by London James
Skylar checks her phone. “It’s not dough time yet.”
“No, but it’s apple time.”
They fall into step behind me and follow like puppies to the kitchen.
“You’re making apples today?” Seb asks.
“Some sample ones,” I tell him. “The Harvest Festival is coming up fast, and I want to make sure they’re perfect. It has taken me years, and about three hundred Vidalia Isle festivals, to finally get the committee to let me have a table of my own rather than asking me to piggyback. This might be my best shot at getting my company off the ground.”
I reach into the refrigerator for the cream and butter.
“It’s going to be amazing,” he says. “The Harvest Festival is going to be huge, and nothing says harvest like caramel apples. People are going to flip over them.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. But to make sure, I’m going to make some samples so the guests checking in before the festival can try them. Hopefully, it will build some excitement, and their reactions will help me decide which flavors to bring to the festival.”
“That is the most scientific analysis that has ever gone into caramel apples,” Seb says.
I walk over to the counter and read my recipe for caramel apples. Even though I know the steps by heart, I never try to make anything without referring to the recipe. The rest of the ingredients for the apples join the butter and cream, and I start to heat a pot on the stove.
“Caramel apples?”
The voice makes my skin tingle and my face cringe at the same time. It’s a feeling I don’t enjoy. Skylar and Sebastian exchange glances and start for the kitchen door.
“We’re just going to go,” Seb says, putting a tremendous amount of effort into not making eye contact with the Blogger-Who-Has-Not-Been-Named.
“Hey, Cinnamon Buns.”
“Hey, Sexy… Haaaa… Hammock. Sexy Hammock. Shit. I’m leaving.”
Seb pushes past him, pulling Skylar along with him, leaving us alone.
“What’s with the caramel apples?” he asks.
Is this a test? Is it going to show up in my review? Will he spin this to make it look like I don’t care enough about my bed-and-breakfast because I also make caramel apples?
“It’s something I love making,” I tell him.
“Because owning a bed-and-breakfast on a tiny island isn’t cozy enough? You have to also make homemade caramel apples?”
“Gourmet caramel apples,” I tell him, like that makes some sort of difference.
“A tad big to leave on pillows, don’t you think?”
I can do this. I can do this. Live a life that would make Mr. Rogers proud of me. Make good choices. Sticks and stones can break my bones, and I want to poke one into the eye of this blogger.
The kitchen door bursts open and Sebastian stalks inside with a look of determination.
“Owen!” he shouts triumphantly, slamming his palm down on the island. “Owen. Your name is Owen.” He points sharply in his face. “Ha! You didn’t think I’d remember, but I did. I did. Owen. Ha!"
He gives one final smack to the island and strides back out of the kitchen, but I am no longer paying attention to him. My jaw twitches as I walk around the island toward the man whose face looks familiar. Now I know why.
“Owen?” I seethe. “Owen? You have got to be kidding me.”
“Hi, Avery.”
I whip around in response to the sound of the door opening again. More people have wandered in and out of this room today than any other day since I’ve owned Hometown Bed And Breakfast.
“I got it, Seb. I’ll take it from here.”
The new, red face glaring back at me is not Sebastian, and it is also not amused.
“Is this how you generally greet new guests?” the man asks. “Or is there an add-on to the reservation process I somehow missed that would have granted me a welcome?”
Heat burns across my face.
“I am so sorry, sir,” I say. “Of course, this is not how I usually check my guests in. Please. Come with me, and I’ll get you settled in.”
He reluctantly follows my gesture toward the door, and I head behind him. Before I leave, I pause to point at Owen.
“You stay here. We need to talk.”
The man with the red face turns out to be Edwin Mercer, a reservation I’ve had jotted down in my books for the last three weeks. I throw every smile, platitude, and excuse at him I possibly can as I rush through the check-in process and show him to his room. The expression on his face hasn’t changed when I close the door and make my way back toward the kitchen.
Fucking GPS always sending me turning straight into a brick wall.
Chapter Eight
Owen
“I thought I told you to stay in the kitchen,” Avery snaps as she walks out onto the veranda.
“Now, is that really what you wanted? Because I got the distinct feeling you don’t like having people hanging around in your kitchen with you,” I say.
“And yet, it didn’t stop you from coming in there. Funny how that works, isn’t it?”
She spins on her heel and stomps back into the inn. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I swallow the last of my cold coffee and follow her. She’s standing at the stove, apparently having an intense conversation with one of the burners.
“I don’t think you can apply your visitor ban to the stove, Avery,” I say. “It’s kind of an important element of the whole kitchen thing.”
She shoots a glare at me, and I notice the pot handle in her hand.
“I’m not talking to the stove. I’m talking to the pot.”
“Of course. How silly of me.”
“I left the damn thing on the hot burner while I was dealing with the mess you caused, and it burned. At least I hadn’t put any of the butter in yet.”
“The mess I caused?” I ask. “What did I do?”
“You just let me keep jumping through hoops trying to impress you because I thought you were…” She stops and waves a hand like she’s trying to brush the words out of the air.
“Because you thought I was what?”
She sets a fresh pot on the burner and turns to the island to cut sticks of butter into chunks.
“Nothing. No one.”
“It certainly seems like something. Who is it that you thought I was?”
She tosses the handful of butter chunks into the heated pot. A wooden spoon spins the butter around on the hot surface for a few seconds before she steps back up to the island to measure white sugar.
“A blogger,” she finally says.
“A blogger? That narrows it down. I mean, there’s only a few of those in the world, right?”
Avery rolls her eyes as she pours the sugar into the pot and stirs it into the melted butter.
“He’s a travel blogger. The whole point of his blog is to review small inns and bed-and-breakfasts, and he’s known to be pretty brutal when he feels like it. His reviews can make or break a place. Break more often than not, unfortunately. And he always does it under the radar, so nobody knows his real identity.”
“And you were determined to be one of the ‘makes’?”
“That’s the general idea.” I grin.
“So, you thought I showed up here as some undercover vigilante traveling the countryside to save wearied travelers from the horrors of wrinkled bedsheets and dusty knick-knacks?”
She scoffs and fills the measuring cup with brown sugar this time. “Yes, because that’s all that goes into running a bed-and-breakfast.” She pours the brown sugar into the pot and stirs it into the butter.
“I thought you said you were making caramel apples,”
“That is what I’m doing,” she says.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
Avery rests her hands on the lip of the stove and hangs her head with a heavy sigh.
“I make caramel apples all the time,” she says slowly. “It is my thing. It has been for years. I know how to do it.”
“Then why
are you making butterscotch?”
She lifts her head to narrow her eyes at me. “Excuse me?”
“Butterscotch,” I repeat. “Caramel is butter, white sugar, and cream. As soon as brown sugar gets into the mix, you’ve switched over to butterscotch.”
“Are you seriously telling me how to make caramel apples?”
“No, I’m telling you how to make butterscotch apples, but what I’m seeing right now tells me you already know how to do that.”
She grabs a container of cream off the island and pours it into the butter and sugar. It bubbles up with a violence that seems the perfect visual for what’s happening inside her. She stirs it down and adds vanilla and corn syrup.
“Oh, damn it all to hell,” she mutters. “I forgot to prepare the apples.”
“You might not believe me about the whole butterscotch thing, but I think you need apples in order to make caramel apples.”
“Get out of my kitchen.” She walks over to a tiered metal basket hanging from the ceiling and takes out several apples. Setting them on the counter, she grabs another handful, then pulls out a sheet tray. “I said, get out of my kitchen.”
She’s angry, but I can’t help but laugh. I’ve always enjoyed getting Avery flustered. Her cheeks flush, and her dark eyes brighten just a hint, enough to make her undeniably adorable, if insufferably difficult.
“You know, you are just like you were when we were kids.”
She yanks far too much wax paper off a roll attached to the underside of the island and then tears it again so she can place it on the sheet tray.
“You know what? Yeah. Let’s talk about that whole situation. What are you even doing here, Owen?”
“Why, Avery, I’m hurt,” I say, pressing my hand to the center of my chest. “After all this time, I’d think you’d be happy for our reunion.”
She grabs a handful of skewers from another drawer and starts stabbing them into the tops of the apples.
“It’s been, what, fifteen years since the last time we saw each other? I didn’t even recognize you.”
“As is evidenced by you throwing yourself at my feet trying to impress me.”
“I didn’t throw myself at your feet,” she says bitterly. “And no matter what I did, it wasn’t for you.”
“Right. The blogger.”
She gives me a questioning look. “What’s that tone supposed to mean?”
“I just don’t understand what someone could put into a blog about little places like this. Are they really all that different? I mean, it’s not like they’re luxurious accommodations or anything. Don’t people come here for the rustic nature of it?”
“You are just like you were when we were children. Just as spoiled and arrogant.”
“Okay, that might have been a little narrow-minded.”
“Perhaps,” she snaps. “But you haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here? Since all bed-and-breakfasts are the same, don’t you think you could have found one closer to home to stay in? Have you ever even been to Vidalia Isle?”
“No, but my parents talk about it all the time, so I thought I’d come and see what it was all about. Apparently, they used to come here before I was born to stay with your grandparents. I’m sorry to hear about them, by the way.”
She nods. “Thanks.” She picks up one of the apples and rolls it through the molten caramel in the pot. “I don’t remember your parents, but I remember you. At least, I remember arguing with you for most of the week we spent together.”
“I remember that, too. But I also remember playing,” I say.
She pauses, and her eyes lift to me. There’s a flicker of something in them, like a sort of heat that tells me it isn’t the games of hide-and-seek or awkward makeshift baseball we played that are running through her mind.
“Well, it seems like we still have the arguing part down, so… thanks for the memories.”
“Alright. I think we got off to kind of a bad start.”
“Really?” she asks, swirling her third apple and placing it on the wax paper sheet. “What time period are you referencing, exactly? Today, or last night when you splashed half a thunderstorm on me and ruined my dress?”
I cringe slightly. “Okay, that was my driver. But I am sorry it happened and that I didn’t tell you who I was when we first saw each other. Why don’t I make it up to you? Let me take you to lunch.”
I look for the smile that always comes when I extend an invitation like that to a woman. Instead, Avery swirls another apple and plops it next to the others.
“No. I'm good.”
Wait… What?
“Excuse me?”
She looks up at me, expressionless. “I said no,” she says simply.
No? What the fuck does that mean?
“Come on. I’m going to take you to lunch. You can choose somewhere in the village. Some cute little Vidalia Isle restaurant. We can catch up.”
Avery shakes her head as she finishes the last two apples. “As appealing as your condescension sounds, I have too much to do. But thanks.”
What is happening here? No woman has ever turned me down. And the first one who does is… Avery?
“Too much to do?” I ask as she rinses her hands and wipes them on a kitchen towel. “Have a full day of ironing sheets and dusting unused furniture ahead of you?”
She draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. “My sheets are perfectly ironed, except for the ones you slept on, thank you very much. I am going into the village. There’s some shopping I have to do.”
“Shopping?” I ask incredulously, following her out of the kitchen. “That’s your busy afternoon? What, you need a new cocktail dress?”
“Well, yes, actually,” she says as she snatches her keys from the narrow drawer of a small table beside the front door. “I do need a new cocktail dress. But that’s not what I’m shopping for.
“You keep your keys in a table anyone can get into?” I ask.
Avery lifts her keys up, dangling them from one finger beside her face. “It’s none of your concern where I keep anything. You go right ahead and stick things in wherever you want…”
Her voice trails off as her fingers wrap around the keys, and her eyes close against the realization of what she just said. Color splashes across her cheeks, and she turns sharply away from me. I follow her out onto the front porch and watch her stick her key into the door's lock.
“Is it your usual habit to lock your guests in when you leave?” I ask. “How do you think Mr. Blogger is going to feel about not being able to get out?”
She lets out an exasperated sigh and unlocks the door again.
“Mr. Mercer,” she snaps. “His name is Mr. Mercer, alright? Don’t let him hear you talking about him as though he's the blogger. I already made a terrible first impression. The last thing I need right now is for him to figure out I’ve burned him and turn my review into his swan song.”
“You go to the dark place really fast,” I say as we head down the steps and onto the driveway. “So, what’s the big important thing you’re shopping for?”
“Sprinkles.”
“Sprinkles.”
“Yes. For the caramel apples. And I really don’t need assistance.”
“Not assisting. Just accompanying.”
“I don’t need that, either. I know my way around.”
“Then you can show me. I might be hanging around here for a while.”
“I’m busy, Owen.”
“Picking out sprinkles?” I ask, pausing to look at her. She rolls her eyes and speeds up. “What?” I scoff. “That’s what you said you were going to do.”
She keeps walking away, so I jog to catch up with her, even though everything in my mind tells me not to. I don’t chase women. I’ve never had to. No woman has ever tried to ignore me like this, and the fact that it’s Avery is even more baffling. She’s not exactly the sophisticated, polished woman I’m accustomed to falling for, so this entire situation is perplexing me to the fullest extent.
With barely any makeup and her thick hair doing its best to fully escape the coiled bun at the back of her head, she is nothing like the dates that usually drape themselves around my arm for events, or when I’m out enjoying myself when I’m able to get away from home. And yet I somehow cannot stop myself from following her.
“I’m trying new flavors of the apples so I can choose the best ones to bring to the Harvest Festival,” she says without looking over at me when I catch up. “I’ll dip them in chocolate and then roll them in toppings. Not that any of that matters to you. I don’t know why I’m telling you.”
“And you’ve never done sprinkles before?” I ask.
“Not autumn sprinkles,” she says.
I withhold a laugh. “Is there a difference?”
“Yes. Regular sprinkles are just sugar. Autumn sprinkles have chocolate, too.”
“Of course they do.” We’ve finally made it to the end of the driveway, and as we start making our way toward the main part of the village, I realize that I’ve never thought much about the word ‘picturesque’ before, but now I understand that it was designed just for somewhere like this. “This place is like a Thanksgiving card. What was it like growing up here?”
“I didn’t,” Avery says. She continues on at a pace that would shame pre-dawn mall walkers, but she doesn’t elaborate from there.
“You didn’t?”
“No. I spent the summers here with my grandparents when I was younger. Then, when my grandfather started getting weaker and needed more help, I decided to come back. I was twenty, and the whole college thing hadn’t really been for me, so I moved to Vidalia Isle and started helping with Hometown Bed And Breakfast while taking care of my grandparents.”
“Do you miss your parents?”
“Not particularly. We didn’t have the closest relationship. Not that they’re bad people. They always made sure I had everything I needed, and we got along fine and everything. Having a child just wasn’t something they planned, and when I did come along, it didn’t change their lifestyle.”
I nod, but stay silent, because it feels like she has more to tell me about the situation.