"I haven't fallen over in"—Cole turned his gaze to the ceiling while he murmured to himself—"three or four months."
"It's almost a record," I replied.
Rolling his eyes, Cole scraped the sides of his mixing bowl with a spatula. "You didn't have to go out," he said. "You know I don't like it when you're on the water in bad weather."
It was my turn to roll my eyes. "You didn't notice the weather until now."
"That has no bearing on whether you should've been out there," Cole replied. "You could've looked outside, seen the storm, and gone back to bed. I would've joined you for that."
Lightening my fishing and lobstering load was one of Cole's side projects. To his mind, money wasn't an issue, and I didn't need to work the water every day. I agreed with him—to a point. Unlike years past, I wasn't compelled to go after other catches during lobster's slow season from January to June. I didn't sweat over expenses when the market prices dropped. But I wasn't interested in lightening the load any more than that. My objection was less about not wanting to be a kept man and more about enjoying my work. It was grueling but I still loved it, and I didn't want to abandon it.
Change wasn't easy and I didn't take to Cole's money overnight, but it wasn't a major point of contention for us. There were moments when I found his wealth staggering. Paralyzing, even. But I didn't want that to become a rock in the middle of our relationship. That took work. I had to practice dealing with the shock associated with spending loads of money as easily as he did. I rolled with it when Cole wanted to spend a month on a private island in Belize after the launch of one of his newest developments, and when he bought out an entire hotel in Palm Springs when we traveled there for the holidays last winter. Instead of getting caught up in the disparity between our income levels, I admired my husband's ass in short shorts.
"I had traps to pull in." I reached over, turned off the mixer, and held up a hand to silence Cole's protest. "Just be quiet for a minute. Please."
I glanced down at his apron, covered in floury handprints, and then back up at his face. There was a dark smudge on his cheek—probably molasses—and a bit of sugar sparkling on his brow. He was a beautiful mess, and I was the luckiest guy in the entire state.
"Don't look at me like that while I have gingerbread in the oven," Cole warned. "Save those bedroom eyes for later, babe."
I pressed my lips to his and sighed when his tongue darted out. He tugged me closer, until only our clothes separated us. "What about kitchen eyes?" I whispered against his jaw. "Can I have those?"
"What?" he asked, breathless as I dragged my denim-covered erection over his. "What are you talking about?"
I laughed, the tight sound bursting from my mouth in quick, strangled puffs. "I need to warm up, and you have one helluva hot ass. Do I have time to bend you over the countertop before the next cake comes out of the oven?" The words had barely passed my lips when the oven timer wailed. "Fuck."
Cole shook with silent laughter. "To answer your question, babe, no."
Before I could pry myself off him, I heard paws skittering down the hall. "Here comes trouble," I murmured.
Last winter, we rescued a three-year-old mixed breed dog from the local no-kill shelter. We waited until after the new year, when things settled down from Cole's big launch and we returned from our extended holiday in Palm Springs. I wasn't sure I was ready for another pup, but when we walked past Sasha's kennel, everything changed. Her sweet face and happy spirit stole our hearts.
"She snoozes until the timer goes off," Cole said. "Then she's my shadow. She's on crumb patrol."
"I don't doubt it." An eager, fidgeting mass of dog wedged between our legs, paws stamping and tail wagging. I reached down to scratch her head. "What's this? You'll wake up for gingerbread but not me?"
With a whine, she plopped down on her bottom, her tail thumping against the hardwood. She was part Irish Setter, her coat a warm, glossy red, but the rest of her lineage was unclear. She had the temperament of a Labrador, the strength of a Boxer, and the lapdog sensibilities of a Maltese.
The oven timer pealed again, and Cole slipped out of my hold. "Since you won't be bending me over the countertop, you can help me with the gingerbread lighthouse," he said.
I crouched down to give Sasha some love. "What do you mean I'm not bending you over?" I asked.
"We're building this lighthouse, Owen," he warned. "We're going to have some traditions, and you're going to damn well enjoy them."
With a low groan, I pushed to my feet. Sasha nudged my leg with her nose, and I responded with another head scratch. She huffed and stalked toward Cole, more interested in sniffing out those crumbs than anything I had to offer. I stared at my husband from across the kitchen, smiling when he fed her a bit of gingerbread.
There was a time when I filled my life with quiet and order. When I'd accepted solitude as my only companion. But now my dog was begging for scratch-made baked goods. My man was inventing holiday traditions. My finger wore a shiny new ring. My home was full of noise, clutter, and chaos.
"I will, Cole," I said. "I promise I'll enjoy it all."
And my heart, it was overflowing with the kind of love I'd never imagined for myself.
Just one more thing…
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Acknowledgments
I want to thank Jessica Fletcher for making me believe in small towns and craggy lobstermen, and my grandmother for introducing me to Mrs. Fletcher.
I’d also like to thank Lynn Faust, the leading expert on fireflies in the Smoky Mountain region.
Finally, my husband’s support (and patience and tolerance for me typing in bed at two in the morning) is the most important ingredient in all of my books.
Before Girl
A sexy new standalone arriving in the summer of 2018
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She's the girl next door.
He's the guy who's loved her from afar.
They're in for an unexpected tumble into love.
She'll juggle your balls.
For Stella Allesandro, chaos is good. She's a rising star at a leading sports publicity firm. She's known throughout the industry as the jock whisperer—the one who can tame the baddest of the bad boys in professional sports without losing her signature smile.
But Cal Hartshorn is an entirely different kind of chaos.
He'll fix your broken heart.
This ex-Army Ranger and now-famous cardiothoracic surgeon fails at nothing…except talking to a woman he's adored from afar. Whether on the battlefield or operating room, he's exacting, precise, and efficient, but all of that crumbles when Stella is in sight.
Cal always knows—and gets—what he wants, and now he wants all of her.
His forever girl.
But Stella isn't convinced she's anyone's forever.
Also By Kate Canterbary
The Walsh Series
Underneath It All – Matt and Lauren
The Space Between – Patrick and Andy
Necessary Restorations – Sam and Tiel
The Cornerstone – Shannon and Will
Restored — Sam and Tiel
The Spire — Erin and Nick
Preservation — Riley and Alexandra
Thresholds — The Walsh Family
Walsh Series Spin-Off Standalone Novels
Coastal Elite
Fresh Catch
Before Girl
Get exclusive sneak previews of upcoming releases through Kate's newsletter and private reader group, The Canterbary Tales, on Facebook.
About Kate
Kate Canterbary doesn't have
it all figured out, but this is what she knows for sure: spicy-ass salsa and tequila solve most problems, living on the ocean—Pacific or Atlantic—is the closest place to perfection, and writing smart, smutty stories is a better than any amount of chocolate. She started out reporting for an indie arts and entertainment newspaper back when people still read newspapers, and she has been writing and surreptitiously interviewing people—be careful sitting down next to her on an airplane—ever since. Kate lives on the water in New England with Mr. Canterbary and the Little Baby Canterbary, and when she isn't writing sexy architects, she's scheduling her days around the region's best food trucks.
You can find Kate at www.katecanterbary.com
Fresh Catch Page 17