by Marina Adair
She was going to realize soon enough that there was no way she could use all the apples, and her surplus would sink her business. That selling them back to him was the smart choice. He didn’t need to tell her that he still needed her apples in order to get the capital to buy Bay View.
Hawk studied Luke for a long, intense minute, then gave a worried shake of the head. “It’s not your nuts I’m worried about, bro.”
Advice Luke was still considering ten minutes later when he pulled onto the same windy dirt road he’d walked a thousand times every harvest as a kid. If he was going to come through on his word, then he needed to gain the upper hand.
Cutting the engine, he stepped out of the car. The fall night was crisp and the moon was full, casting a soft light over the rolling acres of apple trees. One of Luke’s favorite views—a view he’d desperately missed these past few years living in town.
He stood quietly, waiting for the crickets to kick in again, and watched the rocking chair on the front porch of the cottage slowly move in the breeze.
Even though his dad was gone and the cottage had long ago been remodeled into a guest quarters, every memory, every ounce of regret he’d been avoiding for the past ten years, came rushing over him. The familiar scent of tart apples, the dew settling on the leaves, the sounds of the wood creaking under the rocking chair.
That chair had been his dad’s favorite. Hand made by some old-timer a county over and bought for him as a gift from Luke’s mom for their fifth wedding anniversary. After a long day in the orchard, this was where his dad would come, to smoke his pipe and watch the stars. If Luke closed his eyes, he could probably still smell the cherry tobacco and hear his dad humming his favorite Merle Haggard songs.
A deep longing rolled through Luke. Combined with regret and enough nostalgia to take him out at the knees. Shaking off the memory, he grabbed his keys and headed for the door, sliding the key in the lock, and—
“What the hell?”
He tried again, rechecking his key to be sure, and no luck. That was when he noticed the note nailed to the door.
Bring me my apples and I’ll give you a new key.
Sweet dreams…K
Chapter 8
The sun hadn’t even hinted at rising when Kennedy’s alarm went off. Promising herself five more minutes, she hit the snooze button, rolled over, and—froze.
Her heart leapt to life, and into her throat, her senses going on high alert. She strained her eyes through the dark, lying stock-still beneath the soft cotton sheets.
Sheets she had begrudgingly changed around 2 a.m. when she’d woken from a steamy dream starring Farmer Luke and his silky sheets. Good night guaranteed was an understatement. Every time she so much as breathed, the deliciously soft fabric felt like foreplay against her skin, leaving her more than hot and bothered—and desperate to take a ride on his big green tractor.
A sad side effect, she was sure, of acute sex deprivation.
After the bar, Kennedy had headed straight to Ali’s shop to purchase a new lock. Ali suggested she also get a dead bolt, and a gun, but Kennedy had thought a new door handle was enough. She’d planned on installing it and turning in, but then remembered the back door, to which Luke also had a key. So Kennedy wedged a chair under the handle and piled several pots and lids on top, a makeshift alarm in case of a sneaky and sexy burglar attack. By the time she’d made it to bed, it was well after midnight—but her solitude was secured.
Only the big shape lying next to her, which looked suspiciously human, said her walls of solitude had been breached and she wasn’t alone. Nope, the sandman had decided to pay her a visit—and stayed to test out her sheets.
Which apparently weren’t too big or too small, but just right. He was taking up more than his fair share of the blanket, too. Burglar turned bed hog.
Ignoring the urge to slip and slide right over to the other side of the bed and wish her burglar a very good morning, she pulled the covers tighter to her, squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to convince herself that she was still dreaming. Only when she reopened her eyes, the outline was even more distinct, and she smelled a lingering scent of fresh apples and sexy farmer.
Kennedy was equally horrified and excited by the possibility of waking her bedmate, but she was also terrified of what the possibilities of having a bedmate meant—like maybe her dreams were more than a dream—so she slipped a hand beneath the sheets and did a quick pat-down.
Top? Check.
Panties? Check.
She even had on her socks—thank God.
Reaching over, she grabbed the sheets and yanked them back, only thinking after that he could very well be buck naked under there. And wouldn’t that be wonderfully awkward.
Giddiness mixed with the earlier panic, and quickly became irritation the second the sheets hit the bottom of the bed. Because her guy was clothed, all right, wearing the U of W shirt she’d borrowed—no underwear. Not that it mattered, because her “guy” was a bundle of pillows arranged in a humanlike shape.
And in case that didn’t get her panties in a bunch, pinned in the middle of the U of W shirt, right beneath of, was a note:
In case you missed me and needed a good cuddle…L
PS…Don’t worry about getting me a key, the screwdriver worked just fine.
Kennedy wanted to tell him she didn’t do cuddling—it went against her independent nature—but there was no point in yelling at a pillow. Especially since it was clear by the drool marks and indented chest region that she had been spooning Pillow Farmer for most of the night.
Kennedy flicked on the light and inspected each and every window. Completely locked, not a single one messed with. That was when she smelled it. The earthy aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drifting down the hallway and filling the room.
Ignoring her robe and slippers, Kennedy shot down the hallway, flicking on every light as she went. She reached the front door to find it locked and secure. So she followed the scent to the kitchen, which was also surprisingly empty. The chair was in place, the pots and lids still perched to alert her to intruders, everything exactly the way she’d left it.
Except for the big, steaming mug of coffee, which sat on the kitchen table—next to a single cider apple. And another note.
Here’s your first delivery. If you want more before next week, I suggest losing your big city shoes and strapping in. It’s a long fall.
And that’s when Kennedy saw the safety harness hanging over the chair. A big, bright pink, blatant challenge. One that she couldn’t resist.
She might be a people pleaser, but she wasn’t a pushover. After years of merely surviving, Kennedy was ready to live a life that was full.
* * *
She was upset. Luke could tell.
If the sounds of gravel in his blender weren’t enough to have him consider sneaking out of his bedroom window, then the pots and pans slamming around in his kitchen was. Only he wasn’t in his bedroom—he was on the couch. And Paula was cooking up a storm in his kitchen.
It wasn’t unusual for his mom to let herself into his house, take over the kitchen, and whip up a hearty, homemade breakfast. But the clatter and banging implied she was more interested in whipping up a category five sit-down than pancakes and eggs.
Paula didn’t do mad; it was an emotion she couldn’t seem to find the energy for after Luke’s dad passed away. But she did guilt like any good Catholic mother—lovingly and with heart.
Luke’s dad called it guilt-fueled gluttony. The more upsetting the offense, the more extravagant the meal. One time, when Luke was twelve, he’d been caught kissing Bethany Smart in the confessional booth—by Father Armand. By the time Luke made it home, Paula had cooked enough food to cover Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter Sunday—and it was only August.
“What’cha making in there?” Luke asked from the couch.
“Right now?” she said sweetly. Too sweetly. Country-cut bacon and potato casserole kind of sweet. “Eggs Benedict. It seemed fitting.”
&n
bsp; Luke rolled his eyes but made his way to the kitchen. If he didn’t get in there, she’d pull out the roasting pan and he’d never get rid of her.
Passing the bathroom, he glanced at himself in the mirror and groaned. He took in yesterday’s work clothes, his hair, which was standing on end, and the time of the day. It was a quarter to eight, which meant even though he’d overslept, he’d achieved less than three hours of sleep.
Between figuring out how to approach the Starks about their apples, and staking out his sexy tenant to make sure she was asleep when he jimmied his way inside, Luke was spent. So finding Paula standing at the counter, elbow deep in dirty pots and pans, and arranging freshly ground hazelnuts on a baking sheet was the last thing he needed.
Luke wasn’t sure if the hazelnuts were for the eggs, the potato casserole she had going, or the French toast she was dredging.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
“Came over right after I saw you sneak out of the guest cottage like some kind of thief in the night,” Paula said, dredging the fresh-baked bread over and over again to punctuate her disapproval.
“It’s hard to sneak when you own the property.” Luke grabbed a mug from the cupboard and lifted the coffeepot. Sadly, the only appliance in the kitchen his mother hadn’t used.
A strategic oversight on her part.
With a sigh, he filled it with water, added the grounds, and hit Start.
Paula tutted, then mumbled something about his coffee-for-one lifestyle being a shame. Luke wanted to explain that he liked his coffee-for-one life. Loved it, in fact. He never suffered from a lack of female companionship, but he never took it far enough to warrant handing out his house key. Nope, from the moment he hit the sack until he had to walk out that front door, all he had to think about was himself.
A state Luke rarely had the chance to indulge in. Once he stepped beyond that threshold, and out into town, there were a whole lot of people he was responsible for. He provided paychecks, apples, security, and support. For his mom and aunt, he was tasked with the job of ensuring their happiness. And he was okay with that—most days. But some days he needed space that wasn’t heavy with responsibility.
So he’d bought a house across town. Now he needed to invest in some new locks, then he remembered how that had worked out for Kennedy and groaned. Maybe he needed to move to Tacoma.
“This all looks wonderful, but it’s Wednesday. Shouldn’t you be at the shop?”
“I’m heading there after I finish up here,” Paula said, opening the fridge and pulling out eggs, milk, mascarpone cheese, and not two, but three different kinds of apples.
Well, shit. All the ingredients for her famous hazelnut triple-apple sticky buns.
This was worse than he thought. She only made those for Easter Sunday and funerals.
His dad’s funeral being the last time.
Momentary sadness slid through him, but since his mom was there, he quickly brushed it off. “What are you really doing here, Mom?”
“I already said, making my son breakfast. He needs more than a bowl of cold cereal to get through a day of harvest.”
His mom had two passions in her life: her family and her food. If she could combine the two, all the better. Which was why Luke wasn’t sure what had surprised him more, that she had actually sold her shop or how much happier she’d seemed since.
Paula loved her customers—it was the main reason she’d held on for so long—but over the years, baking all day had taken a toll on her arthritis. Luke hadn’t realized just how worn down she’d become. Now she had a new spring in her step, a rejuvenated passion for baking.
And life.
Luke hadn’t seen her this worked up since before his dad passed. Not that Luke was all that excited about being the center of her newfound passion, because for Paula, passion meant demanding penance, but the warm glow to her cheeks was a nice change.
He hated to admit it, but selling the shop to someone who allowed Paula to still work the occasional shift was perfect. His mom could gab with her friends, catch up on gossip, and even bake a few pies when she felt like it. Then midday would come and she could go home and relax.
Not in her sunroom like she’d dreamed, but looking at her now, even though she was clearly in a mood, she looked lighter. Younger.
Happier.
She dropped three pieces of toast onto the sizzling griddle. After flipping them over, she looked up. She had flour on her cheek and egg dripping all over his counters. “Unless you want me to leave.”
Luke walked over to his mom and pulled her in for a big hug, his heart rolling over when she leaned all the way into him, patting his cheek like he was still nine and half her size. “I don’t want you to leave, Mom. I just want you to tell me why you’re baking Dad’s favorite sticky buns.”
Paula pulled back with a look of complete innocence. “You say that like they’ll bring the second coming. They were your dad’s favorite, and I thought they were yours, too.”
“They are. It’s just you haven’t made them since he passed,” he said carefully, studying her closely for signs of sadness. Instead of the brittle smile she usually gave when someone brought up her Orin, she gave a genuine smile that was warm and full of nostalgia.
“Well, today’s a special day and I think your dad would have insisted.” She lifted the French toast off the griddle and, after a good dusting of powdered sugar, placed them on the plate on the counter—then motioned for Luke to sit down.
He inhaled the scene of cinnamon and maple syrup and lifted the first bite to his mouth.
Perfection.
Sweet, rich, and exactly what he needed.
“Plus, I’m not baking them for you,’ she said. “I’m baking them for Kennedy. My way of saying welcome to the neighborhood and sorry for my son being a horse’s behind.”
Luke choked on his French toast. “Did you just call me an ass?”
“I would never say that word.” But she was smiling as if she was thinking it. “Even if it did describe someone who would make that poor girl pick her own apples.”
“She told you about that?” Maybe Hawk was right, and Kennedy wasn’t above using his mom’s soft heart to get her way.
Paula snorted. “That girl would never sell out a soul, even one who needs a good confession, like yours. I heard it from Margret, who heard it from her grandson. The one who married that dancer from Vegas, only to find out she was dancing for bills. He was down at the Penalty Box last night and overheard you talking to Hawk.”
Luke didn’t want to know what else the prick had overheard. He had purposefully kept his mom in the dark about the property. She had lived through enough disappointment for him to get her hopes up, only to have them come crashing down if something went hairy.
Like, say, being short a few acres of produce.
“I told Margret, that doesn’t sound like my Lucas,” she said in that tone that brought forth equal bouts of pride and guilt. “She was concerned it would affect her standing order for pies, then reminded me how the senior center counts on those pies when welcoming new members. So I reminded her that you have always delivered my apples, and would never put Margret, or any other sweet Destiny Bay resident, in an awkward situation like that.”
Luke wanted to point out that the newest resident had many sides, but sweet wasn’t one of them. Not when it came to him.
“Her first delivery was handled this morning,” he said, leaving out the fact that it had been a cuddle buddy, a single apple, and a little B and E. “I won’t be able to complete her order until next week, though.”
Paula was back to working the dough for Kennedy’s sticky buns. “Well, that explains it. When she called to say she didn’t need me at the shop today, I figured it was because she had scheduled someone else to work. Imagine my surprise when Fi said Kennedy went to the shop to bake the day’s pies, only to return to the orchard a few hours later in my old picking harness.”
Luke dug into the first course of his b
reakfast. “That is surprising.”
Baking a day’s worth of pies then working the orchards was tiring work. Not that it couldn’t be done. Up until Orin had passed, his mom had done it every harvest.
Paula was the most independent, hardworking woman Luke had ever met. Even though she’d married into the Callahan family, she had worked that orchard, right alongside Luke and his dad. When Orin became ill, she’d stepped in to take over the company until Luke came home from Seattle. To this day, she still helped out in the orchards when her arthritis would allow.
So Kennedy showing up, ready to bring in that harvest, proved that she was more determined than Luke had originally thought. She wasn’t stubborn—she was a fighter.
If delaying her apples wasn’t going to slow her down, Luke had bigger problems than he wanted to admit.
Paula mixed the apples, spices, and hazelnuts into a paste, then spread it evenly across the dough, paying extra attention to the edges. “So I called her and said I’d donate my sticky buns to her cause.”
Luke lifted a brow. “Her cause?” How was picking some apples a cause?
“Her Big Apple Pie Raising.”
Luke choked on some powered sugar. “A big apple, what?”
“Pie raising.” Before Paula could explain what the hell a pie raising was, Luke’s phone rang. Seeing it was Hawk’s number, and that he rarely used the phone, a bad feeling settled in Luke’s gut.
“Hey, man,” he said into the cell. “What’s going on?”
“No apple picking, that’s for sure.” Hawk’s voice was tight with frustration. “I’ve got the trucks on the way, enough equipment for a whole crew, and only twenty-five guys are here.”
Luke straightened. “But I hired fifty guys for today.”