by Beth Ciotta
“You’re screwy.” Rocky shrugged off Adam’s hold, then fell back against his SUV. “Oops.”
“Like I said.” He looped an arm around her waist and practically carried her across the lawn. “You should’ve slept over at my place.”
“Against the rules.” Unable to hold her head up, she lazed against his broad shoulder and squinted up at the night sky. “Moon’s moving. Cool.”
Adam groaned. “I’m putting you straight to bed.”
“Can’t come in. Jayce.”
“Is rooming here for a week. You told me. So what?”
“Won’t approve.”
“Of me taking care of you?”
“Of me in this connition. Ca-di…” She pinched her tongue. “Numb.”
“Come morning, babe, you’re going to wish your whole body was numb.”
Just as he swooped her up the porch stairs, the front door whooshed open.
Busted.
She felt like a teen breaking curfew. A teen who’d been caught sneaking in. “Uh-oh,” Rocky mocked, then lapsed into a fit of giggles. She tried to stop, couldn’t stop, and finally gave in. She hadn’t felt this good in a long, long time.
“Everything okay?” Jayce asked.
Rocky snorted. “And he calls himself a detective.”
Adam tightened his hold as her knees gave way. “I don’t know what happened,” he said to Jayce. “I’ve watched her drink three beers without getting buzzed. Two glasses of champagne and … this.”
“She’s allergic.”
“What?”
“White wine, champagne. It’s the sulfites.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Rocky knows.”
She heard the censure in Jayce’s voice and smirked. “Fuck you.” Then she turned in Adam’s arms—strong , dependable Adam—and smiled up at him. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
He smiled back. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
“I’ve got her.” Before she knew it, she’d been hauled into Jayce’s arms—the honorable bastard who’d annihilated her young foolish heart. “Good night, Adam,” he said.
“Make sure she drinks lots of water and give her some ibuprofen.”
“I know what to do.”
Rocky mimicked Jayce, then blew Adam a kiss. “See you in the morrow, I mean tomorrow … partner.”
Her good humor fled the moment Jayce carried her inside and shut the door. She’d met up with Adam for a late date, needing to escape, feeling smothered by Jayce’s presence, bombarded with memories and feelings that wouldn’t die. Even now, even though she wasn’t thinking straight, her body responded to this man with a clarity that shook her core. “Need a drink.”
“You’ve had enough.” He swept her limp body into his arms and scaled the stairs. “How long have you been seeing Adam Brody?”
She rolled her eyes. “We’re not seeing each other. We’re just sleeping together.”
“Dev didn’t mention—”
“Dev doesn’t know. No one knows.”
“Just me. Huh.”
“Jealous?”
“That what you were hoping for?”
“Ashfully,” Rocky said, head spinning. “That just schlipped, I mean sipped out.”
He smiled down at her, causing her heart to race. Damn him! “Champagne? What were you thinking, Dash?”
She was thinking that she didn’t want to think … or feel. Revisualizing one dream and facing a broken dream in the same day had been rough. “We were celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?” He nudged open her bedroom door with his shoulder.
She wanted him to throw her on the bed, to make slow, hard love to her, which in turn made her want to drive him away. “Our partnership.”
“You’re getting married?”
She snorted. “That what you were hoping for?” If she married someone else, he’d know that she’d healed and moved on, alleviating his guilt.
He laid her gently on her bed. “You’ve shut me out for almost thirteen years. We’re not going to talk about it now.”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t remember this discussion tomorrow.”
“What do you care?”
“I care.”
She stared up at him, her heart thudding slower and harder. A monstrous noise roaring in her ears, her vision blurring. “I don’t feel so well.”
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “Hang tough, sweetheart. I’ll get aspirin and water.”
She could feel herself slipping, falling into a dark, chaotic oblivion. She grasped his shirt and tugged him close. “Jayce?”
“Yeah?”
“I hate you.”
He brushed his mouth over hers. If only she could’ve felt it. “I hate you, too, Dash.”
TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday blew by quickly, followed by most of Thursday. The weather had turned ugly, cold and rainy, keeping Chloe and Daisy inside and impromptu visitors away—although many had checked in by phone. While some had lamented the unexpected thunderstorms, the “Soul Sisters” (as they’d begun to refer to themselves) had embraced the isolation, exploring their specific culinary interests. They’d searched magazines and surfed the Internet for recipes. Chloe got Daisy addicted to her favorite food blogs and Daisy hooked Chloe on the TV show Cupcake Wars.
They talked about things they’d done in their lives and things they’d like to do.
They baked.
Bread. Cookies. Biscuits. Cupcakes. Daisy had even taught her how to make homemade marshmallow fondant, which tasted a lot better than the store-bought variety. To her amazement, working with sweets hadn’t soured Chloe’s mood. She’d been prepared for feelings of anger or depression when she mixed up a batch of devil’s food cupcakes. She’d braced for a mental replay of presenting Ryan with her celebratory cake only to receive the news of his betrayal. Instead, her brain fixated on the rock music blaring from the radio and Daisy’s instructions regarding the espresso meringue frosting. Part of Chloe felt like she was back in culinary school—exploring, learning. She got the same buzz off of Daisy’s teachings as she did off Chef Avery’s. Every lesson was couched within a story, making the recipe more memorable and poignant. Another part of Chloe spun wistful scenarios. If she hadn’t lost her mom, if she’d ever known Grandma Vine, or if Grandma Madison would’ve been more demonstrative, maybe they would have shared similar moments. Connecting with Daisy, hearing her nostalgic stories, sharing a love of cooking, filled a void in Chloe’s life—as did the anticipation of hanging out with Luke and Nash this weekend, joining Rocky and Monica for the meeting tonight, and, on Sunday, cooking dinner for all of them with the addition of Sam and his two children and Devlin’s friend Jayce. Even though Chloe was at odds with her dad, even though Ryan had dumped her, even though she ached for Devlin’s touch, she’d never been happier. In her heart, she’d adopted a family.
Sitting cross-legged on the sofa with her laptop, Chloe surfed the Net, skimming various recipe books, specifically those featuring cupcakes. Not that she planned on offering any suggestions or advice during her first Cupcake Lovers meeting, but she wanted to be prepared should anyone ask. Given her short stint in PR, her brush with photography and her experience in culinary school, she definitely had some ideas.
“How that boy couldn’t know better is a mystery to me,” Daisy said as she joined Chloe in the living room.
“What boy?”
“My great-nephew Sam. Just got off the phone with him,” she said as she plopped next to Chloe. “He started refinishing his hardwood floors two days ago, the same week he was supposed to host Cupcake Lovers. He’s a furniture maker for crying out loud. Works with sanders and stains all the time. How could he not know that the floors wouldn’t be completely dry by tonight? And the toxic smell? For crying out loud!”
Chloe frowned. “So the meeting’s canceled?”
“No, no. Just moved. I told Sam he could host the meeting here, but he’d already asked Devlin. That’s two weeks in a row. A
t this rate, my grandson will become an honorary member by virtue of loaning out his house.”
“Why would Sam ask Devlin? Why not another club member?”
“Why indeed?” Daisy thought about it, then leaned close as if she had a secret to share. “Here’s a thought: Devlin doesn’t have much of a social life. That boy’s a workaholic.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Serious minded, too.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Maybe Sam’s trying to get him to join the club.”
Chloe’s lip twitched. “I can’t imagine Devlin baking cupcakes. I’m not sure he even knows how to cook. I’ve seen him shop. He’s all about convenient, processed foods.”
“That’s because, like most men, he never took the initiative to learn his way around the kitchen. Which is usually fine, because usually the wife handles that end of the partnership, except Devlin married a girl who didn’t know a Dutch oven from a skillet. Then she was gone and…” Daisy trailed off and looked away. “Maybe you could give Devlin some cooking lessons.”
Chloe barely registered that last part. She was fixated on the wife part. “Devlin was married?”
“Never mind about that. In fact, put it out of your mind completely. And for heaven’s sake never mention it. To anyone. Ever.” She bounced off the sofa and beelined up the stairs.
Chloe blinked in her wake. Obviously, Devlin’s marriage, however long or brief, was a sensitive subject and Daisy had spoken out of turn. Was he divorced? Widowed? How long ago and why was the topic taboo? It must’ve happened a long time ago, before Monica moved to Sugar Creek. Taboo or no, if Monica knew about a Mrs. Devlin Monroe, she would’ve have mentioned it to Chloe.
Via the Kindle app on her PC, she sat there staring at a page of The Sweet Little Book of Cupcakes. Staring but not absorbing as her brain circled around one thought.
Devlin had once been married.
She didn’t feel jealous or betrayed because he hadn’t told her—why would he, given they barely knew each other? She was just a little stunned and a lot curious. She wanted to know more, but Daisy had warned her not to ask. “Damn.”
Rain pelted the windowpanes, lightning flashed, and two minutes turned to ten. Unreasonably spooked, Chloe ditched her laptop and ran up to check on Daisy. The past two days, she’d been her talkative self, still changing thoughts mid-sentence every now and then but not nearly as forgetful. Just now she’d blurted a secret, and from the way she’d hurried off, she was upset about it. Chloe suddenly burned with the urge to assure the woman that her secret was safe. The last thing Chloe wanted was to spur another depression. Granted, sometimes Daisy’s incessant chatter was tiring, but at least it was cheery.
Chloe scaled the last step, noted the closed bathroom door. She knocked. “You okay, Daisy?”
The door swung open and the woman stepped out, bright eyed and red cheeked as if Chloe had caught her doing something wrong. “I’m dandy, kitten.” She pushed her pink cat-eye glasses up her nose and hurried down the hall toward her bedroom. “Come help me pick my outfit for tonight. I want to look my best when I present my secret recipe to the club.”
“Be right there. Just need to pee.” Chloe stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. She noted the dripping faucet, the squished Dixie cup in the trash, and the slightly ajar door of the medicine cabinet. Curious, she peeked inside. She used this bathroom all the time but hadn’t paid much mind to the medicine cabinet, since she kept all of her toiletries in a hanging cosmetic bag. She noted the shelves, crammed like every other shelf in Daisy’s home. Toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash, talcum powder, nail polish, lens cleaner … and assorted bottles of pills. Mostly over-the-counter remedies—pain reliever, allergy relief, nasal spray—but there were also several vials of prescription drugs. Not that that was odd. As an older woman, she probably battled high blood pressure or arthritis or any one of a dozen other maladies. Thing was, she also drank a lot of cocktails. Was it safe to mix these drugs with liquor? How many pills was she taking a day? What were the side effects, if any? Did they affect her mood? Her memory? Her judgment? What if she forgot and missed a dose? Or forgot and doubled up?
Concerned, Chloe skimmed the names of a few of the prescriptions as well as the name of the doctor. Make that doctors. She closed the cabinet, flushed the toilet, and washed her hands.
As she hurried toward Daisy’s room, Chloe’s mind whirled with the recent revelations: Devlin had a former wife. Daisy had possible health issues possibly complicated by medication. With every step, Chloe remembered something else she’d heard over the past couple of weeks: Rocky’s issues with Tasha. The lifelong feud between the Burkes and Monroes. Luke’s questionable management skills. Sam’s struggles as a single parent. Devlin’s present battle with his dad. Rocky’s financial problems. Nash’s weakness for gambling.
The list went on.
If she had a lick of sense, she’d mind her own business, concentrate on solving her own problems. After all, even though they were her dream family, she wasn’t really family—just their grandmother’s hired companion. A tight-knit group, they’d probably balk at a meddling outsider. Still … all she could think as she entered Daisy’s cluttered room and found her rooting through a wardrobe that would have made Cher proud was … How can I help?
TWENTY-TWO
Dress sleeves rolled to his elbows, Devlin was scrubbing the inside of his microwave when his cousin Sam barged in through the side door, shaking off rainwater like a dog and tracking in mud.
“For Christ’s … I just mopped.”
“You did?” Arms full of Tupperware and a zipped canvas tote, Sam glanced around the whole of the kitchen. “You did. Scrubbed the sink and stove, too. Is that Lysol I smell? I’m impressed.”
Devlin flipped him the bird and returned to scouring dried eggs and sausage.
“What exploded?”
“My breakfast burrito.”
“From this morning?”
“Hence breakfast.”
“And you’re just now cleaning it?”
“I was in a hurry and, at the time, wasn’t expecting a houseful of women.”
“And me.”
Devlin glanced at the triple-tier cupcake carrier his cousin set on the counter. “Like I said.” He moved to the sink and rinsed the glob-caked sponge. “You couldn’t give me more than a few hours’ notice?” He could’ve said no, but at the same time this was the perfect opportunity to see Chloe before he left for Florida without seeking her out. Agreeing to keep his distance had been a bonehead move. Avoidance only heightened the attraction.
“I thought the polyurethane finish would be dry,” Sam said, shrugging out of his soaked blue slicker. “I miscalculated.”
“So you said.”
“About that ‘women’ crack—”
“I know. You joined the club to meet women. Except it’s been, what, six, seven months now and, even though you’re supposedly hot for Rachel, you haven’t made a move.”
“Timing hasn’t been right.”
Would it ever be? Sam had been crazy in love with his wife of ten years and devastated when she died. Paula had been gone for two years now. As much as Sam professed wanting to get on with his life, Devlin sensed a profound resistance in the romance area. He commiserated, hence let the subject drop. “I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I’ll be holed up in my den. Do me a favor,” he teased. “Don’t let the ladies trash the place. I know how wild things get after a few cupcakes and sips of tea.”
Sam grinned. “Go ahead. Joke. But A) things have gotten pretty heated lately, and B) my beverage of choice for the night is not tea.” He unzipped the canvas tote and pulled out two bottles.
Devlin raised a brow. “Red wine?”
“Dessert wine. Sweeter, as is recommended, than the dessert.” He unlatched the lid of the top tier and revealed a dozen white cupcakes topped with white frosting. “Vanilla almond cupcakes with salted caramel buttercream frosting.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Pe
rfect combination.”
Sam McCloud—master furniture maker. Retired military. Fluffy cupcake baker. Devlin shook his head, then smiled. “You, Cousin, are an enigma.”
“Just exploring new horizons. I owe it to myself as well as my kids. Feel free to follow my example and shake up your own mundane world.” He spread his hands. “Wineglasses? Small plates?”
“I’ll get them. You clean up the mud. Mop’s in there.” They both took action and, although Sam worked in silence, Devlin couldn’t restrain his thoughts. “If I were a suspicious man, I’d think the family was conspiring against me.”
“Meaning?”
“Every time I turn around one of you comments on my—in the words of Jayce—dull-ass life.”
“I don’t know why we care,” Sam quipped.
“Neither do I. And I am not joining Cupcake Lovers. As Gram’s fond of pointing out, I don’t know shit from shortening.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Sam joked as he rinsed and returned the mop to the closet. “Nevertheless, you do know finance and business. This book venture, it’s a worthy cause, but, given Tasha’s lofty goals, what if we get in over our heads? She’s determined to pursue a major publisher. What if she nails a contract? Do we need to incorporate? How do we ensure proceeds go to the charity of our choice?”
“You need to consult a lawyer.”
“Or someone with a degree in finance. Come on, Dev,” he said while artfully arranging his cupcakes. “Three of your kin are active members of the club. Factor in friends, associates, ancestors and your belief in our cause? You’ve already got a vested interest.”
“You should have been an attorney. Or a salesman.” Shaking his head, Devlin carried several wineglasses into his living room while considering the man’s case. Even though Devlin had multiple responsibilities, taking on another project stoked his interest. Maybe because the busier he was, the less time he’d have to worry about his dad. Or maybe because this particular project would give Devlin an excuse to spend time with Chloe. There was also his unwillingness to see a good organization burned by bad business decisions. He returned to the kitchen, snagged forks, and pointed Sam to the napkins. “I’ll listen in tonight. But beyond that—”