A Taste of Temptation

by Heather McGovern

  Gaze sharp, her delicate features hard.

  “I would never kiss you.”

  The truth was he swore he never would, not that he didn’t want to.

  “Are you trying to act like you weren’t just kissing me?” She’d been right on his heels that night.

  “This is crazy.”

  “Oh, so now I’m crazy?”

  “No, not—” She wasn’t crazy. He was. This was Sophie. “Let’s drop it.”

  “Same way you dropped interrogating me about my date?”

  “I wasn’t interrogating you.”

  Her mouth had fallen open, hazel eyes bigger than serving platters.

  “You offered to tell me about your date with Matt. I wasn’t prying. You wanted to talk and I had to listen.”

  “Had to listen?”

  “Yes, had to.” He wanted to be there for her, but the knots of jealousy he felt—every time some piece-of-shit guy got to go out with her, got her time and her humor, her intelligence and beautiful smile, and then didn’t appreciate her—kept getting bigger with each guy. They were eating him up inside. Hearing about Matt made him want to slam the asshole through the wall, or some other caveman response.

  His reaction wasn’t normal for him. It wasn’t healthy, and he was disgusted at feeling this way.

  He’d tried to leave the kitchen that night, unsure where to go, but he had to get away from her.

  Before he could reach the swinging doors that led to his freedom, she’d stepped in front of him, one hand out like she was stopping traffic. “Why did you kiss me when you’re dating Kate?”

  Because he finally realized Kate wasn’t who he wanted. “Please let it go.”

  “No. I need an answer.”

  He still didn’t know why he’d said it. Every night, for weeks, he’d played the moment over and over in his head, and each time, his dumb ass spoke out of frustration, saying the same stupid thing. “I don’t know why I kissed you. Okay? Temporary insanity. It won’t ever happen again.”

  He’d never in his life laid a hand on a woman, and he never would, but the look Sophie had given him that night—he might as well have.

  Sophie had recoiled, stricken.

  Wright knew how insecure she was; about her background, her appearance, her worth. Everything. He’d never understood why, but he knew. And he’d gone and said the worst thing possible.

  Matt wasn’t the biggest jackass of the night; he was.

  “Soph, I didn’t mean—”

  With her hands in little fists and her chin up, she’d given him a look that would burn through steel and turned her back on him.

  “Soph. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  But she was already gone. She’d stormed out of the kitchen that night and left him far behind.

  He should’ve gone after her. Chased her down and made her listen. Told her how he thought she was the most incredible person he knew. Not only the funniest or smartest or prettiest girl he knew, but an amazing person.

  But he hadn’t.

  And now she was on her hands and knees next to him, scrubbing the oven he’d almost destroyed, helping, and he didn’t deserve her. He’d yet to apologize, but here she was, helping him.

  This was her family’s oven. The family he worked for—his friends and employers. Not only was he entertaining offers to leave them, but he’d tried to make a move on their baby sister, and then he’d insulted her.

  He was the lowest of the low.

  And who even contemplated shit like how Sophie was the most incredible person in the world?

  That was lovestruck teenager goo. He was a grown man with a promising career ahead of him, and the chance to build a life of his own.

  “Wright.”

  “What?” He looked up from scrubbing to find Sophie inches from his face.

  “I said, is anything in the fire extinguisher toxic? Is soap and water all we need to clean this up or should I get something else?”

  Right. The oven fire.

  Focus on the problem at hand, and worry about the Sophie problem later. But the fiery point of Sophie’s stare burned a hole right between his eyes.

  “Nothing toxic.” He couldn’t maintain eye contact.

  “Are you okay?”

  No, he was not okay. He was alone with her at the scene of the crime.

  Wright gave the inside of the oven one last wipe with a clean towel. “I’m fine. Not thrilled to be cleaning an oven at almost midnight, but other than that I’m good.”

  A handful of seconds ticked by before she blew out a breath, but thankfully stopped staring.

  “If you say so.” She left her towel on the floor and began mopping.

  Now that she wasn’t so close, he could breathe again.

  Once finished, she dragged the bucket and mop to the industrial sink and, with a grunt, lifted the bucket to the edge.

  Sophie was no waif, but she had one of their thirty-five-quart mop buckets and didn’t know the water could be drained from the bottom.

  “Here, let me get that.” Wright rushed to take the bucket before it could slip off the lip and send water splashing across the kitchen floor.

  He wheeled it to the floor drain and let the water out.

  “Oh.” Sophie watched as the water flowed out the bottom.

  All he could see was the top of her head and part of her forehead. A forehead peppered with just the right number of freckles. Not too many, not too few.

  She bemoaned them, especially during the summer, but they’d always fascinated him.

  She probably had them everywhere.

  How much time would it take to find each one, memorize the patterns and map out the private places they hid? He’d press his lips to each one and compliment them until none of her insecurities remained.

  Wright shook off the thought.

  In what parallel universe would Sophie ever let him near her freckles? She could barely stand speaking to him anymore.

  She didn’t think of him that way, but when they kissed, had she wondered?

  His initiating the kiss had led to her participation, and it’d seemed like she wanted the same thing, but . . .

  He could never ask. Not now.

  They were finally able to be in the same room together, alone, without nuclear fallout. Pushing for an answer would destroy what little progress they’d made tonight.

  When the bucket was empty, Sophie grabbed the mop handle, and began dragging everything to the cleaning supply closet.

  “Thanks.” She tossed the word over her shoulder.

  Wright cleared his throat. “You’re welcome,” he said, even though she was already gone.

  After he finished putting all of the dirty towels away, he found Sophie back at the prep table, staring at the lone surviving cherry pie.

  “I washed my hands.” She put her hands up in defense, knowing how much of a stickler he was for hygiene.

  He washed his hands and watched her as she watched the pie.

  She tucked her hair back, away from her face, her gaze dancing between him and the dessert. “Are you . . . is there a plan for this one? Since it didn’t burn.”

  Sophie wanted to try a bite of his pie.

  He didn’t have to ask to know. She had a sweet tooth to rival anyone, and she loved cherries and bourbon.

  “No plans. Just giving a new recipe a test run before serving it to patrons.”

  “Thank goodness. Could you imagine if this had happened during open hours?”

  Wright’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t thought about that. He would’ve been mortified.

  “Stop looking like that.” She nudged his arm with her fist. “It didn’t happen. I said if. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  With a shake of his head, he tried to get rid of the image and focus on the first, briefest bit of contact from Sophie in weeks.

  It was a simple nudge, but they’d gone from always being fairly physical to her keeping about a hundred feet back like he was a fire truck.

 
Wright turned the surviving pie around for inspection. “I guess we could try some. See how it turned out.”

  “Okay.” In a heartbeat she had two forks, one held out for him and another already sunk right into the center of the pie.

  A smile toyed with his lips. Maybe this much hadn’t changed.

  She lifted a sticky sweet bite to her lips. Once she tried it, Sophie made a perfect O with her pink lips and fanned her mouth. “How much bourbon did you put in this?”

  “The exact right amount.” He slid the pan away from her and had a taste.

  The cherries danced a tart tango on his tongue. Sweetness followed, and the bourbon seeped in, warm with a delightful, though strong, afterburn.

  “Or a little too much.” He scooped up a second bite.

  The bourbon packed a punch, but it was bearable; cherries were a touch too tart, but the crust was buttery and crisp, almost ideal in flavor. He’d try again tomorrow, with a little more sugar and a little less booze.

  One imperfect pie wouldn’t kill him; that he’d scorched the second one so completely might.

  Sophie stuck her fork in again and took another bite. “You’re beating yourself up over the other pie, aren’t you?”

  Sometimes he forgot how well they knew each other. “A little.”

  “Well, stop. Accidents happen. And this pie happens to be delicious.”

  Sophie trying to allay any bad feelings wasn’t new. Always the one to talk her brothers down off their ledges; she liked harmony, and disliked discord.

  But just last week she would’ve let Wright twist on a spit, not tried to make him feel better.

  They kept eating, and as he chewed, he considered the mangled mess they were making of his creation.

  Forget cutting slices or being civilized. Before, the two of them always ate straight from the pan, late at night, scraping the dish clean and telling no one.

  Heathens ate pie this way, and he loved it. This was one of their things—back before he’d ruined it.

  “Oh.” Sophie covered her mouth. “Should I get plates?”

  “No.” The answer came out a little louder than necessary. Plates meant doing things differently than before, regressing further into formality. If they couldn’t go back to the full friendship they once had, maybe they could still have this. “No, I like eating this way.” He dug in again.

  A few bites later, Sophie finally spoke. “Me too.”

  Her gaze met his and fire lit his veins.

  Day after day she’d barely looked at him, and now that she did, he felt the full weight of how much he missed her.

  “I can fix you something to eat if you’re hungry,” he offered. Because that’s what he did. He fed people. And when he wanted to apologize, his skill in the kitchen spoke with more eloquence than his words ever could.

  Sophie covered her mouth and laughed.

  The sound was magic. He hadn’t heard it in two months. Never mind that she was laughing at him.

  “I’ve had what amounts to two or three slices of pie now, if we bothered to cut slices. I’m not hungry, but thanks.”

  He checked the progress they’d made in the pan. Almost half of it was gone, and most of that half was because of Sophie.

  They often split dishes and drinks, and she had a tendency to help herself to his share. There was even a time she’d steal comfy articles of clothing he left behind when staying over with Dev. Her favorites were his sweatshirts. He’d lost at least half a dozen hoodies to her thieving little hands, yet he kept leaving them behind.

  It never meant anything, until it did. Until the very moment he could no longer deny how he felt.

  Then he thought he’d gone and lost her forever.

  He would not make that same mistake again.

  They stood in the kitchen, leaning against the prep table, a pitiful-looking pie between them, and somehow Wright found the courage to say what he should’ve said months ago. “I’m so sorry about what I said to you. That night. In here.”

  Her gaze flicked up, apprehension forming fine lines by her eyes.

  “You know, about temporary insanity and—”

  “I know what you’re talking about.”

  Of course she knew. They’d walked on eggshells around each other since then. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

  Not entirely true. He’d said it because he was aggravated. Frustrated that he couldn’t tell her how much he despised the guy she’d gone out with, how much better she could do, or how jealous he was. That he loved being her friend, but he’d started wishing he were out with her instead of Kate. That the time they spent together were his favorite times. And when he kissed her, the truth of what he really wanted hit him like a bomb. But because they were friends, and he was Dev’s friend, he wasn’t free to blurt out everything he felt.

  Sophie tilted her head to the side. “Maybe you said it because you were being a jerk?”

  He laughed. “Sounds about right.”

  Then she shocked the hell out of him. “You weren’t the only jerk that night. I was pissed off at Matt, and you, and the world, and . . . I was a jerk too. And I’m sorry.”

  He had no idea how to respond.

  They were apologizing to each other. This was progress.

  It seemed they weren’t going to talk about the kiss, and he wasn’t about to bring up something that could sink what was barely afloat.

  He needed to forget about that night.

  She crossed her arms. “Does this mean we can try to be friends again? At least talk to each other again?”

  “I never stopped you from talking to me.”

  She couldn’t hold his gaze. “I know. That was . . . that one’s on me, but you know what I mean.”

  Unfortunately, he did. “I deserved the silent treatment, but I want us to talk again. I’ve missed you, Soph.”

  Her smile warmed and broke his heart at the same time.

  “We could even grab a couple of beers together, make it official, if you want?”

  Her smile remained. She knew the significance of reconciliation beers.

  It was tradition. They’d done it plenty of times before, at the end of many bouts of bickering.

  One year, after a particularly prickly month of college basketball tournaments, she and Wright and Dev had been so annoyed with one another, the friendly competition bled into thinly veiled animosity. They all ended up with teams in the Final Four bracket, and they’d goaded and smack-talked for weeks. In the end, they’d all lost, but learned they shouldn’t take the tournament quite so seriously.

  They made up over beers and wings at the Tavern—with Dev drinking water, but eating twice as many wings as the two of them—and promised not to be assholes to each other anymore.

  Reconciliation beers were a must. Given the reconciling he needed to do, he might be buying a few rounds, for a few weeks.

  But it was worth it.

  He wanted to make amends, put what he’d said behind them and get back to being the Sophie and Wright he’d taken for granted. They could at least go back to the old them, even if he wanted to be a hell of a lot more than Sophie’s friend.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning she spent a little bit longer fixing her hair and makeup, even applying eyeliner and lip gloss.

  Then she scrubbed it all off and put her hair in a ponytail.

  She never fixed herself up too much for a day of work at the resort. If she left her room today looking freshly coiffed and glossy, not only would it be obvious she was making an effort, but Dev would give her crap about it.

  He’d already pulled her aside once, right after the Blueberry Festival, with twenty-one questions about why she’d been “so bitter” lately. Then he pressed her on what was going on between her and Wright.

  To her credit, she’d played the whole thing off well.

  When she reached the great room, Roark was already up—naturally—sipping his coffee, Beau at his feet. Dev and Trevor joined them a few minutes later and th
ey moved from the comfort of the couches to Roark’s office.

  “You need a bigger office so we can get a sofa in here.” Dev took the chair by the wall, saying exactly what she was thinking.

  “Or we could go back to having meetings by the fireplace out there.” Trevor half sat, half leaned by the window seat.

  Sophie took the chair near him. “We have too many guests now, and plenty of them wake up early enough we can’t risk putting our operational business on display. They’re here to relax. They don’t want to hear our boring morning meetings.”

  “Thanks, Sis.” Roark’s mouth quirked as he sat at his desk.

  Their daily meeting went on as usual—or at least as usual for nowadays. There was a lot less bickering between them and more productive contributions. Even Trevor had the occasional reasonable idea, and he volunteered to help without flaking out on everyone.

  Sophie loved the change. For the most part.

  The only problem was, now that everyone wasn’t on the frayed edge of coming apart at the seams, she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  She wasn’t born into the Bradley family, but tragedy made them her brothers. At four years old, her parents dead and her world a disaster, she was left with her godparents, Suzanne and Robert Bradley. Dropped at the Honeywilde doorstep, making it the only home she knew.

  As a little girl, she remembered laughter and her older brothers’ taunting, but as they all got older, she mostly remembered strife: her adoptive parents’ anger and arguing, Roark’s frustration, Dev’s resentment, and Trevor’s silence.

  They’d managed to keep the family together, even after their parents split, but just barely.

  Now things were . . . better.

  They talked more and raised their voices less. Roark and Devlin both had amazing women in their lives. She admired Madison and Anna while she envied them. They’d found someone who understood them. She envied her brothers. They’d managed to find love outside their family.

  “That covers all of the key items.” Roark set his phone down from where he’d been checking off a list that Sophie hadn’t paid a lick of attention to. “But the Chamber of Commerce chose Honeywilde as their venue since the college had the water line bust. I want each of you to give thought to a theme for the event. They’d like our help since the theme for their original location won’t work at the inn.”