Sweet Stuff

by Donna Kauffman

  “Thanks.” He snagged it in one of those big hands of his. One of those same big hands that had framed her shoulder back in the kitchen of the open house—well, his bungalow, she supposed it was now. And again, on the stairs, and ...

  “Sure,” she managed, her throat tight and dry all over again—because she was an idiot. She ducked her chin slightly as they did one last do-si-do. “I’ll just be in the galley, putting stuff away. No hurry on getting the shirt back. Actually, if you want, you can just leave it at Lani’s shop in town. I can pick it up next time I’m in for club night.”

  “Because coming all the way out here would add so much time to the trip.”

  She heard the dry, teasing note in his voice, knew there was no underlying message, just amusement. But tell that to her hammering heartbeat.

  Before she could think up a suitable response, he said soberly, “I can leave it at the bakery, Riley, no worries. But, just so you know, I wouldn’t have dropped by unannounced. I appreciate the loan. I’ll leave it and the towel in town with Lani.”

  She felt foolish for trying to play it oh-so-cool, instead being oh-so-ridiculous. “I appreciate it.” She turned back to the door, escape attempt number two the next thing on her immediate agenda.

  “What’s club night?” he asked.

  She’d made it to the passageway, and debated pretending she hadn’t heard him, then paused. She’d like to think she really wasn’t that ridiculous. She braced her hand on the doorway as the boat swayed and dipped, then gripped it tightly after she turned back. It was that, or prove just how ridiculous she really could be, by face-planting at his feet. The same bare feet that were covered with the wet shirt he’d just pulled off.

  She should turn back around. Decency demanded it, despite the fact that men on Sugarberry went shirtless more often than not this time of year. It was just ... none of the men on Sugarberry looked like this. For that matter, none of the men in Chicago did either. And before she knew it, she wasn’t turning around at all, she was staring. Gawking.

  Giving herself lecture after lecture as she let her gaze travel ever-so-slowly up his still wet, khaki shorts-clad legs, to the belted waist and the expanse of flat, very male and muscular bare skin that extended upward from there. There was a dark, sexy swirl of hair patterning across his pecs, then arrowing down, oh so tauntingly, until it disappeared behind the buckle on his belt. She about swallowed her tongue.

  Even being in imminent danger of death by choking apparently wasn’t enough to abort the rest of the full-body sweep. He had his arms over his head as he was pulling the shirt on, so she got to watch the riveting display of pectoral and shoulder muscles at work and play. Then, like the curtain at the end of a performance, the Sox jersey fell down into place over all that gloriousness and the show was abruptly over.

  Like a tractor beam of shame, her gaze lifted that fraction higher until it locked right into his. It was probably just the dim shadowy interior of the stateroom that gave those crystal blue eyes of his the dark, dangerous glint she saw there. Surely, that was it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, though not exactly sounding at all put out. “I thought you’d turned your back.”

  “You asked ... something.” It was a damn good thing she’d already come to terms with the very—very—different leagues the two of them played in. If she’d ever allowed herself to seriously think about what it would be like to get naked with him, that little display had just guaranteed she would never—ever—be disrobing in front of this gorgeous specimen of man.

  Yeah, she thought. Good thing she’d cleared that up.

  “You have a club thing? At the bakery?” He smiled. “If it’s a secret society, complete with a special handshake, forget I asked. I was just trying to think what kind of club meets in a bakery.”

  Was he seriously making small talk? “We, uh, that is, a group of us get together and ... we bake. Cupcakes.”

  “To help the owner—Lani, right? To help her out with stock?”

  “No. Just to bake. It’s like ... you know how guys have poker night? We have bake night. Lani teaches us stuff. She used to be a pretty big deal of a pastry chef in New York, and her husband is—”

  “Baxter Dunne. I know.” Quinn smiled when Riley sent him a questioning look. “Scary Lois name-dropped him as a way to sell me on the finer points of Sugarberry’s hidden celebrity allure.”

  Riley found herself smiling at his continued use of the dreaded nickname. “Anyway, we learn, enjoy each other’s company, share what’s going on.” She managed a smile then. “And donate a lot of sweet stuff to the Senior Center, the Moose Lodge, and other unsuspecting groups all over the greater Savannah area.”

  His smile flashed wider and the exponential speed at which Riley’s pulse rate zoomed told her it was time to end their little chitchat.

  “Sort of like a book club for bakers?”

  “Exactly. And you don’t have to read the boring stuff you’d never normally—” She broke off, then shook her head. “Good, Riley.” She looked at him. “I didn’t mean your books. I meant the stuffy ones that book clubs think they should be reading because someone, somewhere said that reading dysfunctional stuff about miserable people where it always ends badly somehow makes you a better person. I never figured that one out. I want the book club where everyone reads fun fiction.” She smiled again. “Yours would fall in that group.”

  He sketched a little bow. “Thank you. Much appreciated. And if it makes you feel any better, I don’t get highbrow, stuffy literature, group-read think, either. Well, that’s not true. I understand why the genre exists, just not why there aren’t at least an equal number of reading groups engaging in discussion about more popular fiction. I mean, it’s called popular for a reason.” With that, he bowed again. “Allow me to step down from that particular soapbox. You don’t want to hear me pontificate.”

  “Actually, it’s refreshing and relieving to hear you say it. I thought it was just me being shallow and superficial.” Riley squeezed her eyes shut. “I really need to stop talking. You know I didn’t mean that your books were—”

  “I know what you didn’t mean.”

  Her eyes flew open. The voice was much closer. In fact, he was standing right in front of her, just inside the door. The door she belatedly realized she was blocking.

  “Thank you for the shirt,” he said amiably enough, but his gaze was searching hers.

  For what? she wanted to shout. “I’m sorry my dog is a bit ... exuberant.” She was completely hung up on that deepening sea of turquoise blue.

  “Please let ... whoever he is, know that I said thank you as well.”

  “What?”

  He plucked at the jersey. “The owner of the shirt.”

  “Oh. Right. I ... will.”

  “Will you tell him one other thing for me?”

  Riley nodded, held there by the steady gaze, the deep voice, that hint of accent ... and the way he made her feel like the only woman in the universe.

  “Tell him he’s a very lucky man. And that I hope like hell he knows what he’s got here.”

  “Got? Oh, you mean ... the old White Sox jersey? It’s not a real—”

  Quinn grinned then, and she added dazzled to the list. “You, Riley,” he said. “He’s got you.”

  “Oh. Right.” She wished she could somehow be at least slightly less banal. But that was not her karma. Not around him, at any rate. “I—thank you.”

  He kept smiling.

  “I should let you get out of here.” But turning around and having him follow her down the snug passageway ... that she didn’t need. “I’m—I think I’m just going to trade places with you and change out of my wet—uh, change. My clothes.”

  His eyes had flashed on the word wet for the briefest of seconds, and she found herself holding her breath. For what, she didn’t know, but there seemed to be some kind of anticipation. . . building. Surely that wasn’t all in her mind? But then he backed up, slinging the spare towel around his neck, and
the damp one, along with his wet shirt, over his arm, which he swung wide, gesturing her inside. Ever the gracious Southern gentleman. His Grams would be so proud.

  Riley tried not to let that depress her.

  “I’ll launder and bring both towels back, if that’s okay.”

  “You really don’t need to.” Against all odds, she managed to not trip over herself or in any other way cause further embarrassment as she got out of his way and let him out of the room. It was something, anyway.

  “I don’t mind,” he said, as he stepped into the passageway.

  She stopped him with a question. “Why were you down here?” she blurted out. “At the docks, I mean?” Good God, Riley. He was one step and a hop away from being back on the pier, on the way to his car.

  He turned back, and paused in the door opening. “I spent my summers here as a teenager, fishing, working for my grandfather. He moored his big trawler on these docks.”

  Her eyes widened. “Your family is from Sugarberry?”

  He shook his head. “Extended family on both sides are from New England, then Ireland the generation before that. My grandparents moved south out of consideration for my grandmother’s health issues. Dad was born down on the Gulf. My grandparents moved here to Sugarberry after my father had gone off to college, married, and started a family, which began and ended with me.”

  “Why Sugarberry? The Gulf would seem a more prosperous place for a fisherman.”

  “Looking for less challenging competition as my granda got older and my grams’ health was worsening. My father’s career ended up keeping us around D.C.; work keeps him there still. So, I guess I’m something of a mutt, of sorts, geographically speaking.”

  “Your grandparents, they’re gone now?”

  “Yes, long time. Their house here is gone, too.”

  “I’m surprised with the way island lore is passed around down here, that there aren’t stories about the famous writer’s grandparents.”

  “My grandparents were both gone before I’d published my first book. I doubt anyone would have made the connection after the fact.”

  Riley smiled. “You seriously underestimate the depth and breadth of the local gossip mills. Your mom and dad are still in D.C.?”

  He shook his head. “Actually, my mom passed when I was thirteen, which was right around when I started spending summers here. Kept on with it every summer until I was in my junior year in college. I had an internship that summer, in journalism, which was where I thought I was headed at the time.”

  “I’m sorry about your mom.”

  “Thank you. My dad ... well, he had a pretty hard time of it. But it ended up giving me the gift of time spent with my grandparents, for which I’m forever grateful.”

  “He must be proud of your successes. Your dad, I mean.”

  Quinn smiled, but for the first time, Riley noted it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, he is. Well, I won’t make you stand around in wet clothes any longer. Do you need any help unloading that stuff? From the bags we carried on board?”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ve got it.” Surprised to realize that their short chat had relaxed her once again, she was relieved when her smile came naturally, with no dry throat or heart-pumping side effects. “It would take longer to tell you where it all goes.”

  “Okay then, I’m officially getting out of your hair.” He turned to go, but she stopped him one last time.

  “Thank you, Quinn.”

  “For?” he asked, leaning back to look through the open doorway.

  “Sharing. I’m sure you get asked endless curious questions about your past. I just ... I appreciate hearing about it. I’m glad you had the chance to connect with your grams and granddad.”

  “Thank you. I’m not usually all that keen to talk about it, but this was nice. It felt ... normal. I appreciate that.”

  “Good.” Her smile spread. “I feel less guilty for being nosy, then.”

  “Nothing nosy about making neighborly conversation.”

  She laughed. “You might want to rethink that before stopping in at Laura Jo’s diner or Stewie’s pub.”

  He grinned. “So noted.”

  “Be careful getting off the boat. It’s tied securely, but it still bobs.”

  “I will.” But he stood there a moment longer, then another moment still. “Good-bye, Riley.”

  “Bye,” she said, thinking he’d made that sound rather permanent. Wishing the idea didn’t make her so sad.

  She heard him talking as the rear glass door slid open, presumably to Brutus, and quickly shrugged out of her wet shirt and bra, pulling on the first thing she yanked out of the open bench seat. She frowned as she heard something—or, more to the point, someone—on the outside stairs that led to the upper fly deck. The weight of the steps were heavier than any noise Brutus would make, not that he could climb the ladder anyway. She figured, given his earlier curiosity about the boat, Quinn had probably decided to take a quick peek up there, which was perfectly fine. It was another guy thing. A fixation with all things transportation. She certainly didn’t mind.

  But as she pulled her hair from under the back of her shirt and grabbed her heavy comb, she found herself spending a moment or two wondering what it would be like to have someone else’s footsteps echoing in her living space again.

  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

  Quinn 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 o
f 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.