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, t
ugging 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.
Alva eyed the bag, then him, with a considering gaze, for a moment or two longer than was comfortable.
“If not, I can ... come back another time. Perhaps when Mrs. Dunne is here?”
“Oh, Miss Lani is here. She’s back in the kitchen. And no one calls her Mrs. Dunne, though it is exciting, her marrying Baxter and all. He’s a famous pastry chef, too, don’t you know. It’s been all the talk for ages now. You’d think we’d be used to it, all the fuss, with him living here, and filming his fancy TV show right over in Savannah, but then his cookbook came out last month, and, well, it’s brought a whole new round of attention. We’re actually getting phone calls for long-distance orders, can you believe that? From all over the country. Personally, I think it has a lot to do with the fact that they’re just so darn cute together, not to mention so talented.” She placed a hand to her heart and sighed. “We’re real proud to claim them both.”
“I’m sure you are, as well you should be.”
She proudly pointed to the shelves behind the counter. “We have signed copies of the cookbook for sale, if you’re interested.”
For all the sincere pride she had, he hadn’t missed the bit of a gleam amid all the twinkle, and had a feeling she might be one of Lani’s more successful salespeople.
She eyed him up and down again. “Of course, now that you’re here, we have something new to talk about.”
“I assure you, there won’t be much to say. I’m just here for some peace and quiet, working on my next book.”
“Well, we’re really happy to have you back. You’re a Brannigan, so, of course, you’re family here. Your grandparents are missed in these parts. Miss Annie made the best cobblers for our fall festivals, and Gavin could always be counted on to contribute to the big annual fish fry we had as part of our Independence Day festivities. Put in quite a good performance as part of our Christmas caroling group, too. Fine voice he had, solid baritone. Do you sing?”
“Ah, no, I’m afraid I don’t.” Quinn hadn’t known about his grandfather singing carols, though he could well imagine it. It occurred to him some of the older locals on Sugarberry could probably share numerous stories with him about his grandparents, adding to his own memories. He was excited to spend some of his time pursuing exactly that.
“Course, you could have come back sooner,” Miss Alva went on to say. “We’d have kept your privacy private.”
“You know, since coming back, I’ve wondered why I didn’t come back sooner. My memories here are all good ones.”
“Well, now you’ve got that fancy place and all, don’t know what more you could want.” She leaned forward and dropped her voice again. “You’re not planning on having any of those wild celebrity parties, are you?”
He covered her hand with his own. “I can assure you, that’s not anywhere in my plans.”
She looked relieved ... and a little disappointed.
Quinn swallowed the urge to grin. “And the house, yes, it’s very nice, but I’d have been at home in my grandfather’s old place, if it were still there.”
“Real shame when the storm took it out. But Ted Rivers, the man who owns the property now, has done it up real nice. You should go over, say hello. He’d get a kick out of showing you around. Course, the rest of us will never hear the end of it, but it might do you good, visiting what was once the family home.”
Quinn grinned. “I’ve been by, but haven’t said my hellos. Didn’t want to disturb anyone. Maybe I’ll go ahead and do that, then. Thanks.”
She gave his hand a little pat before he slid it away. “We’re all glad you’re here, and I’m happy to be the one to welcome you back.” The merry twinkle appeared in her eyes again, the one that looked innocent enough at first glance ... but made the back of his neck itch a little.
“So, can I just leave this with you?” he asked, offering her the bag.
“Certainly. If Riley asked you to leave it with us, you can be sure we’ll see that she gets it.” Alva took the bag, set it on the counter between them. “Of course,” she added with such studied innocence his neck immediately started itching up a storm, “if you just hang around a few more minutes, you can give it to her yourself.”
“Oh,” he said, trying, and failing, to find the appropriate facial expression or response to that bit of information. His heart had instinctively leaped at the news, which was why his mind had immediately started running through the very long list of reasons why he shouldn’t wait. “Well, I don’t want to be in your way, or hers, so, if you’ll just make sure—”
“Nonsense,” Alva said, and he realized the twinkle-twinkle meant danger-danger. She was at full sparkle, and he knew damn well those wheels were turning up there under that scrupulously sculpted beehive bonnet. “In fact, you could help us out while you wait. Lani is back there right now, testing out a new recipe, and she’s always wanting feedback. I’m sure she’d love to have your opinion.” Alva beamed. “Play your cards right, maybe we’ll name it after you. Our newest
island celebrity! Or should I say our latest? Maybe you and Baxter will start a trend. Though I certainly hope it doesn’t mean more house renovations. No offense. But we like to keep things simple around here.”
“None taken. Simple has always been good enough for me. And please, pass along my hellos to Miss Lani, but I should really be getting—”
“Just wait right there. Now don’t you move.” Alva pointed a finger. “Miss Lani,” she called out as she headed to a swinging door leading to the rear of the shop. “You’ll never guess who’s dropped in for a visit. Come on out and say hello, if you can.”
Quinn shook his head and smiled. Wily, that one was. It would do him well to remember it. Since there was no escaping without appearing rude, which he wouldn’t do for a multitude of reasons, he took a closer look at the shop. And hoped like hell he’d manage to get out the door before Riley made an appearance. More time with her meant more things he’d be able to recall about her when he least wanted to. Danger, danger, indeed.
He glanced away from the cases of cupcakes. More temptation was the last thing he needed at the moment. His attention was drawn to the framed photos lining the front wall on either sides of the front door. On one side was a black-and-white picture of the bakery in a former incarnation. Judging from the car parked out front, he guessed the photo had been taken sometime in the late 1930s or early ’40s. Beneath that was a bright, cheerful photo of the shop on grand opening day with a beaming woman he assumed was Leilani Dunne—or whatever her name had been then—standing arm in arm with an older gentleman wearing a local sheriff’s uniform. He knew from Riley that would be her father. Leyland, he thought he recalled her saying.
Smiling, he took in several more then and now photos taken around the town square. The older photos were all from the same era as the old bakery photo, before either his time on Sugarberry or even his grandparent’s time. He thought for all the progress that had come to the small island over the years, keeping it a thriving community, not much seemed to have changed regarding its charm. The pace was slow now, as it had been then; the islanders were a close-knit community, yet welcoming to new arrivals. They had sustained a self-sufficient, modest economy that didn’t rely on the tourist trade as most of the other, more populated islands in the chain did.
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