docks and buy fish for your husband’s supper.”
She beamed and the warmth in her eyes lent her rouged cheeks some natural color. “Why, aren’t you a charmer! And please, you can call me Alva.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Alva. I’m honored.” He’d always considered himself a polite gentleman, but it was amusing and maybe a bit poignant how swiftly the Southern rules of etiquette his Grams had taken such great pains to endlessly nag into him rose straight back to the surface, almost as if they were second nature. “And how is Mr. Liles?”
“Oh, my Harold passed on some time ago.” Her smile didn’t fade a bit as she spoke of him, but rather an affectionate spark flickered to life instead, tugging at much the same place in Quinn’s heart that his grandparents’ affection for one another always had. He knew that look well.
“We had a good life, we did,” she said, a bit mistily. “Still miss him. Old coot.”
Quinn’s smile softened. “I’m very sorry to hear of his passing, and yes, I’m sure you do.”
“You know,” she said, sparking right back up again. “We were just talkin’ about you at last week’s bitchy bake.”
Quinn’s gaze had begun to drift toward the amazing works of cupcake goodness lining each of the display shelves, but shifted straight back to hers at that. “The—I beg your pardon, the what?”
“Every Monday night after we close, a bunch of us girls, and Franco, of course, get together, and we bake and we bi—”
“Right,” he said, smiling because it was impossible not to. “I think I get the drift.”
“Now, what happens in Cupcake Club is supposed to stay in Cupcake Club”—she lowered her voice to a more conspiratorial whisper as she leaned across the counter—“but I don’t think it’s really talking out of school to mention that you’ve been the hot topic the past two weeks running.” She straightened and primped her hair, smoothed her skirt, as if nothing untoward had happened. “And now, here you are, paying a visit to our little shop, so I’ve a feeling that streak might just continue.”
Despite the fact that bit of news was a little disconcerting, he found himself still smiling. “Well, I can’t imagine there’s anything of interest to discuss, but I appreciate your letting me know.”
“Oh, don’t sell yourself short. You’re successful, talented, famous, and very good looking these days.”
“I, uh, well, thanks.” He tried gamely not to chuckle. Alva Liles had had something of a reputation for being a firecracker back when he was a kid, though he couldn’t recall much of what was said specifically. He hadn’t paid a lot of attention to local gossip and his Grams wasn’t one to wallow about in it, either. But it appeared that nothing much had changed since then. “I appreciate any good word you can put in for me. In fact, that’s kind of why I’m stopping by today.”
Her expression fell a bit. “Not to buy cupcakes? You really must give at least the chocolate buttercream a try. Although, if you want my personal opinion, it’s the red velvet that really steals the show. Lani’s recipe is the moistest you’ve ever tasted. Add a cold glass of milk and you’ll think you’ve been transported to heaven.”
Do not think about cupcakes transporting you to heaven
, he schooled himself. Heaven and cupcake in the same mental place made it all but impossible not to think of Riley, a certain breakfast nook, and many subsequent showers. “Actually”—he gamely kept the conversation moving forward—“I had the chance to indulge in Mrs. Dunne’s amazing cupcakes a week or so ago. Heavenly is a good word, indeed. I came by today to return some things I borrowed from Riley. Miss Brown,” he corrected. “She said it was okay to leave them here with you. I hope that’s all right.” He lifted the paper bag.
, he schooled himself. Heaven and cupcake in the same mental place made it all but impossible not to think of Riley, a certain breakfast nook, and many subsequent showers. “Actually”—he gamely kept the conversation moving forward—“I had the chance to indulge in Mrs. Dunne’s amazing cupcakes a week or so ago. Heavenly is a good word, indeed. I came by today to return some things I borrowed from Riley. Miss Brown,” he corrected. “She said it was okay to leave them here with you. I hope that’s all right.” He lifted the paper bag.
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