by Beth Ciotta
Devlin traced a thumb over her sudden smile. “Optimistically joyful?”
“Second-best day of my life.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Rocky’s spontaneous visit to Maple Molly’s had been fortuitous on many levels. She’d not only reserved a few items for Jayce’s house; she’d scored a lead on another decorating job as well. According to Molly, a wealthy businesswoman from California had purchased the old Rothwell property as a vacation home and, while trolling for antiques, the woman had intimated the need for a local decorator. Most people refused to step foot in that turn-of-the-century farmhouse given its reputation for being haunted. Rocky wasn’t most people. She’d snuck into that old house a few times when she was a kid, enchanted by the multiple rooms and unique design and, okay, jazzed about the possibility of seeing a ghost. The prospect of decorating that creepy old place gave Rocky the shivers, but in a good way.
Intrigued, she’d spent the ride home contemplating the future. She’d never considered a career outside of running the Red Clover, and though the B and B was still her primary concern, Rocky couldn’t shake the thrill of branching out. The challenge was invigorating. She wondered if Jayce had gotten that same rush when he’d first considered launching his cyber detective agency. She itched to pick his brain but had refrained from calling since he was on the job.
Two hours after they’d last spoken, Jayce finally called. “Billy drove Tasha home. The long way around, but they didn’t stop anywhere.”
“Maybe he spotted you following and they nixed their plans.”
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.”
“Then why the out-of-the-way drive?”
“Privacy to talk?”
“About what?” After navigating her darkened yard, Rocky took refuge under the porch light. She wedged her phone between her ear and shoulder as she unlocked her front door while balancing an antique hand-painted globe lamp on her hip. Although she’d been scouring Molly’s with Jayce in mind, Rocky had been unable to resist a bargain buy for herself—or rather her Monarch guest room. “Do you think they’re plotting something behind Randall’s back? Or plotting to advance his career in some devious way? Increased fame and fortune for the Burkes, maybe through the Cupcake Lovers book deal? That would be so like Tasha and Billy. Conspiring for their own gain.”
“I don’t have enough information to offer a concrete opinion. But I can tell you this: Billy’s wife filed for divorce.”
Rocky almost dropped the lamp. “You’re kidding. When?”
“A couple of weeks ago.”
“I had no idea.”
“Not public knowledge.”
“Then how … Oh. You ran some sort of background check on Billy.”
“It’s what I do, Dash.”
“I’m not criticizing.” She set aside her booty and flicked on lights, struggling to get a foothold on their new relationship. “In fact, I’d like to hear more about your new cyber detective agency and how you went about launching a new business. Maybe I could drive over, make you dinner, and we could, you know, talk.”
“I can think of more pleasurable ways to spend the evening.”
A sensual thrill zapped her libido. “Name one.”
“Angling for a bout of phone sex, Dash?”
“You wish,” she teased, seconds from peeling off her jeans. The mere sound of his voice inspired lust.
“The real thing it is.”
“When?”
“After I handle some business.”
“Time frame?”
“Don’t wait dinner.”
He disconnected and Rocky cursed. Phone sex would have been fun, but hooking up in the flesh would fry her senses. Worth the wait if the waiting didn’t kill her. She imagined Jayce’s smoking-hot body, shivered with erotic memories. She thought about the vibrator tucked away in her dresser drawer.
Her cell phone pinged. A text from Jayce.
BTW DON’T JUMP THE GUN. HAVE PLANS 4 U
“Damn.”
* * *
“Okay. I’m here. Where do you want me?”
“I appreciate this, Rachel,” Luke said without turning. “Day from hell. First Anna calls out, then Nell. Sadie complained about an upset stomach, so I sent her home.”
“There’s a flu bug going around,” Adam said while Luke served up his draft.
“We were down two guys today on my crew,” Kane said. “Not that it mattered much with the heavy rain.”
Luke’s ears roared with the dueling sounds of country rock, crowd chatter, and the intermittent curses and cheers from a competitive game of pool. It wasn’t an overly busy night at the Shack, but it was damned lively.
“Where do you want me?” Rachel asked for the second time.
Focused on multiple drink orders, Luke gathered the ingredients for a Piña Colada and Long Island Iced Tea. “Moderate dinner crowd. Gemma’s a whiz. She can manage the dining area solo. Think you can handle the pub?”
“Guess we’ll find out,” Rachel said with a twinge of sarcasm. “Apron?”
“On that shelf under the cash register.” Luke heard her shift away. Heard one of the Brodys whistle low. “What?” Luke asked.
“Rachel,” Kane said. “No wonder Sam’s hot for her.”
“Who knew?” Adam asked.
Luke measured portions of rum and pineapple juice into the blender, then followed the Brodys’ gazes. Holy shit. Rachel Lacey had curves. He’d never seen her in anything other than those shapeless peasant dresses. Tonight she wore slim-cut black pants and a formfitting long-sleeved shirt. He stared as she tied the Shack’s signature crimson apron around her trim waist.
“Nice rack,” Kane said.
Luke reached over the bar and punched his friend’s shoulder. “That’s Sam’s girl. Show some respect.”
“Oh, she’s got my respect. Wow.”
“Sure she’s Sam’s?” Adam craned his neck to watch as Rachel waited on a table of four seated by the fireplace. “We all witnessed the disaster date.”
“Like you’ve never struck out first time at bat,” Luke said while dumping a cup of crushed ice into the mix.
Adam and Kane felled him with arched brows.
Neither had Luke, but that wasn’t the point. “Yeah, well, cut Sam a break.”
Luke fired up the blender, cursed his own randy reaction to a side of Rachel Lacey he’d never seen. That sweet figure would get a rise out of any man, but Luke was especially intrigued with her face. She’d pulled her lackluster, stringy hair into a high ponytail, exposing her almond-shaped eyes, high cheekbones, small upturned nose, and sensual lips. Not Hollywood beautiful, but unconventionally pretty.
Sam’s girl.
Right.
Rachel hurried over, tray and notepad in hand. “Two glasses of Merlot, one Cosmopolitan, and one Sam Adams Seasonal.” She double-checked her writing, then glanced at Luke. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Your outfit.”
“Black pants, white shirt.” She gave herself the once-over. “Standard uniform, right?”
“Yeah. It’s just … tight.”
“You’re the one who suggested I’d earn bigger tips if I showed a little cleavage.”
“I know, but—”
“I need the money, Luke. Am I dressed inappropriately?”
“No.”
“Then would you please fill my drink orders? Speedy service prompts higher tips.”
Again with her almost desperate need for money. Rachel had been working steadily at the day-care center for months. She drove a beat-up car, owned a limited wardrobe, rented a small apartment, lived a conservative life—as far he knew. How could she be strapped for cash? Was she paying off old debts? Supporting a parent? Saving for a dream house that just went on the market? Luke was intrigued. Not good. When something snagged his interest, he was like a dog with a bone. Obsessed until he grew bored or something else nabbed his attention. Being obsessed with Sam’s g
irl would suck.
Luke poured wine, resisting the urge to ask Rachel why she typically worked so hard to hide her face and figure. Was it because she disliked attention? She was getting plenty of that now from Adam and Kane, and, dammit, himself. While mixing a Cosmo he stole a glance at the mousy day-care aide turned provocative waitress. One thing hadn’t changed: her habit of avoiding eye contact.
“Hey, Luke. Frannie’s selling sweets. A fund-raiser for the school band. I know I just hit you up for another one of my grandkids’ fund-raisers, but I can’t play favorites. Know what I mean? Besides, I know how much you love cookies.”
Luke garnished the rim of the martini glass with a lime wedge just as Bert Hawkins, owner of the town’s most popular sports shop, slid an order form across the bar. The print was minuscule, and there was a lot of it.
“What can I put you down for?” the older man asked.
“Three boxes.”
“Of what?”
“An assortment.” Luke loaded Rachel’s tray with two Merlots and the Cosmo and nabbed a tall glass for the beer.
Bert tapped the order form. “Can you narrow it down? There are twenty different varieties.”
“Peanut butter.” A safe guess, right? What cookie company didn’t hawk peanut butter?
“The Peanut Butter Cashew Cakes or the Peanut Butter Pecan Pinwheels?”
“Pinwheels.”
Bert pulled a pen from his pocket and ticked off a space. “That’s one box. What about the other two?”
“I like them all,” Luke lied as another patron whistled for his attention and pool balls clacked like thunder in his ears. “Just put me down for whatever.”
“Wouldn’t feel right about that. These are the gourmet kind. Take a quick gander at these descriptions,” Bert said, tapping the pen to one of several rows of print.
Luke’s head buzzed as the letters swirled.
“I love cookies,” Rachel said, moving in beside Bert and nabbing the form. “Let’s see. What looks good?”
Luke listened as she calmly and quickly read a few descriptions. He locked on to two. “Put me down for those Double Chocolate Caramels and White Chocolate Maples,” he said while setting a foaming beer on Rachel’s tray.
“Who can resist decadent?” Rachel asked Bert while flashing Luke a small but kind smile. “I’ll take a box of each of those myself plus the Coconut Fudge Creams and…” She skimmed the page. “Yes, these. Sugar Doodles. Thanks.”
“Thank you,” Bert said with a toothy grin, then shifted his attention to Luke. “Mind if I hit up your other employees? It’s for a good cause.”
“Knock yourself out,” Luke said, catching Rachel’s gaze before she nabbed her tray of drinks and hurried off. His first thought was: Brown. Her eyes were brown. Second thought: She knows.
* * *
Rocky had never been good at taking orders. That’s why she liked running her own business. Sure, guests voiced their two cents now and then regarding their room or the property or her limited recreation equipment—but she was the boss. Making her own decisions, following her instincts and impulses, fed into her need to control her destiny. It also stemmed from a lack of patience. She wasn’t one to wait around. Which was why she’d taken the initiative with Jayce thirteen years ago. If she’d waited for him to make the first move they might never have made love. At the least, he wouldn’t have been her first. For all the drama, she’d never once regretted that Jayce had been her first. For all the drama, she had no problem imagining him as her last. A lifetime of lovemaking with Jayce Bello. Yeah, boy, she could handle that. What burned her buns was the way he bossed her. No, what burned her buns was the way she let him boss her.
Wait.
Three hours ago, Jayce had teased her with the promise of hot and heavy sex. He’d said he’d let her know when and where. She’d showered and changed into low-riding chenille lounging pants and a matching powder-blue lace cami. She’d cranked the heat because the temperature outside had dropped to thirty-six and, because of construction and some drafts, she was freaking freezing. An hour ago she’d given up on baring sexy skin and pulled on a thick robe and texted Jayce.
STILL ON?
YES.
SHOULD I COME TO YOU?
SIT TIGHT.
What the hell did he think she’d been doing? She was more than a little peeved. Partly because her raging libido had yet to cool. Since when did lust trump anger? And partly because she itched to talk about the Rothwell property and the possibility of branching out as an interior decorator. She wasn’t schooled in the profession, but she had great instincts, an innate talent, and a reasonable amount of experience. She could call and bounce the idea off of one of her brothers or her parents or any one of several friends, but Rocky wanted to dish with Jayce. She was ready to move forward with their relationship, yet he’d put her on hold. Okay. So it had only been for a few hours, but it seemed like forever and his bossy texts rubbed her the wrong way.
Desperate for distraction, Rocky curled up on her sofa with a collection of cupcake recipes, assorted photos, and typed memoirs—all for possible inclusion in the CL recipe/memoir book. If the club’s project was on the fast track, she didn’t want to fall behind. Twenty minutes passed and then ten more. She checked her cell. No updated texts. No missed calls. Where the hell was Jayce?
The television bleated in the background, a rerun of a bake-off on the Cooking Channel. The mantle clock ticked. The huge house, empty except for Rocky, creaked intermittently as harsh winds battered the façade and tree branches whipped against the eaves.
Rocky had never felt so alone. So frustrated. So impatient. And, okay, a little spooked.
She glanced at the time. Ten thirty. “Wait, my ass.”
Too pumped to go to bed, Rocky bolted off the sofa and shoved her feet into a pair of ankle-high UGGs. She traded her robe for a fleece-lined coat and cinched the waist tight. She’d drive to the Sugar Shack. Hang with Luke for a while. Order a beer and nachos and maybe discuss the Rothwell farm. If Jayce thought she was going to spend a lifetime cooling her heels while he did his PI thing or whatever, he was dead wrong. Hopped up on pent-up lust and frustration, Rocky grabbed her purse and blew out the door. The brisk wind stung her cheeks as she trotted down the porch steps and marched through the dark toward her Jeep.
She slammed into someone and screamed.
“Damn, woman.”
“Jayce?” Heart hammering against her ribs, Rocky punched his muscled shoulder. “You scared the hell out of me!”
“That’s what you get for prowling around in the dark.”
“I’m not prowling, you jackass. I’m leaving!” She pushed past him, but he nabbed her arm. She glared even though he probably couldn’t tell. Thick clouds muted moonshine, and her porch light was a dim, distant glow. “Tell me to wait,” she warned in a low voice, “and you’re dead meat.”
“I told you I’d be late.”
“It’s after ten!”
“Early by my standards.”
“Well, not by mine and that’s not the point. You could have been more forthcoming in your texts. Wait? Sit tight? I have a life, too, you know.” She wrenched away, then vacillated between her Jeep and the house. Damn.
Jayce decided for her. He nabbed her by the waist and half-carried her toward the porch. “You’re hell on wheels when riled.” He cursed when he tried the door and it gave. “You forgot to lock the door.”
“I was in a hurry.”
“No excuse.”
“Don’t lecture me.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He flicked on the wall switch, then caught her wrist as she tried to leave. “I’m sorry I upset you.”
“Apology not accepted.” She balled her fists, acknowledging a new and troubling realization. She’d been worried. Not knowing where Jayce had been exactly or what he’d been doing, deep down she’d harbored ghoulish thoughts. What if he’d tangled with a bad sort—he carried a gun after all—or ticked off Billy and landed in jail or blew a
tire and rammed his car into a tree? She wasn’t used to worrying about a lover. The only other time she’d gotten this worked up was last month when Jayce had been a guest at the Red Clover and had stayed out superlate. Her fierce reaction when he’d finally walked through the door had stunned them both. Would it always be like this with him? The possibility made her queasy.
“The business I mentioned, it was personal.” Jayce looked away, worked his jaw. “Took longer than I anticipated.”
There it was again. Vulnerability. And it took the wind right out of her sails. Mostly. “I hate that you’re able to twist me up with a simple word or gesture.”
“Same here.”
“I hate your domineering attitude.”
“Not always.”
Clinging to her agitation like a lifeline, Rocky struggled with her cinched belt.
Jayce moved in and freed the knot. “Where were you going anyway?”
She wrenched off the coat. “The Sugar Shack.”
“Dressed like that?”
Okay. Maybe she could’ve gotten away with the lounging pants and boots, but the lace cami? “I wasn’t planning on taking off my coat.”
He raised a brow.
“I was in a hurry.”
“So you said.”
Why did he have to be so freaking handsome, so charismatic? Blood burning, pulse racing, Rocky glared. “Sometimes I really hate you.”
“Back at you, Dash.”
Rocky launched herself at the longtime, lustful bane of her existence. She wrapped her arms and legs around the freaking-hot bastard and cursed and thanked God. She kissed Jayce with passion and frustration and he responded with equal fervor. The frenzied clash and mesh escalated to a fever pitch, breaking only to shed layers of clothing.
Quaking with blinding affection, Rocky’s mind burst with erotic images as Jayce hauled her into his arms and up the stairs. Next thing she knew she was flat on her back in bed staring up at the only man who’d ever owned her heart. The word love whispered in her head, scaring her, thrilling her. “Take me.”