Babycakes

by Donna Kauffman

  Morgan’s smile was completely gone, but he kept his tone steady and pleasant, despite being totally lost as to what she was referring. “I’m not part of the family law firm. Never have been.”

  “I know.”

  “Yet, I’m to be tarred with the same brush, apparently.”

  “No, not at all. I don’t believe in the whole sins-of-the-father bit.”

  “So, you have something against me personally? What would that be?” His thoughts went to Lilly again, but he couldn’t imagine Kit had an opinion on his guardianship one way or the other. Her beef seemed to be with the family law firm. Neither he, nor Lilly, had ever played any role there.

  “Actually, I don’t. Not really.” A little of the starch went out of her shoulders. “In fact, you seem like a pretty decent guy. Or I wouldn’t have been laughing with you a moment ago.”

  “But . . . we’re not laughing now. And I get the distinct impression we may not be laughing again, anytime soon. For that, I’m truly sorry. I enjoyed it. Very much, in fact. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up, but I knew when we were first introduced that there was a problem and I just . . . wanted to clear the air.”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m glad you did. I’m just still a little. . . raw. Maybe a lot raw. From my experience dealing with your family, I mean. When I heard you were a Westlake, it was natural, I think, to be wary.”

  “Understandable, yes. Until you realize that I have nothing to do with them, their cases, or how they conduct their business.” He smiled, but was certain it didn’t reach his eyes, either. “I’m what they’d call the black sheep of the family.”

  “To hear it told here, you’re the white knight, and the rest are the black sheep.”

  He smiled more naturally at that. “It’s nice to know the islanders think of me kindly. It’s important to me that Lilly and I fit in here. I want to put down roots, build a life here for us. How anyone feels about my extended family or the firm is their prerogative, certainly, but I can’t do anything to change that, nor am I particularly interested in trying. My relatives have earned that reputation and whatever comes with it. That doesn’t involve me, one way or the other.”

  “Understood,” she said. “And appreciated.”

  “So . . . still wary? Or are we okay?”

  “Mmm, maybe a little wary still. Just being honest. Not so much with you, specifically, but more with our . . . um . . . ” She trailed off and suddenly was back to looking at her hands, her feet, the walls. But not before her gaze had gotten caught up in his again, with a little side trip to his mouth.

  His smile spread to a grin. “So, it’s the our . . . um . . . part. Is that because you don’t want to be attracted to anyone associated with the Westlakes, and, I’m guessing, most certainly not a blood relative?”

  Her chin flew up at his question, and her eyes widened when she realized he’d moved another step closer. She lifted her gaze to his, and he watched that delicious punch of awareness enter her eyes again . . . and knew his own reaction mirrored it, perhaps even surpassed it.

  “I’m not attracted—”

  “Kit”—he interrupted her attempt to duck what they both knew was true—“I could say I’m as surprised as you, about our . . . um . . . but I’m not.”

  “You make a habit of almost kissing someone you don’t know?”

  “See, I thought it was an almost kiss, too. And no, not once, have I ever.” His gaze drifted, lingering on her mouth, and he saw her throat work. His was a little dry, too, come to think of it. “I still want to. What I meant was that I wasn’t surprised I wanted to. I was attracted to you the first time we met.”

  “You’re drawn to women who are clearly wary of you?”

  “I was confused by the wariness, but still interested enough to at least find out why.”

  “And now you have.” Her tone might have smoothed . . . but her gaze was still soaking him up.

  Made a man want to take a little swim. “Indeed.” He didn’t bother attempting to mask whatever she might be seeing in his eyes.

  “Well, then,” she said, though there was a slight tremor in the words, “at least we’ve cleared that up.” She tried to clear her throat, but had to pull her gaze away from his mouth again, to look into his eyes. “As I said, I have no personal beef with you. I even think you’re a nice guy. You obviously love your niece, and you’re doing good things for Gabe. So, to that end, we’re okay. I just don’t want to become . . .”

  “Chummy?” he helpfully supplied, a grin kicking at the corners of his mouth.

  Her lips curved as well, but she held on to the smooth tone. “Anything other than friendly acquaintances.”

  “I respect that. Disappointed, but respectful.”

  She allowed a small smile, and the warmth was back in her eyes. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “Although, if you’d like to just remain . . . friendly acquaintances, you might want to stop doing that,” he advised.

  “Doing what?”

  “Staring at my mouth like you missed a few recent meals.”

  Her gaze flashed, flying up to his . . . but the most delightful flush to her cheeks told the real story.

  Caught in the act, she still gave denial her best shot. “We can add arrogant and egotistical to the list.”

  “Not at all. Observant,” he offered, then let a slow smile cross his face. “Confident in what I know to be true. Curious about what I don’t know. And . . . always hopeful.”

  “Well, please observe then, this is me telling you I’m not interested. I can’t be clearer than that. So . . . don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Too late, I’m afraid. But, message received.” He lifted his hands, palms out. “Friends only.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Just so we’re clear though, on the our . . . um . . . thing.” He shifted his stance slightly when her gaze went straight to his mouth, and her own opened, just slightly, on an indrawn breath. She really had to stop doing that. His jeans were getting more uncomfortable by the second. “If I weren’t a Westlake, would you be interested?” He waited for her gaze to lift to his. And what he saw there prompted him to finish the question with a smile. “In finding out more about our . . . um?”

  “It . . . it makes no difference. The answer is no.” The flush in her cheeks deepened, but her eyes had their flash back, only it wasn’t a spark of desire.

  He wished he could say that was a turn off, but it wasn’t. At all.

  “And, with me, no means no. It’s not a veiled invitation to try harder.”

  He grinned, laughed. “Yeah, that tenacious thing has also gotten me into trouble from time to time.”

  “Not surprised to hear that.”

  Considering her dismissal of all things Westlake, he replied, “No, I imagine you’re not.”

  He took several steps back, keeping his hands in his pockets. So far her gaze had only drifted as far south as his mouth, but he didn’t need to risk it drifting any lower. “I won’t apologize for my family, as I’m certain they’re not very apologetic regarding the matter, so that would be disingenuous of me at best.”

  The heat faded somewhat from her cheeks and her eyes.

  “However, I will apologize for my own behavior. I’ve long since distanced myself from their actions, but I do take full responsibility for my own. I didn’t mean to make you feel personally uncomfortable just now. I was just . . .” He trailed off, surprised to find himself far more disappointed than the situation seemed to merit. They hardly knew each other, had barely crossed paths, so getting shot down shouldn’t be more than a cursory blip—a welcome one, even—considering everything on his plate.

  But it wasn’t. And he couldn’t help that it felt more . . . monumental than it should.

  “Hopeful,” she supplied for him, collected once again and at ease enough to inject a dry note into her reply.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling in response. “Always and
in all ways.”

  She smiled briefly then, too. “So . . . an optimistic lawyer.”

  He shrugged. “I’m trying to save the planet here. I kind of have to be.”

  She laughed, and seemed surprised by it. But it did lessen the tension. The bad kind, anyway. “It’s good to have small goals.”

  He matched her smile. “Sometimes the smallest goals are the most challenging to achieve. And the most vital.”

  “Yes. True,” she said, then broke eye contact altogether as she stepped away from the worktable. “So . . . Captain Environment, where is this bulletin board that needs un-crookded-ing? We have masterpieces to create that the world needs to see. Or, at least, some very large turtles.”

  She turned and strode toward the door leading to the rehab area and he grinned at her very straight spine. She wanted him to see the starch, but he’d already seen the heat. And it would be some time before he forgot it. “Let me grab a few nails, then it’s right this way, Madame Cupcake.”

  Chapter 9

  “And you just told him no? Straight up?” Lani shook her head and poised her pastry tip over another rack of hollowed-out cupcakes. Death by Chocolate cupcakes, to be exact.

  It was a good thing Kit was so distracted by the fact that her personal business was being bandied about at the current evening’s Cupcake Club soiree—otherwise known as the Bitch ’n’ Bake, according to Alva, who had delighted in explaining that to her—or she might have lunged across the table and planted her face in all that deliciously warm and ridiculously rich truffle filling. If chocolate cured all ills, Lani had just solved the world’s problems with a single decadent recipe.

  While Kit couldn’t speak for the whole world, she’d vouch it would definitely go a long way to improving her little corner of it. She was beginning to think the whole “get a personal life” thing was highly overrated.

  “I just made it clear to him I wasn’t interested in anything other than casual friendship. And I only mentioned it so you all would stop with the nudging. He’s nice, but I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now,” she explained. “It’s not the right time.”

  “That’s what everyone says,” Alva offered. “And they end up alone. The right time is whenever you meet the right man.” She went back to sifting powdered sugar on the tops of her gingerbread cupcakes. “Don’t look a gift hunk in the mouth.” She paused, sighed, then went back to sifting. “I certainly wouldn’t.”

  Lani laughed at Franco as he grinned and sent Alva a smooching air kiss. Charlotte smiled as she continued intricately decorating a row of cupcakes, turning them into turkey tops, and Dre . . . well, after three weeks on Sugarberry, Kit still couldn’t read Dre.

  “How long has it been, dear?” Alva went on.

  “Been?” Kit repeated, swiveling her gaze back to the tiny octogenarian. “Since . . . I was in a relationship?”

  Alva sent her a sweet smile. “That, too, but I meant how long has the dry spell been? Since you had sex?” she clarified, as the stunned look on Kit’s face led her to assume she hadn’t understood.

  Oh . . . she’d understood.

  “Well, good sex,” Alva quantified. “Bad sex never helped anyone.”

  “Don’t answer that, mes amie,” Franco warned.

  “The column,” everyone in the room mouthed silently in Kit’s direction. Behind Alva’s back, Lani made a slicing motion across her neck.

  “That’s not the point,” Kit hurried to say.

  “Dear, if it’s been so long you can’t answer the question, then it most definitely should be the point.”

  Lani and Charlotte snickered, though they quickly hid it behind their respective pastry bags when Kit shot them both an incredulous look. Sensing the total loss of any control she might ever have over her private life, she blurted out, “Even if it was the right time, and I wanted to . . . to break the dry spell, as it were . . . it wouldn’t be with him.”

  Everyone paused in his or her respective task. Even Dre.

  “Really?” Lani said, peeking over her pastry bag with raised eyebrows, drawling the word in a way that made it sound . . . lascivious and . . . promising.

  Dammit.

  “Is it because he’s a Westlake?” Alva asked.

  Sighing in defeat, Kit’s defiant posture deflated. “Not in the way you think. I know he’s quickly become, like, the island hero, rescuing his niece, reuniting her with her other grandmother, but the fact is—”

  “The fact is he distanced himself from his family a long time ago,” Lani said, albeit somewhat more gently. “You can’t hold him responsible—”

  “I know that. We talked about it, and I don’t.”

  As one, they gave her a look clearly indicating they didn’t believe her for a second.

  “No, really. I know he had nothing to do with what happened to my family’s business. He didn’t even know anything about it. It’s just . . .”

  “It feels like he’s tainted by association,” Alva said. “Is that it?”

  “Not tainted, exactly.”

  “Why, then?” Charlotte asked.

  Kit shot her a surprised look. As the one person she had history with, she’d counted on Charlotte to have her back. Of course, Char’s longer and deeper history with everyone else in the room clearly trumped that.

  Kit really didn’t want to get into the whole Westlake defense, mostly because she didn’t want to hear how lame it would sound to her own ears. It mattered more how she felt. “I’m not ready to get involved with anyone at this point.” She shot a look at Alva. “On any level.”

  Part of her brain was still boggling that she was discussing her sex life with a group of women who—other than Charlotte—she’d only laid eyes on for the first time less than a month ago. And Charlotte had been more business contact than personal friend. They’d certainly never discussed their intimate relationships before.

  “So, don’t get involved,” Lani said. “Just . . . enjoy his company.”

  “Oui, oui,” Franco said. “Do not be so quick to dismiss those other levels.”

  “Exactly. No one is saying you have to marry Uncle Hunk, dear,” Alva said.

  “Uncle—Hunk?” Kit choked on the bite of Death by Chocolate she’d just given into tasting. Sheer desperation had lowered all her usual chocolate defenses.

  Alva’s eyes twinkled. “That’s what we call him. Lani May started it. But I kinda like it.” She added another scoop of powdered sugar to her sifter. “Suits him. I’ll say that much.”

  “I will second that.” Franco sighed. “Hunka, hunka burnin’ uncle. Speaking of which, we haven’t had an Elvis night in a while.”

  “That’s because last time . . . well, we still haven’t gotten over last time.” Lani paused and the other’s gazes swiveled toward one person, with Kit following after.

  Alva looked up to find them all staring at her. “What? I thought I was pretty good.” Her expression shifted to one of fond memory. “I remember the first time I saw him in concert.” She clamped a sugar-dusted hand to her apron-covered heart. “Oh my, it was simply scandalous. The way he moved his hips.” Her eyes twinkled and her cheeks flushed. “I loved every minute of it.”

  “Wait,” Charlotte said. “He was popular in the late fifties. You would have been—”

  “I had just turned thirty. Harold took me to the concert. Now you see why I loved that man.” She smiled and turned back to her cupcakes. “With some men, you’re always a teenage girl at heart.” She didn’t clarify whether she meant Harold or Elvis . . . but she bumped her hips to one side, then the other, and hummed the chorus to “Hound Dog.”

  Kit laughed along with the rest as they picked up at the chorus and sang it, and soon they were all dancing. Only then did she know she’d end up telling them anything they wanted to know. Who could resist cupcakes, impromptu dancing, and group Elvis impersonations?

  Franco finished up a particularly rousing rendition of “Jailhouse Rock”—figured he had a killer singing voice—and
ended up sliding with a flourish, right onto the stool next to Kit. He pressed his head against her arm, looked up into her eyes, and in a deep baritone, said, “Thank you, thank you very much.”

  Kit was laughing too hard to respond. It felt good. Really good. She needed more laughter, more silliness, and more spontaneous acts of craziness. It felt good. And . . . safe.

  That was exactly it. She felt safe. She trusted these people. It was a huge thing, given the events of the past year. They weren’t nosing into her business for their own prurient interests, but because they cared and wanted things to go well for her.

  Morgan Westlake, on the other hand, made her feel very . . . well, not safe. He felt dangerous and made her want things unrelated to good judgment.

  With his head still pressed dramatically against her arm, Franco said in a weird, hybrid French Elvis voice, “It has been a rough year for you, cherie. No one would blame you for having a little fun.” He wiggled his perfectly arched eyebrows. “In fact, we here in the Elvis Impersonators Cupcake Club applaud this idea of having ze fun.”

  “Speaking of ze fun,” Lani said to Franco, “what’s the latest with your special someone?”

  Charlotte made a low hissing noise, trying to make a slashing motion from behind where Franco was perched, much as Lani had before, but it was too late. Franco had already straightened on the stool, his smile remaining, but it didn’t warm his beautiful brown eyes any longer.

  Lani immediately looked contrite. “Sorry, forget I asked.” She winced and sent Charlotte a why didn’t you tell me? look.

  “When have you had time?” Charlotte said, as if the question had been actually asked.

  “I know, I know. With the cookbook promotion starting and finally getting Babycakes off the ground, I’m behind on my nosiness.” Lani sent a soft smile Franco’s way. “I love you, you know. And I’m sure he’s a rat bastard who will die a sad, lonely death.”