He captures my hand in his, guiding me around the corner of the spacious garage, and I stop, feeling suddenly compelled to admit I’m scared.
“Jonathan, I-I’ve never been on a bike before.”
“Oh, a motor virgin?” His eyebrows raise, showing off his instant gratification. “Well, isn’t that special? Ms. Prescott, I’d be honored to be your first; in fact, I promise to ensure your first ride will be the best ride of your life,” he says, pulling me along over to his Harley.
Is it just me who detects a sexual connotation in his smutty remark?
Seeing the bike up close, in its breathtaking ride-til-you-die glory, along with Jonathan’s ‘best ride of your life’ articulation, resisting the urge to go along for the ride becomes downright impossible.
Chapter 17
Twenty minutes later, after crossing the Willie B, the two of us are riding fast and free, and for the first time, I understand why women swoon over a sex pistol of a man on a motorcycle—right now, my swoon level is on high alert.
With my eyes closed, arms wrapped and fingers locked securely around Jonathan’s waist, and the side of my face pressed against his shoulder blade, I inhale Jonathan’s enthralling masculine scent.
Why does he have this bewitching affect on me?
“Ms. Prescott, did you just take a long whiff of my T-shirt?” he asks and I thank God he is unable to catch the embarrassment flowing all over my face.
I raise my head and position my chin comfortably on the edge of his shoulder, “Um, no… Why would I take a whiff of your T-shirt? I was merely sniffing. Allergy season, you know.”
He cocks his head to the side and I can see the corner of his mouth curl up into a flirtatious smirk. “Sure. Allergies.”
I try to fight it, yet can’t help but beam, feeling like a high school cheerleader who finally got noticed by the star athlete at the homecoming game.
You better stop liking him so much. You know he loathes the real you.
I tell my bubble-bursting conscience to shut the fuck up and insist she takes the next century off.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Ms. Prescott?”
His blatant question catches me completely off-guard.
“Me? A boyfriend? Uh, not anymore. I caught him cheating.”
“Bastard.”
“I know, right?” I roll my eyes as I free myself from the thought of Garrett. “And what about you?”
“Me? A boyfriend? Uh—”
“You know what I mean,” I cut him off before he can complete his satirical response.
He chuckles. “Ok, the answer is, no. I don’t have a girlfriend. Truth is I haven’t had one in two and a half years.
“Really?” I ask, finding it hard to imagine a man as handsome as he staying single for that long.
Maybe he is the player I pegged him to be…
“Yep. Two and a half long years. She broke my heart, leaving me for another man right after my parents died.”
…Or maybe he’s not a player at all.
“Bitch,” I spill out, not meaning to recite my thoughts.
“I know, right?” He laughs, seeming to find amusement in my candidness.
We ride over a bump and the force pushes me closer into him, and my natural instinct causes me to hold onto him that much tighter.
“Relax, Ms. Prescott, I’ve got you. Besides, I promised you the ride of your life. You’re in good hands with me.”
Somehow I believe his proclamation to be satisfyingly true.
“So why the sudden curiosity in my single or not-single status?” I ask straight out, eager to know his response.
“Sudden curiosity? What makes you think I hadn’t wondered since the first day we met?”
“Oh, you mean since yesterday, right? Because we only met yesterday.”
“I know. But for some reason, I feel as though I’ve known you for a little longer than just a day.”
“You do realize that sounds like a cheesy pickup line, right?”
“Says the woman I picked up in a restaurant a little over an hour ago, who now sits on the back of my bike, taking long whiffs of my T-shirt.”
I punch him lightly in the stomach and he lets out a playful yelp.
A talkfest about the Harley—in which Jonathan tenderly refers to as The Beast—the panoramic ride, and how he is a New York native, steals time and before I know it we pass a sign that says, Welcome to East Hampton.
The Hamptons?
“So…when you said we were gonna ride to Long Island, you failed to say you actually meant The Hamptons?” I ask, as I covertly squeal and do a mental happy dance. I’ve never been to The Hamptons. But I’ve always wanted to go.
It’s on my Cinderella list.
“Oh, yeah, surprise! Uncle Joe and Aunt Becca live here in East Hampton. They’ve run a popular bed and breakfast for the past fifteen years. Well, Aunt Becca is the one who runs it. Uncle Joe spends three days a week away from home. He’s a commercial airline pilot. It’s been a few months since I’ve been back. I love it here,” he says as we slowly ride past quaint little shops and Mom-and-Pop style restaurants.
“I’ve never been here,” I softly admit, taking in the East Hampton breeze.
“Another first for you, huh? Now I wonder how many firsts we can check off your list today, Ms. Prescott?”
Jonathan throttles The Beast as we turn a sharp corner. By now, I am totally trusting of the way he handles the bike—with authoritative gentleness. Something deep in my gut makes me wonder if he handles his woman with the same consideration.
With another swift turn, we end up on Main Street slowing to a cruising speed. Just ahead, I spot a charming two-story colonial with a sign that reads Brier Hill Manor.
Jonathan rides up the elongated driveway, and brings the bike to a halt, lowering his boots to the ground.
He shuts off the motor and lowers the kickstand. “Here we are: Brier Hill.”
Jonathan eases off of the bike, then takes my hand to safely guide me off. I remove my helmet, handing it to Jonathan, my eyes fixated on the gorgeous manor.
“Wanna take a look inside?” he asks.
“Does a margarita need good tequila?” I jokingly reply. “Of course I wanna look inside.”
He grabs my hand, leading me up a brick walkway, then up four steps and onto a covered wraparound front porch that’s outfitted with cushioned rocking chairs—one red, one white, and the other blue—and matching side tables.
“Now let me warn you, my Aunt Becca is—”
“Jonathan, darlin’,” a woman’s voice says as we approach the front door.
The screen door swings open and out prances a petite older woman who has a bright smile, about a mile long. She’s casually dressed in tan crop pants, a denim long-sleeve button-down blouse, sandals, and a red-and-white checkered apron.
Jonathan produces a mighty grin, tightly embracing who I can only guess is his aunt.
“Hi, Aunt Becca; as always, you look like you just stepped out of Vanity Fair magazine.”
She blushes, her hands frenziedly patting the sides of her dark brown hair that’s tastefully secured in a classic Audrey-Hepburn-style bun. “Oh Jonathan, you can charm the socks and shoes off anyone.”
She looks at me with her ocean-blue eyes and smiles curiously.
“Oh sorry, Aunt Becca, this is Kennedy Prescott,” Jonathan mentions.
I extend my hand for a handshake and she swoops in for a hug.
“I’m a hugger, darlin’” she says, still holding onto me tightly. She breaks away and adds, “You, my dear, are quite a beauty, Kennedy.”
Jonathan shakes his head, raking all ten of his fingers through his hair.
“Kennedy is a Restaurant Consultant, Aunt Becca. She’s helping me with a project,” he claims with his voice a bit shaken.
“Oh I see,” says Aunt Becca with furrowed brows, looking slightly disappointed. She wipes her hands on her apron, “Well, anyway, let’s get you two inside. Your timing couldn’t ha
ve been better. I just pulled a batch of sugar cookies out of the oven.”
Chapter 18
I was dead wrong.
When I first laid eyes on Jonathan’s state-of-the-art kitchen, I thought it rightfully deserved the nickname: kitchen badass.
Until now.
As I sit at the center island breakfast bar (which is massively sized), surveying every single detail of this kitchen—shrine, I realize this is the most badass kitchen I’ve ever stepped foot in.
Aunt Becca is serving me up scrumptious sugar cookies and tea while Jonathan excused himself to retrieve Olivia’s purse and a few other items he stored in the storage compartment of The Beast for the ride up here.
“It’s so darn good to have Jonathan home,” Aunt Becca says cheerfully, as she pours me hot tea from a tea kettle into a matching blue-and-yellow floral teacup. She speaks softly, with a scant southern drawl.
“Home?”
“Why, yes. Jonathan lived here with us, off and on, as a teenager. He was quite the young rebel back then,” she says, offering me a small bowl of sugar cubes.
“A rebel, huh?” I ask, fully amused, plopping two sugar cubes, one after another, into the steaming cup of tea.
She walks around the center island, taking a seat next to me on what appears to be a custom-made double bar stool. She taps her fingers on the counter, as she turns to face me.
“Yep. We all go through our rebel years and Jonathan was no exception. So, my sister-in-law Sadie and my older brother Max, God rest their beautiful souls, sent him here every summer. My husband Joe and I would put him right to work. My momma always told me you’ve gotta work hard in order to remain humble.”
I take a sip of tea and grin. “Well, your momma sounds like a smart woman. So, what sort of work did you two make Jonathan do?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “We placed him wherever we needed help. First, it was cleaning guest rooms, then it was groundskeeper, and then it was kitchen duty. And that’s when we all began to see a significant shift in his attitude. It was like watching a mind-blowing metamorphosis. He—well, we all—recognized cooking and food as his passion.”
“Wait. So right here is where it all began?” I ask, my mouth full of a bite of the fresh-baked sugar cookie. I can’t help but smile at the thought of a young, stubborn Jonathan, working out his frustrations in the kitchen.
“Yep. In this very room.” She takes a deep breath, surveying the entire room. “Well, it has changed ever so slightly over the years. Particularly the size. It used to be quite small, but Jonathan had this idea to knock out a wall that once separated the large dining room and the small kitchen. We hired a contractor—and presto.”
I nod, trying to picture the kitchen at a much smaller scale.
“So,” begins Aunt Becca, “how long have you known Jonathan?”
“Not that long, Aunt Becca,” Jonathan interjects as he re-enters the kitchen, carrying Olivia’s purse, my bag, and his backpack. He eyeballs me briefly, then winks.
“I was just hearing all about your rebel stage, Jonathan.” I smile at Aunt Becca, as she gets up and prepares a plate of cookies for Jonathan.
“Oh yeah? Well, I guess I was quite the teenager. And now it’s Olivia’s turn to rebel out.” He looks at his watch. “Where is she anyway?”
Aunt Becca places a plate of cookies on the counter next to my plate and Jonathan glides into the double barstool right next to me.
I no longer mind him taking refuge in my personal space. I’ve grown to expect it now.
“She’s at her friend Daphne’s house and your uncle is going to bring her back here tomorrow when he gets back from Seattle.” Aunt Becca rubs the back of Jonathan’s hand, “You’ve gotta relax, honey. Olivia is going to be just fine here. After all, look what this town did for you.”
Jonathan cups his hand over hers. “I know, Aunt Becca. That’s why I sent her here. But, she left her purse with her phone in it, so here I am…dutifully dropping it off.”
Aunt Becca smiles at Jonathan, then quickly turns to me.
“And you decided to accompany him for the ride up here, hun?”
I feel my cheeks heat up as I can’t help but think Aunt Becca is trying to get the scoop on Jonathan and me…only there is absolutely nothing to scoop. However, I have to admit, sitting behind him on that bike, with my arms wrapped so intimately around his body, there were a few moments when I daydreamed the two of us—
“I invited her to come along so we could discuss business, Aunt Becca,” Jonathan answers, interrupting my heavy-heated runaway train of thought.
“I see.” She gleams and the look in her eyes reveals she has more suspect opinions about the matter. “You should take Kennedy on a tour of Brier Hill,” Aunt Becca suggests as she cleans up our teacups and cookie plates. “Don’t mind me… I have menu items to prepare for this weekend.”
Jonathan agrees to take me on a tour, and takes my hand, helping me off the stool. He hands over my bag and Olivia’s purse, then swings his backpack strap over his shoulder.
“Thank you for the delicious cookies,” I say, as Jonathan strings me along.
“Anytime darlin’. Anytime.”
As we exit the kitchen, Jonathan leads the way through a long hallway that has baby blue walls. I notice the black and white pictures hanging, showcasing town events over the years.
We approach a spiral staircase and Jonathan says, “How about we start your tour upstairs, Ms. Prescott?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, realizing he still has my hand in his—and I dare not cut myself loose. I’m giddy about the way my hand fits perfectly in his.
Once upstairs, we drop off Olivia’s purse in her room. Jonathan guides me through the library, shows me numerous guest rooms, and briefly shows me his room. Then we walk back downstairs, out through the front screen door, and through the expansive backyard, where he shows me a tennis court, a greenhouse, a breathtaking garden courtyard, and an outdoor kitchen.
The grounds are gorgeous and more beautiful than any article I’ve ever read about Hampton homes and inns.
“So, since you’ve never been to The Hamptons, would you like to tour the town with me? I’d love to take you to see one of my favorite spots.”
“Of course. But what about Knight and Daze? Shouldn’t we get back?”
“They are fine. I overstaffed this week so I could take time off from the restaurant floor to spend time with you, there, or anywhere else we can execute a plan.”
“Well then, I guess we are all set,” I say, feeling my giddy alert rise.
“Come on. We can walk.”
Jonathan makes an excellent tour guide as we roam the streets of downtown East Hampton. I’ve learned about some local history and we even stopped a few times, chatting with store patrons who have known Jonathan since he was little. Now famished, Jonathan takes me into a cute little diner called Just Eat, right off Main Street.
The waitress seats us in a booth in the far corner of the restaurant. I slide in and Jonathan follows, plopping down right beside me—I don’t even waste my brainpower trying to ascertain why he chose to sit next to me, instead of across from me.
“Sorry about my Aunt Becca,” he says after the waitress takes our order. “She’s annoyingly snoopy about my love life, as I’m sure you gathered. I tried to warn you, but then she barged out of the house before I had the chance.”
“No worries. She seems sweet, and I can tell she cares a great deal about you.”
Jonathan takes a sip of water. “Yep. Uncle Joe and her are like a second set of parents. They always have been, even before Mom and Dad died.”
“It’s great that you have them.”
“I know, and I’m grateful they are taking in Olivia for the rest of the summer. It will give her time away from the city and the restaurant.”
Jonathan looks down as if he’s in deep thought, and I wonder if we hadn’t left his loft for the restaurant this morning, would he have opened up, revealing more about his goals, his ho
pes, or even his dreams?
He turns to look at me, his eyes pensive. “Kennedy, can I share something with you, without judgment?”
“Of course,” I say, shifting into a more comfortable position.
“Back at my loft, you asked me what would be the best decision for everyone, when it comes to Knight and Daze.”
I nod forcefully in agreement as I take slow sips of water.
“Truth is, I sometimes think the best thing would be for me to sell it.”
“Sell it?” I repeat, slightly taken aback.
“Yes. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for legacies, but honestly, walking in there every single day breaks my fucking heart. It’s like a never-ending reminder that they are no longer here. And I thought it would get easier as the years go by. But it’s not. And all of that coupled with the break-the-bank issues—running that restaurant has become a hindrance. And I hate myself for feeling this way.”
He sinks his face into the palms of his hands, clearly frustrated.
I place my hand on his thigh, “It’s okay, I understand. You mustn’t hate yourself for feeling the way you do. But you do need to do what’s in your heart. You know deep down, your parents would want you and Olivia to be happy. And doing what you have to do to achieve that, shouldn’t make you feel guilty, Jonathan.”
Saying that aloud makes me think about myself and the issue I have with the money in the bank. I want to spend it, but feel so guilty spending money received because of their death. How am I supposed to look at it as a benefit?
The waitress drops off our plates. We both ordered the Chef’s Salad.
“If you decide to sell, what would you do? What will Olivia do?” I ask, in between two small bites of salad.
Jonathan wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Well, after I pay off bills and debt, I’d set up most of the money from the sell in a trust for Olivia, sell my loft, and move here.”
The Fifty-Two Week Chronicles (Delectables in the City Book 1) Page 10