Last Kiss of Summer

by Marina Adair

For starters, there was enough in her savings account to last her no more than a few months unless she managed to find a cheaper supplier of apples—which was about as likely as Luke getting his hat back from Feather Head. Then there was a huge deposit, followed by an immediate withdrawal.

  Sure, her file was nothing more than a bunch of numbers and balances, but to a guy like Luke, who made his money reading between the decimals, he could easily put together a story. One that started with a chunk of cash that landed in her account then quickly left it the week she purchased his mom’s shop, and ended with her moving across the country. He wasn’t sure what she was running from, but this was clearly a fresh start for her.

  There were no loans reported, no co-signers to the business, no previous businesses, which left only one answer.

  Kennedy had sold an asset. Most likely her home.

  Something in Luke’s chest shifted painfully. It took guts and a whole lot of determination to start over in a town where she didn’t know a soul—didn’t have a support system. But that’s exactly what she’d done, uprooted her entire life to make pies—here in Destiny Bay.

  That had to mean something. What, Luke didn’t know. But he was going to find out.

  He just wasn’t sure he’d like the answer.

  * * *

  Word that there were free Sweetie Pies samples spread like wildfire, cleaning Kennedy out of her entire stock in less than an hour. She wasn’t sure if it was the free tarts or the twenty percent off coupons that brought the crowd, but once they tasted her roasted pumpkin treats, people weren’t just asking about next week’s apple pies. Ms. Collins even placed a standing order for a dozen pies—and two tarts—for her monthly Welcome Meeting at the senior center.

  Kennedy knew that the distance between a single standing order and running a successful shop was enormous, but she was determined to win over the entire town by Thanksgiving. Even if it was one tart at a time. With how hard this town clung to tradition, it just might be. A daunting thought that had Kennedy sighing as she drove down the cobblestone road that led toward her cottage.

  The daylight was long gone, but a million stars twinkled over the apple trees that lined either side of her driveway, casting a glow over the nineteen-twenties carriage house that had been converted into a quaint one-bedroom cottage.

  The one-story dwelling boasted a wide wraparound porch, complete with a wooden swing and a lovely chef’s garden off the back. It was warm and welcoming, and Edna was right—Callahan Cottage was the exact kind of safe harbor Kennedy had desperately needed. And after pulling another sixteen-hour day, she couldn’t wait to sink into a hot bath and soak away every worry and ache.

  Kennedy grabbed her purse off the passenger seat, her bra off the floorboard, and dinner out of the truck—the last remaining pumpkin tart and a bottle of local wine.

  She was celebrating making it through her first Apple Festival and, regardless of her run-in with Fi, being one step closer to happiness, finding a home—and baking six hundred pies and tarts without sampling the product more than twice.

  Okay, three times, but she’d made six complete passes of Main Street carrying that basket, the equivalent of a marathon, she was sure.

  Kennedy reached for her keys and pulled out her cell instead, because the door was open—and someone was inside.

  Reminding herself she was in the middle of a dark and desolate apple orchard, with the nearest neighbors owning a cane and dentures, Kennedy grabbed the wooden umbrella from the copper can next to the door.

  “Unless your name is Paula or Fi, you might want to leave now,” she hollered down the hallway. “I’ve called the sheriff and he is on his way.”

  “You might want to call him back, I didn’t make enough for company, and Dudley’s a sensitive guy when it comes to being included. Doesn’t do well with rejection.”

  It wasn’t fear that coursed through her body at the confirmation that someone was indeed inside her house. It was growing irritation—brought on by the man in her kitchen.

  Luke.

  Dropping her cell back in her purse, she choked up on the umbrella and stormed into the kitchen.

  Luke stood at the stove. His hair was wet and finger combed, as if he’d just swum the length of the bay. He was in jeans—no shirt, no shoes—just damp skin and soft, well-worn denim, which hung dangerously low on his hips.

  “Get out,” Kennedy demanded and, great, he looked up to find her staring at the impressive set of hard-cut abs.

  “Can you hand me the chili powder.” He wasn’t even looking at her, but using a wooden spoon to stir something in a giant copper pot—the scent surprisingly delicious. “It’s in the pantry to your right. Top shelf.”

  Her answer was to set the bag on the counter and raise the umbrella.

  “Right.” He grinned sympathetically. “You’re a little on the short side, would probably need the step stool. No problem, I’ll get it.”

  Kennedy didn’t know what bothered her more, the way her breath caught and her eyes zeroed in as all that naked, tan skin brushed past her, his back muscles bunching and coiling as he reached up to grab several spice bottles. Or that he tapped the tip of her umbrella on his way back and said, “You may want to set that down. You know what they say about seven years’ bad sex and all.”

  She forced her gaze to meet his, which was the color of whiskey and twinkling with humor. She’d never been able to handle her whiskey. “Opening an umbrella in the house is seven years’ bad luck.”

  “Imagine what swinging it will cost you.” With a pinch of this and a dash of that, he went back to stirring. He lifted the spoon, cupping his hand beneath it, took a taste, and offered her one. “You think it needs a tad more cayenne?”

  Kennedy ignored this. “What are you doing?”

  “Making dinner. My dad’s favorite chili, best in town.” He glanced at the bag. “Oh, good, you brought dessert.”

  He reached for the box and she swung purposefully low. “Get your hands off my tarts.”

  He lifted his hands in surrender. “Don’t worry, sweetness, I wasn’t going to touch…Just wanted a little peek at what was to come.”

  She swung again, this time getting closer. “Get out of my house.”

  “About that,” he said, ducking down and around her, so fast and fluid that when he stopped, he had the umbrella in his hand—and hers were shockingly empty. He stuck a wineglass in it, uncorked the bottle, and was pouring before she could throw it at him. “This dwelling is an asset of Callahan Orchards, used to house employees during the harvest. And since the harvest officially started yesterday, and I am Callahan Orchards’ top employee, that makes you my guest.” He poured himself a glass and held it to hers. “Welcome to my cottage.”

  “Sorry, buddy, I’m renting the cottage from your mom, and she said I can stay here for as long as I need.”

  He took a sip. “She told me.”

  “And I need more time.”

  “Take all the time you need. I mean, what kind of man would I be to deny a lady of her needs.” He smiled behind his wineglass, but didn’t move toward the exit. Kennedy got the distinct impression he had no intention of leaving anytime soon. Which irritated her as much as it turned her on.

  She didn’t want to want someone as pigheaded and smug as Luke, but the truth was, she did. And not just in a sexual way; she wanted to flirt and laugh and be challenged. Three things that happened when he was near.

  And the top three ingredients in a recipe for disaster, she told herself. She’d only recently lost one home to a man; she wasn’t about to lose another.

  Deciding to be proactive instead of reactive, she set the glass down, picked up her phone, and dialed. Two seconds later it was ringing.

  “Well, isn’t this a surprise,” Paula said into the phone, but didn’t sound surprised at all. In fact, she sounded hopeful. “How was your day?”

  The question caught Kennedy off guard. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had asked her that, and sounded
genuinely interested. “It was great. Once I cleared up the misconception about pumpkin being nature’s Ex-lax, I cleared out all the day’s inventory.”

  “That’s lovely, dear,” Paula said, and Kennedy could hear the older woman beaming through the phone. “And don’t worry about Fi, she means well. But don’t fret, she has been spoken to. You shouldn’t have any more problems with misconceptions running about town.”

  Kennedy looked at Luke, moving around her kitchen as if he owned the place. “About that, I came home to find a visitor in my kitchen.”

  “Oh, is Luke there?” Paula asked, all innocence and sugary surprise. “I was wondering if he would come. Every harvest he comes, but a few years ago he bought a house in town, and his time at the cottage has been unpredictable. I wasn’t sure if he’d move in this year.”

  “Move in?” The words stuck in her throat. “But this harvest you said I could move in. For as long as I needed.” Kennedy repeated the woman’s promise verbatim, working hard to keep the panic at bay.

  “No one uses the cottage, dear, so you take as long as you need.”

  “But you just said Luke uses the cottage.”

  “Just for harvest, and don’t mind him, he’s always tidy, cleans up after himself, good in the kitchen, too. You won’t even know he’s there,” she said as if this were the perfect arrangement, but somehow Kennedy doubted that. Luke was one of those guys who took up too much space. “But if it’s a problem, you could come sleep at the farmhouse with Fi and me. We can make up the sofa bed.”

  And be kicked out of her own house by a man—again? Not going to happen.

  Plus, after her day, the thought of trading one Callahan in for two made her eye twitch. She was already spending nearly every morning in the kitchen with them and their well-intended suggestions. Nope, what Kennedy needed was a little peace, a lot of quiet, and a space all her own. “That’s okay, I’m good down here, but I am sure Luke wouldn’t mind visiting. Say the word, and I’ll send him right up.”

  “Oh.” Paula sounded concerned. “That’s wouldn’t work. Lola just loves Luke, but he’s allergic to her dander.”

  “Allergic?” Kennedy narrowed her eyes.

  Unconcerned about how unmanly being allergic to dander was, Luke gave a pathetic sniff of the nose, then grinned—and flexed his pecks.

  Rolling her eyes, Kennedy picked up a T-shirt off the back of the chair and tossed it. The man had amazing reflexes, because he managed to catch it without dropping the spoon.

  “It’s why he bought his own place. Poor guy can’t stay in the house for more than two minutes before Lola starts in on her kisses, and Luke begins to break out in these awful hives.”

  Two minutes with Lola and Kennedy would get hives.

  “Plus, Luke being there during harvest, right down the road, really warms my heart,” the older woman said. Kennedy’s heart warmed at the thought, too—from irritation. “Luke and his daddy used to spend harvest in the cottage when he was growing up. After my Orin passed, Luke stopped going, chose instead to commute in from his house in town. Maybe this is his way of coping, finally finding some sense of closure,” Paula said quietly. “I thought I told you he might come by, must have slipped my mind.”

  “Must have,” Kennedy said, wondering how she was supposed to kick him out now. Paula had shared something so personal and touching she actually felt for the man. Kennedy had never buried anyone close to her, but she knew the power of loss—understood how it could reshape a person’s life.

  Her life had been reshaped so many times, Kennedy often wondered what she would have turned out like had she been born into a different family. One that had staying power.

  “Thanks for understanding,” Paula said. “And tell my boy I love him.”

  There was a gentle quality to Paula’s voice that had Kennedy ready to pass along the message. She looked at Luke, who smiled back. It was warm and genuine, similar to the one he’d given his mom the other day at the shop. Unfortunately, it created a similar reaction in Kennedy’s chest. Which was also warm and way too genuine for her comfort.

  Because that one smile transformed him from ruggedly handsome to insanely.

  “Tell her I love her, too,” he said, not even trying to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping.

  “To the moon and back,” Paula said as an alarm sounded in the background. “Gotta go, dinner’s ready.”

  Kennedy didn’t have the energy to point out it was Lola, or the heart to admit that Paula knew that. She ended the call and glared at Luke. ”Well, we can’t both stay here, if that was your big grand plan, and I’m not leaving, which means you can see your way out.”

  “After dinner,” he said as if she hadn’t just kicked him out. “Do you want to eat at the table or the counter?” he asked.

  “Cut the crap, Luke,” she said indignantly. Whatever his game was, she wasn’t about to play. “What are you up to?”

  Chapter 6

  Luke was up to nothing good, that was for sure, he thought, looking at the storm brewing in Kennedy’s blue eyes while she glared at him from across the kitchen counter.

  Unafraid of the weighted silence, Luke took the time to study his hostile houseguest, trying to get a handle on what had inspired Kennedy to buy a pie shop on the other side of the country. If he could figure that out, then maybe he could pinpoint what she needed to feel comfortable saying yes to his offer. If he had learned anything about Kennedy Sinclair, it was that she couldn’t be persuaded by money, wasn’t afraid of his aunt, and knew how to swing when she got cornered.

  Three things that meant he’d have to be extra diligent about staying focused.

  Focus that evaporated the second she crossed her arms and sent him a look that was irritated, tired, and sexy as hell.

  Her blond hair was spilling out of its clip, her eyes were dialed to bedroom, and she had a smudge of flour on her right cheek. She was still wearing that dress, although the practical shoes and prim sweater were MIA. Tonight, her feet were naked and her shoulders impossibly bare. But what had his mind scrambled was what she had on beneath.

  Or what she didn’t have on.

  One of the straps had slipped down her shoulder, showing off more cleavage than lace, and leaving Luke ninety-nine percent certain that she wasn’t wearing a bra. As for the panties, he could only hope she was into coordinating, because commando would suit her well right then.

  “Cooking dinner. Glad I made enough for guests.” He leaned against the counter and waited for his words to settle. Her eyes went wide, then fuming mad. God, she was hot when she was riled. It was the only reason he could come up with for what he said next. “I wasn’t expecting a roomie.”

  “It’s a one-bedroom, Luke. There is no room for a roomie.”

  “I know. When I used to stay here with my dad, I always got stuck on the sofa. So sleeping in the bed should be a nice change.”

  Nice change? What the hell was he saying? He hadn’t planned on moving in; he’d come here to figure her out, throw her off balance, and find a weakness. But one look at her in her dress and too-much-skin-to-be-strapped-in and his brain had been scrambled.

  Then she’d seen right through his BS and called him on it, and damn if that didn’t turn him on—and turn him stupid.

  The whole point of buying the house across town was so he’d never have to spend another night here, surrounded by the memories of the last harvest he’d spent with his dad. Never have to smell chili cooking on the stove, the scent of apples on his hands, or the regret in the air.

  Angry frustration rose up inside him at the situation, and he felt the walls start to close in, guilt tightening around his neck.

  “I’m not sleeping on the couch,” she said, steel determination in her voice.

  And there it was, his cue to leave. He didn’t want to be there. She sure as hell didn’t want him there. It was clear by the tug he felt toward Kennedy he had no business staying, but he couldn’t find the strength to leave.

  “What kind
of man would I be to make you sleep on the couch,” he said. “I don’t mind sharing, but I gotta warn you, wine makes me a cuddler so I’d cut me off after two glasses.”

  She paused as if trying to figure out if he was being serious or screwing with her. The correct answer would be both.

  “There will be no sharing, of the wine or the bed, and I am not your sweetness, your roomie, or your answering service.” She plucked his glass from his hand and emptied the contents into hers. When it wouldn’t all fit, she tipped it back to down the remainder—handing him back an empty glass.

  “Is that a no to the cuddling?”

  “I’m also not some naive woman you can charm out of her panties or her home, or apples FYI. So whatever game you’re playing, whatever plan you’ve come up with, like I told you the other night, I’m not interested,” she said with a tired sadness that made a direct hit to Luke’s chest.

  “After today, I figured you’d want to revisit the offer.”

  “After today, I just want to soak in a hot bath, with a glass of wine, and celebrate having tomorrow off, and the fact that I happen to love pumpkin more than apples, so other people must, too.”

  Luke scratched his hand. “You brought home a pumpkin tart?”

  “What’s wrong with a pumpkin tart?” she demanded.

  “Nothing,” he said brightly, thinking that he’d prefer an apple pie. “And since dinner’s not quite ready, you have plenty of time to have a glass and a little soak. But leave the door unlocked and I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

  “So you can see me in nothing but bubbles, maybe accidentally fall the tub, and whoops, tomorrow’s walk of shame will be too awkward for me to stay and you win.”

  “Whoa,” Luke said quietly, because he had a feeling she had been played. Whatever she’d been through had burned so bad, the scars would never fully heal. “I was really just offering you dinner, a chance for us to talk, revisit things, and get to know each other better.”

  “I know enough, Luke,” she said, and Luke experienced an unfamiliar prick in his chest. “I know how guys like you work, how you see this situation panning out, and I am telling you, I am not interested in anything you have to offer. I’d rather take my chances and work it out alone.”