by Piper Rayne
She stopped on the last riser and gawked. Yep, that was definitely the body she had spent the past two years fantasizing about. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, shapely ass. In London, his dark blond hair had been long—below his shoulders. It was cropped close to his head now. It looked better short. The fewer distractions from his fabulous body the better.
She halted that thought right in its tracks. What are you thinking? It doesn’t matter whether you like his hair. You had a chance at Ian Youngblood in London and you blew it.
She spotted his wet clothes piled on the floor and made a beeline for them. “I’ll put these in the dryer.” It would give her a minute to rein in the inappropriate ideas that were swirling around her brain. And other parts of her body.
“Thanks.”
She took a deep breath. That voice. Rich. Deep. It had lured her so close to trouble before. She appreciated a beautiful male body as much as the next woman, but she was a sucker for a beautiful voice. It got her every time.
She clutched his wet clothes to her chest and practically ran upstairs.
So that’s how she’s going to play it—that she doesn’t recognize me. Huh. He’d recognized her the minute she turned her rain-soaked face toward him on the sidewalk. She was the karaoke woman from London who had entranced him with her voice, bewitched him with the promise of her lovely body, and then walked out on him—leaving him naked and hard in his hotel suite. As much as he might like to forget that particular humiliation, he hadn’t.
Quite the opposite, in fact. He remembered every minute of that evening in vivid—if excruciating—detail. Minus the one detail he really needed. Her name. Without that, he’d been unable to look her up. And he’d wanted to look her up. If not for the purpose of finishing what they had started in the hotel, then to ask her to record a duet with him.
Now I’ve found her in a small-town coffee shop in Maryland. In the middle of a raging storm. And I’m wearing nothing but a towel.
There were so many directions this could go. Not all of them good.
He looked around the coffee shop. Nice place. Exposed brick walls. Small wooden tables and chairs scattered about in the front. In the back, which looked like a newer addition, deep leather sofas beckoned. Behind a long glass pastry case was a lineup of espresso machines and a quaint chalkboard announcing the day’s specials. The aroma of coffee and warm sugar lingered in the air.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs announced her imminent return.
“Your clothes will be dry in half an hour, I think,” she said.
He cocked his head toward the front window and the maelstrom beyond. “I don’t think I’ll be leaving in half an hour.”
Damn, but she was really lovely. Even more stunning two years later, if such a thing was possible. There had been a sadness about her in London, a mood he hadn’t probed. They hadn’t gotten into each other’s personal lives. It had been the day after Christmas and they both were sitting in a nearly empty karaoke bar. That right there said a lot about their personal lives, didn’t it?
Instead they’d talked about music and singing for a bit, and then agreed to walk to his hotel down the street. At the time, he assumed she knew who he was. She hadn’t offered her name and he didn’t ask. An anonymous hookup between two people in a karaoke bar on the day after Christmas had struck him as oddly—desirably—something normal people did. And he hadn’t been merely a normal person in years.
“Hurricane Ian out there is still going strong,” he added.
The corner of her mouth twitched, like she was stopping a smile. Maybe she did remember him? Maybe she remembered him, but hadn’t recognized him in London. Was that possible? He was Ian Youngblood, after all. You’d have to be living under a rock to not recognize me.
Either way, now here she was—gorgeous in cutoff shorts and a black tank top that was slightly damp after carrying his wet clothes upstairs. The sadness about her was gone.
“I believe it was downgraded to a tropical storm. Can I get you something to drink?”
For a split second, her eyes dropped to the towel around his waist. Well at least the interest was still there.
“What are my options?”
Again with the little twitch of her soft, pink lips. Lips he had kissed the hell out of. Lips he had dreamed about too many times to count since.
“Pretty much anything that doesn’t involve alcohol. I’m going to have an iced coffee myself.”
“That works.”
He watched as she moved gracefully behind the coffee bar. “Do you own this place, manage it, or just work here?”
She looked up from a pitcher of cream and gave a wry smile. “All of the above.” She carried two glasses over to a table by the front window, before going back to retrieve two generous slices of pound cake.
As Ian took the seat across from her, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then the power went out.
Chapter Three
“I was afraid that was going to happen.” They were now sitting in semidarkness, watching the wall of water falling outside. It was raining so hard she couldn’t see the buildings across the street.
However, she could still see the semi-naked man sitting two feet away. It was definitely Ian Youngblood. She was one hundred percent certain of that now. Fortunately, there was still no sign that he remembered their almost night together, remembered the way his hands had touched her, arousing passions Kyle never had. Now those hands were wrapped around the iced coffee, the product of the only passion she had thrown herself into since London.
Her gaze followed his hands as he lifted the glass to his lips. Oh, she remembered those lips, too.
“This is excellent coffee,” those lips said.
She snapped herself out of the fantasy she was about to dive into. “Thank you.” She redirected her gaze to the storm outside. Hah. Tropical Storm Ian. What a coincidence.
“What’s that little smile for?”
She shook her head and proceeded to ignore the question. “You’re not local. What brings you to town?”
“A friend’s wedding.”
“Simone and Douglas?” Theirs was the only wedding she knew of.
“You know them?”
“I know everyone in town. Everyone who drinks coffee at least.”
“She did recommend this place to me.”
“That’s good to hear. Their wedding was three days ago though.”
“I’m house sitting while they’re on their honeymoon.”
“Ah.”
Just then, the building shook alarmingly as the noise outside grew louder. She eyed the baseboards nervously, watching for any sign of water leaking through.
“We should probably not be sitting close to the window.”
As he stood up, she fought the urge to look at the white towel wrapped around his waist. Her white towel. She might frame it after tonight. There was no way she could just fold it and put it back in the linen closet with all the other ordinary towels.
They moved to the back of the shop, to one of the leather sofas where they sat an awkward twelve inches apart. He tried to balance the plate of cake on his bare knee, then got up and dragged a table over—nearly losing the towel in the process.
Not that she was paying attention to that.
“You know, if we’re going to be stuck here for awhile, we might as well get to know each other.” He slipped a forkful of pound cake into his mouth.
Who knew pound cake was so sexy?
He set down the fork and extended his hand. “I’m Ian. No relation to Tropical Storm Ian.”
“I’m Mai. With an I.” The sensation of his warm hand wrapped around hers sent a shiver down her spine.
“Mai with an I. That’s a lovely name. Are you from St. Caroline?”
“Are we playing twenty questions?” That could get dangerous. Have you ever been out of the country? Sung karaoke? Had a one-night stand?
He shrugged and ate another bite of pound cake. “We have some time to kill, you have to ad
mit.”
He had a point.
“I’m from Annandale, Virginia, originally. But I’ve lived here for a few years. How about you?”
“Pittsburgh. What made you move here?”
“A friend got married at the Inn, I fell in love with the town, and this space was available to lease. How do you know Simone?”
“We’re both musicians. I don’t remember how we met, to be honest.”
We’re both musicians. Understatement of the year. Simone Adkins was a Grammy Award-winning singer. And Ian was … well, Ian Youngblood. She’d assume that Ian had slept with Simone if it weren’t for the fact that Simone and Douglas were head-over-heels-sappy-in-love.
The way Mai had been with Kyle. The way she wanted someone to be with her.
“Are you dating anyone, Mai with an I?”
She nearly choked on her iced coffee. Was he reading her mind?
“No. Not at the moment. I didn’t factor in the size of the dating pool when I decided to move here.”
“Seems like a cute town, though.”
“It is.” She drained the rest of the iced coffee and carried the glass to the sink behind the counter. She needed to get away from the cloud of pheromones that was Ian Youngblood before she climbed onto his lap, pushed him back against the sofa, and …
Can you tell it’s been a while since I had a date?
Alas, the cloud of pheromones was well-mannered and carried his glass and empty plate to the sink as well.
Would it be rude to go check on his clothes in the dryer?
“Thanks,” she said instead. His arm bumped her shoulder as he stepped up to the sink. She quickly spun away and pretended to tidy up stacks of paper coffee cups, line up the giant decorative jars of coffee beans, straighten the display of artisan caramels. All of which was utterly ridiculous since there was barely enough light left to see.
“So,” she said. “How many questions do we have left?”
“A few.” He closed the distance between them. “So, Mai with an I, what happened in London that you ended up singing by yourself in a karaoke bar on the day after Christmas?”
She froze. Her breath caught. Her heart skittered.
He remembered.
She wracked her brain for a witty deflection. The best she could come up with was, “I believe it was called a karaoke lounge.”
Lame.
“And in any case, there’s no way you remember that.”
He hummed the opening bars to the song she had sung two years ago.
All evidence to the contrary.
“Obviously, I do.” He enjoyed the way her cheeks colored a deeper shade of pink. So she did know who he was.
“Out of all the women you meet, why would you remember me?”
“Do you know how many women get half naked with me and then change their minds?”
“Not many, I’d guess.”
“Zero, to be exact.”
“I’m sure it was character building.”
“A lot of things have been character building lately. You walking out on me isn’t one of them. I went back to the karaoke bar the next night.”
“Karaoke lounge. Why did you do that?”
“I wanted to hear you sing again.”
“Even after I walked out on you?”
“So you admit it was you.”
She shrugged.
“You never answered my question.”
“I like to sing?”
“I’m a little surprised to find you running a coffee shop and not headlining tours.”
She snorted. In a charmingly adorable sort of way. “Good voices are a dime a dozen.”
“Good ones. Not great ones. Not marvelous ones.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, you do have a marvelous voice. Please don’t tell me you only sing in the shower.”
“I never sing in the shower. But I do sing for events around town. I’m the go-to person whenever the national anthem is needed.”
“I bet you sing the hell out of that.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
He was happy to see her face light up with a wide, proud grin. Happier than he ought to be.
“I also do some local theater in Annapolis when there’s a musical involved. And not too much dancing.”
“I have a hard time believing you’re a terrible dancer.”
“I have three left feet.”
He wondered how much battery life was left on his phone. He could put on some music and test her left feet theory. The desire to have her in his arms was now an aching need. Just like it had been in London. He had never understood what “bereft” meant until that night. Her departure had left him well and truly bereft. Now here they were, stuck together in a storm, and he intended to make the most of the situation.
“So what happened in London?” he asked again. “You seem way too wholesome to go to a rock star’s hotel room.”
She sighed. “Good grief. You’re not letting that go, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. I was in London with my boyfriend—from whom I was expecting a marriage proposal. Instead, he dumped me.”
He frowned. “Just like that? In the middle of the trip?”
Another sigh. “Yes, just like that. I found myself on my own for the rest of the week. That’s how I ended up in a karaoke lounge, throwing a pity party for myself.”
“Weird choice of song for a pity party.” She had sung a rather famous song by a rather famous British band, and thus a song he doubted the karaoke lounge had permission to use. Nonetheless, he would put her rendition up against anyone’s.
The light in the shop had dwindled to almost nothing. He could barely make out her slender form leaning against the countertop.
“What would you have suggested?”
He might have been imagining it, but he could swear her voice just dropped into a lower register. There was something so erotic about listening to her voice in the dark.
“There’s no shortage of well-written breakup songs.” He broke into a medley of as many as he could think of off the top of his head. When he stopped, he sensed—more than heard—her soft chuckle.
“Did you really go back the next night?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you—I wanted to hear you sing again. And I thought I might be able to talk you into going back to my hotel room.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“In my line of work, it helps to be.”
They fell silent for a few minutes, listening as the rain battered the roof and front window. Then, to his surprise, she began to sing the rather famous song by the rather famous British band. He closed his eyes to the dark shapes of the coffee shop and let the sound of her voice fall around him. In his mind, he could still picture her in the bar that night. Her slim black pants. Her fuzzy red sweater. The ivory silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. The sensible flat oxfords on her feet.
He wanted to just listen to her voice for hours. Long, long hours. For a moment, he hated the good people of St. Caroline for having the privilege of hearing Mai with an I sing the national anthem. He let her get halfway through the song before joining in. After, they sang another song by the famous British band. And then another. And another.
Then there was a loud crash outside, and the song came to a screeching halt. He watched as she ran to the front window, feinting right and left around the tables—just as he had watched her bounce around his hotel suite, picking up her clothes, her purse, her coat, before running out the door.
Chapter Four
“I can’t see a damn thing.” She cupped her hands and peered into the swirl of wind and water. “I think your car is fine, though.”
“It’s a rental.”
She felt the warmth of his body directly behind hers. The warmth of his mostly nude body. How long had it been since she’d felt the warmth of a man’s body against hers?
A while.
; They could finish what they had started in London. She got the distinct impression that he was amenable to it. In the morning, he would leave, and that would be that. He might come in a few more times for coffee, since Simone had recommended Two Beans, but then Simone and Douglas would come home from their honeymoon and he’d be gone. He would leave St. Caroline, never to be seen in these parts again. Would it really be that bad to finish what they’d started?
His hands settled on her shoulders, firm, confident. Those hands had played a thousand songs on guitars, on keyboards. Those hands had played her body, too, until she’d stopped him. It would have been an amazing night. She had no doubt of that. But it wasn’t what she had wanted at the time. She didn’t want to be just one of the many women he had bedded. Just as she had never wanted to be one of the endless numbers of aspiring singers in the world. There was this assumption that if you were in possession of a talent, you were supposed to monetize that talent.
But fame and fortune had never appealed to her. She had her issues with her parents—didn’t everyone?—but ultimately she wanted the life they had. She wanted a business and a source of income that she had control over. She wanted a family of her own and a nice house to raise that family in.
It was something people didn’t seem to understand—that she could sing like an angel, but want to run a coffee shop instead.
She wanted one more thing, as well—a man who would love her. A man who would love her and was willing to live in St. Caroline where her beloved coffee shop was located.
“So did you ever get back together with your boyfriend?”
And … that was his opening gambit.
“No. I didn’t. Not after that.”
“Are you the sort of person who doesn’t dole out second chances?”
She shrugged her shoulders beneath his hands. “Depends on the original offense.”
The breath of his chuckle raised the tiny hairs on her neck.
“I thought about you after that night. Thought about you a lot,” he said.
“Why would you do that?” On the other side of the window—inches away—was utter chaos. She couldn’t tell which way the wind was blowing. It blew in every direction, it seemed—taking the rain along with it. On this side of the window, though, there was a strange sense of calm. She was stuck inside for who knew how long with a man she barely knew. But she felt safe with him, the same way she had felt safe with him in London.