Laughter was a bright punctuation to the beautiful day. It was a rich giggle in the way that only . . . it was a child’s laughter! She didn’t see a child, but she definitely heard one. Maybe it was some kind of echo of Dylan’s past, that he was finally able to reach back and recapture the youth he should have had? Except her visions weren’t usually as metaphysical as all that. Dylan’s laughter blended with the child’s rolling giggles. Rich, deep, and completely, utterly free. She’d heard him chuckle, heard him laugh . . . but she’d never heard him sound like that.
He glanced over his shoulder, and there was this deep sense of . . . connectivity. She knew that face so well. Every scar, every line, better than she knew her own. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to trace every one of them, as if they had so many, many times before. Crinkles formed at the corners of his gray eyes made almost blue by the shirt he was wearing as he aimed that sexy, devil-may-care grin straight at . . . her?
“Honey?”
“I’m right here,” she responded, wanting to get up and go to him. Run to him. She knew his arms would open for her.
“Honey!”
She blinked her eyes open, and she was in the dusty, musty bookstore again, still in Dylan’s arms, though her feet were touching the floor now.
“That’s it,” he was saying softly, almost crooning the words. “Come on back, darlin’. I’m right here.”
She blinked again, and the sailboat was gone, the heat of the sun . . . the giggling child, and that knowing smile. So was the sense that she’d been looking into that same face, those same eyes, for a very long time.
“I’m sorry,” she said automatically.
“What for?”
“I shouldn’t have jumped you. I should have . . . I should have known. It was just, we’ve taken so many risks and it hasn’t happened and I was just so excited and—”
He captured her face in his hands, held them there when she tried to pull away, and brought her gaze to his. She braced momentarily, expecting to go right back into the vision again, but nothing wavered, nothing tugged. At least not like that. She was feeling a tug of an entirely different kind as vestiges of feelings from the vision still mingled with the real feelings she was having.
“Sugar, don’t ever apologize for jumping me.”
That surprised a snort of laughter from her, making him smile instantly and shoot her a wink. She felt suddenly shaky, but not in a bad way. For the first time ever, she wanted to go back into the vision, to keep feeling what she’d been feeling. But she was liking where she was right now pretty damn well, too. It was so confusing. Normally visions didn’t involve her so personally, but normally she didn’t have visions about people she cared about, or people who were otherwise involved in her life.
“You okay? Want to talk about it?”
Yes, she thought. I do.
All of it, she realized. So much had happened to her since coming to Sugarberry, after years of nothing ever happening. Being around people was a huge thing, but suddenly she had people chatting with her and asking her to bake cupcakes, and . . . and . . . a man who was holding her, kissing her, seducing her. All completely normal things . . . for anybody but her. It was all happening so fast she should be completely freaking out, except the very speed of the unfolding events didn’t allow time for that. The truth was . . . she didn’t want it to slow down, didn’t want it to stop. It was everything she wanted.
She just wanted to catch up.
“I’m fine,” she said, not entirely truthful, but fine in the way he meant. “It wasn’t bad. In fact . . . it was about you and your sailboat. You had it out on the water. And you were . . . you were really happy.” She didn’t elaborate further. She wanted time to think about what she’d experienced. There was nothing else really to tell him, anyway.
“At first, I thought I was going back to the fishing boat, and that you were taking Frank’s place, but it was all peaceful and good. It was your boat. It was . . . it was good.”
He grinned. “Well, that’s a nice piece of news then. Now we can both celebrate.”
“Celebrate,” she repeated, then jerked her thoughts clean away from the vision and fully back to the moment. “Oh, right! The bookstore!”
He’d steadied her on her feet, and let his hands drop to his sides. “Your store.”
A shiver raced over her. Of excitement or terror or both. “Is it completely crazy to think I can do this? I mean, what if—”
He pressed a finger to her lips. “Remember rule number one: no what ifs. Only what’s nexts. If things happen, then you’ll figure out what to do about them.”
“So . . . what’s next? I guess we need to figure out what the arrangement will be. When I talk to Morgan about Bea’s place, I’ll let him know we want him to draw up a lease agreement for this place, too.” She took a slow turn and looked at the interior, her mind’s eye already seeing it as she’d want it to be. She turned back to find Dylan watching her. “What?”
He just smiled and shook his head. “You want to get on over to the bakery?”
“Oh. Right.” She took a deep breath. “I guess so.”
“You don’t like to bake?”
“It’s not that. I like Lani.” She smiled wryly. “And Alva. I just . . . it’s been a really wild couple days.” She let out a short laugh. “I thought I was going to take it slowly, pace myself, ease in to things. Not so much, as it turns out.”
“Wading in can be more torture than just jumping in and getting used to the cold water all at once.”
“Maybe.”
“Is it the . . . thing?” he asked, knowing she understood what he meant.
“The vision? No. It was . . . nice. Surprisingly nice . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to think about all the things she’d felt while watching Dylan at the helm of his sailboat. She smiled, and despite the still, heavy air, she rubbed her arms. “It’s just . . . I have so many other things to think about right now.”
“Why don’t you go talk to Lani, get yourself introduced around. No one says you have to stay. Lolly and I’ll go on next door and start matching up the parts I got for your car. Just come back across the alley when you’re ready and I’ll run you back to the B&B—”
“Oh no, I couldn’t impose—”
He stopped her with a quelling look. “Rule number two: if I offer, I don’t mind. Trust me. When I mind, sugar, you’ll know. Besides, I have Frank’s lawnmower part to drop off.”
“Okay. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I guess I can always come back over here and start making What’s Next lists while you’re working.”
“There you go.” He closed the distance between them and fished the keys out of his jeans pocket. “And here you go.”
Honey looked at the keys, then up at him. “If this doesn’t work—”
“Would you stop?” he said quietly. “Come here.” He bent his head and kissed her while simultaneously pressing the keys into her hand.
Her vision was unfocused and a bit glazed by the time he lifted his head, but it was all hormone induced. She wrapped her hands around the keys, focusing on the real, the solid, the thing she could reach out and touch. For all that she could reach out and touch Dylan Ross—and had—he still felt as intangible as her visions. She couldn’t let herself buy into anything more than that. Much as she might like to.
It took supreme willpower and the sound of Dylan’s rules echoing through her mind to keep from wondering what would happen if or when she was no longer putting her hands on her new landlord. Or, more to the point, when he no longer wanted to put them on her.
He leaned down until he caught her gaze and smiled. “Go bake something, all right?”
She grinned, laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll uh . . . why don’t I lock the front door behind you, then let myself out the back to head across the alley to Cakes by the Cup. I didn’t look in the back rooms yet, anyway.”
“Okay.” She thought he was going to dip his head and kiss her again. Instead, he reached u
p, gently bumped her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and sauntered to the front door. “Your lenses are fogged,” he called over his shoulder.
“You seem to have that effect on them.”
He turned and grinned. “You comin’?”
Not yet, she thought. But Lord knows I’d like to.
Honey poked around the storage room a bit on her way out the back and might have stayed longer, but the light was dimming as the late afternoon sun shifted to the front side of the building, casting the back room in shadows, despite the high windows and the door she’d left open to the front. Better to get on over to Lani’s and have that conversation, then come back in the morning, bright and early, and start in on the mountain-sized laundry list of things she’d need to do to get to the point where she could have the rest of her things and her inventory shipped out.
She felt as if her brain was on speed, leaping off on a million different tangents as more and more ideas popped into her head of how to best utilize and lay out the space. She wanted to dive straight in, but first things first. Whether she stayed to bake or not, she did have to talk to Lani, get whatever documentation she’d put together, and, Honey supposed, make it official that she was going to take on the old bookstore space, thereby ending any conflict she and Lani might have had before it even started.
That was a huge relief. Honey needed the support of the islanders, her new neighbors and fellow business owners, if her new enterprise had a chance of succeeding.
She also couldn’t deny that the very idea of making friends with some of the happy, chatty, laughing bakers she’d spied when she’d first arrived was . . . well, icing on the cupcake.
Still, she paused at the back door and looked over her shoulder, through the open storage door into the front room . . . and felt an undeniable thrill rush through her. Truth be told, she was itching to dive in. “Well, Aunt Bea, this might not be exactly what you had in mind . . . but, if it works, I think it’s going to be even better.”
Honey stepped out into the waning sunlight, locked up, then allowed herself five seconds to grin like a loon. “Okay, okay, enough of that. For now.” She smoothed her hair, checked her blouse again to make sure she’d buttoned it up correctly, then strolled resolutely across the alley toward the back door of Cakes by the Cup. “You wanted to be one of the cupcake crew,” she murmured under her breath. “Here’s your chance.”
She lifted her hand to knock, but for the second time in as many attempts, the door was abruptly pushed open in her face, causing her to leap backward. It wasn’t Lani with a tray full of cupcakes, but a very tall, swarthy and suave, dark-haired gentleman, who was looking over his shoulder as he exited the building, still having a chat with someone inside. “Bonsoir, mes belle amies! Rendez-vous demain.”
Tall, good-looking . . . and French? What were the chances? Bea hadn’t mentioned the island was full of eye candy.
Honey was standing well clear when he turned around, spied her, and immediately—and quite dramatically for a guy his size—clutched his chest. “Holy Jesus. Girl, you just about took five years off my life.”
So . . . okay, not French. More like Brooklyn by way of Little Italy.
He paused, smoothed his hair, then struck a pose last seen in Madonna’s Vogue video. “I’ll deny it, of course, but I could use a five year reduction, so perhaps thanks are in order.” He smoothed his shirt, then his hair again, then beamed a megawatt grin her way.
Confused by the French-cum-New York accent and his surprisingly decent runway skills, she simply waved at him and smiled. “My pleasure. I think. I’m—”
“Oh my goodness, you’re Honey Pie D’Amourvell.” He sketched a deep and very gallant bow. “Mon cher, it is my most sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Still in a deep bow, he glanced up at her and winked. “I’d kill for that last name of yours, by the way.”
She couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Well, I’ll warn you, it’s long, no one pronounces it right, the DMV hates me, and it hasn’t really done me too many favors. What’s yours? Maybe we can trade.”
He straightened, chuckling; the deep, rich sound was inviting and utterly endearing. As was the twinkle in his dark eyes. He was a big, gorgeous, charismatic man, but the first word she’d used to describe him was adorable.
“I’m Franco Ricci. And I knew I was going to like you, bellisima.” At her raised brow, he added, “Mais oui, I mix in a little Italian with my French. Blame my dear, departed grandmamma. Speaking of the dearly departed, your aunt, Miz Beavis Chantrell, was a lovely, lovely woman. Also with a last name to die for,” he added with a wink. “I was privileged to know her only for a short time, but she had many wonderful things to say about you. I’m so very sorry for the circumstances leading to your coming here, but welcome to Sugarberry. We’re all very glad you’ve come.”
He was a lot to take—all good—but a lot. Then she remembered Lani mentioning something about Franco, and a French poodle. She understood that now, but not remotely in the way she’d assumed she would. The best she could manage at the moment was to repeat, “All?”
“Oh, you haven’t met the crew? Well, I know you met Lani and Miss Alva as they’ve already filled us all in.”
“All?” she asked again, not brave enough to ask what constituted said “filled us all in.”
“You’re taking over the old bookstore, I hear?”
When her mouth dropped open, he leaned in, the accent disappearing again. “Honey, it’s a small island. No secrets.”
“But Alva said she’d—”
“Oh girl, no. Hmm mmm. You might as well take out a front page ad in the National Enquirer.”
Honey tried not to snort at that. She didn’t want to appear rude, but was only marginally successful. “Right. Well . . . she’s right, I’m considering it. The bookstore building, I mean. I came over to talk to Lani about . . . everything. Alva also invited me to come meet the group; she said you all were baking for charity.” She winced. “Is that also something I should be skeptical about?”
“Oh, not at all, mon amie. You’re totally welcome at Cupcake Club. We could use some new blood. Do you bake?”
“Is it a prerequisite?”
“No, not at all. Do you want to learn?”
She smiled. “Is that a prerequisite?”
He grinned. “Do you like to eat cupcakes?”
“That I can do.”
“Bienvenue en Cupcake Club!” he said, moving in as if to wrap her up in a big bear hug.
Honey about tripped over the long cement block that fronted the nearest parking spot to avoid the contact. “Nothing personal,” she hurried to add as he immediately froze, mid-arm reach. “I’m really sorry.”
Begin as you mean to go on, she reminded herself. “Um . . . how well did you know my aunt?”
Franco straightened, and to his credit, didn’t look offended or like he thought she was completely nuts. “I’ve only been in the area for the past few years. I moved down the same time Charlotte did. Lani’s best friend,” he explained. “We all worked together back in New York. I’m mostly in Savannah—I work with Char and her fiancé Carlo in their catering business, and as a sous chef on Baxter’s television show—but I’m over here all the time. So, I didn’t know your aunt as well as most everyone who lives here, but we spent some quality time together.”
He flashed her that million dollar grin again. “You know, we have some of the best tailors in the world back in my neighborhood at home, but she was a magician with a needle and thread. I’ve never had clothes fit me as well. Woman could tailor a tuxedo for the Hulk if he asked.” He gestured to himself and chuckled. “And I’m a close second. Do you sew?”
“No, I’m sorry. I carve. And sculpt. Did you know about Bea’s . . . other talents?”
“Oh, you mean the—” He broke off and made a feathery motion around his forehead with his hands. “Not until after I’d known her a bit. A shame, too. Lord knows she could have saved me all kinds of heartache with that—we
ll, we don’t need to go into that. Water under the bridge. Bloody, hateful, cheating bastard water, but . . . I’m not bitter.”
“No, not at all. I can see that.” Franco was possibly the oddest hot guy she’d ever met. Not that her personal hot guy—or any guy—list was long, but, still. She liked him already. Maybe it was his very uniqueness that called to the outcast in her. Where she might have been uncomfortable with being different, Franco had clearly long since embraced it. Owned it with flair, one might say. “Can I ask you something? Why the French accent? I mean, are you part French, part—”
“I’m second generation Italian-American from the Bronx.” He said it with an enunciation that would have made the entire cast of Jersey Shore weep with envy. (She knew about the show, so what? It was lonely, living in a barn.)
“And the French?”
He leaned slightly closer, but with clear respect for her personal space. “You ever try picking up cute guys with a Bronx accent? Trust me, French works much better.” He kissed his fingertips with enthusiasm. “Es magnifique!”
She grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He grinned, completely unabashed. “You do that,” he said in a dead-on Rocky Balboa.
She laughed out loud. “I bet Bea gave you a steep discount. She had to love you.”
“She used to tailor clothes for Vegas showgirls and girl had an eye for sequins. It was love at first sparkle.” He sighed. “I really miss her.” He gave Honey a considering look. “But, I’m thinking we’re going to get along just fabulously.”
Honey smiled. She hoped so. “Why is that?”
“Because you have no bullshit in you. And I’m nothing but.” He gave a dramatic sigh, then a wink that could only be described as saucy. “It’s so nice to drop the façade every once in a while.” He gave her a warning look. “Which I’ll deny to my grave if you tell.”
She made a cross sign over her heart. “Your inner Bronx boy is safe with me.”
“Well, then, ma chérie, allow me to introduce you to la dulce de la cupcakes.”
Honey laughed. Clearly he wasn’t kidding about the bullshit. His French was hilariously inaccurate, but he sounded damn sexy saying it. She imagined he got away with far more than mangling an entire foreign language. “Weren’t you just leaving?”
Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie Page 19