by Liz Johnson
She didn’t turn toward him, even as his boots scraped the floor. His warmth surrounded her as he drew close. His breath stirred the strands of hair that had escaped the knot at the nape of her neck. Closing her eyes, she held every muscle in check, fighting the temptation to fly apart.
His fingers wrapped around her arm, cupping her elbow as he leaned so close that she could feel his lips moving against her ear. “I’m sorry I’ve been a jerk.”
She nodded, unable to offer anything else in response.
“When I look at this mess, I think about how glad I am that you’re here. How much I like your smile and your bossy notes.” Chills swept down her spine as he swallowed. She took a deep breath but only managed to inhale his scent, the smell of earth and lumber and the island. “The Red Door wouldn’t be the same without you. I don’t think I’d be the same either.”
Eyes still pinched closed, she turned her head in the direction of his voice. The rough pad of his thumb swiped across her cheekbone, and she nearly dropped everything in her arms. Taking a shaky breath, she opened her eyes, then slammed them closed again as his lips pressed to the corner of her mouth. Like silk ribbon in the wind, her stomach danced at his caress. A strong arm slipped around her back, the other hand tucking into the hair above her ear.
He pulled back, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. “It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”
“Me too.” Her words were hoarse, like they had to fight to make it out of her throat. But she didn’t have to say anything else when he swooped down again, pressing his lips against hers.
She dropped the weight from her arms and turned to meet him. His lips were at once soft and urgent. Gentle and persistent. Light and fire. The arm around her waist tugged her closer to him until there was nothing between them but the pounding of her heart. The breadth of his shoulders both dwarfed and protected her.
Blood rushed through her veins, thrumming at her neck, eclipsing every memory from the scene in the closet.
Stretching to her tiptoes, she leaned into his kiss and clung to his shoulders. Without them, she’d have lost all balance. Even with her hands firmly knotted into his shirt, she was falling onto a cloud.
Then the front door slammed closed and the cloud popped.
She jumped out of Seth’s embrace, standing in spite of trembling knees. Rubbing at a raw spot on her chin, she stared at his lips. His perfect, pink lips.
“We brought lunch.” Aretha’s voice carried through the house, but her footsteps didn’t follow.
Seth blinked several times, a Cheshire-cat grin already in place. While he kept a couple feet between them, he rubbed a particularly sore patch on her cheek with his thumb. “You’re kind of red.” He combed his fingers over his whiskers. “I’ll shave next time.”
The words rang in her head. A promise, at once terrifying and exhilarating.
Next time.
Dear Lord, let there be a next time.
“You kids coming to eat?” Jack stuck his head into the kitchen. “I’m hungry.”
Seth broke from his statued stance first. “Yes. We’ll be right there.”
Marie slipped off the work gloves and rubbed her palms over her cheeks. “How bad is it?”
Seth put a hand on the small of her back as she stepped past him. “Hey, maybe they’ll be so focused on each other they won’t notice.”
She pushed his arm, eliciting only a laugh. He held open the door for her, and she plastered a smile into place, ignoring Aretha’s curious glances and knowing smile.
The sun was still an hour from setting as Marie opened a can of paint in the backyard. Candy-apple red dripped from the lid, and she stirred it with a wooden stick until it was smooth and even.
“Where do you want this?” Seth’s voice came from the opposite side of the front door, only his hand visible on one side as he balanced the door on a dolly.
“Right here.” She pulled a sawhorse up alongside another, and he laid the door in place.
“Why didn’t you get Jack to help you?”
Seth brushed his hands together. “He’s on the phone again. And I didn’t want you to lose the light.”
“Thanks.” She smiled as she ran a damp rag over the door. “The insurance assessor again?”
With his hands on his trim hips, he squinted back at the house. “I don’t think so. But whatever it is, it isn’t good news. Jack was stomping and growling.”
She hesitated before dipping her brush into the paint can. “What else could it be? Everything that could go wrong already has.”
“Not quite.” His words were low and filled with dread, and they sent a needle of fear piercing through her stomach.
Pushing it aside, she swiped red paint down the front door in even, smooth strokes. The white disappeared behind the brilliant red, and she smiled.
The inn was getting its namesake.
“You know what Jack told me the first time we talked about the red door?”
She glanced up to find him staring at her, following the movements of her hand as she methodically applied even, clean stripes of paint. “What’s that?”
The memory brought a smile to Seth’s face, and he dropped his hands from his hips. “He told me red doors are a sign of welcome, an invitation. Years ago during harsh Canadian blizzards, red doors helped stranded travelers find safety and protection from the storm.”
Her hand stilled, her lungs forgetting how to breathe. Somehow Jack had known at the very beginning how much she needed protection from her own storm. He’d offered her a red door in every sense of the word. And now he needed her help.
Oh, she’d given him her time and sweat. She’d stayed when she thought she should go.
But could she give him the thing he needed most—the money to get the doors open on time?
She could solve all of his worries. She could fix his problems with one call to her bank. One conversation and Jack wouldn’t have to worry about anything but what to serve for breakfast on the first day.
And she’d have to face her father.
But perhaps—with Seth and Jack by her side—she could handle that.
Seth seemed oblivious to the dilemma his words had prompted, so she turned back to her work. She might not have to do anything. If the insurance assessor came back with good news and a fast check, they’d have what they needed to fix all that had been destroyed.
Halfway through her next brushstroke, the back screen door rattled and closed with a crack. Jack marched down the steps, his movements tense and face tight.
“That no-good, lying son of a gun.”
Seth looked at her with raised brows, and she could only lift a shoulder and shake her head.
“Jack?” she started cautiously. “What happened?”
He paced the length of the door, head bowed and hands clenched. “I took his word. He said he’d be here. No need for a contract. No need for anything formal. A handshake and his references were good enough. And now this.” He swung an angry hand toward the house, his face a mix of pain and fury.
Seth stepped in front of the older man, blocking his path and putting his hands up to calm the angry rant. “What’s going on?”
“He’s ruined everything.”
“Who?” Marie said.
Jack turned to her, the steam escaping from his tirade as his shoulders slumped. His bushy brows hung over his eyes, shadowing the pain there. “Jules Rousseau.”
“The chef?”
He nodded.
Seth’s face turned into a younger version of Jack’s, his features twisted with indignation. “That no-good, arrogant—” When he glanced at her, his words abruptly ended. “What are you smiling at?”
She pushed the corners of her mouth down with a thumb and forefinger, but her lips wouldn’t stay put. This wasn’t the disaster they thought it was. If only they could see that this freed them up to find someone better.
Someone who knew and loved the island. Someone who could spoil them all with her pastries. Som
eone already invested in the inn.
“What are you thinking, girl?” Jack said.
“Only that now you don’t have to pay an exorbitant salary for a man you never really needed.”
“But we don’t have a chef.” Seth scrubbed a hand down his face. “We can’t open a bed-and-breakfast with no breakfast.”
“Right. We need a chef who can make breakfast shine. Someone who bakes sweets so intoxicating that your guests can’t wait to get out of bed. Someone used to making meals large enough to feed a houseful. Someone with talent and skill and a love of local produce.” She nodded slowly, urging them to see the image taking shape in her mind. But they both stared at her like she was trying to get them to understand a foreign language.
“We already know the perfect person for the job.”
20
But I never went to culinary school.”
Marie patted Caden’s hand. “What you do in the kitchen is nothing short of miraculous. The first time I ever tasted your cinnamon rolls, I said I was sure that’s what an L. M. Montgomery short story would taste like. Remember? Your treats taste like red-dirt roads and jagged red cliffs.”
Caden’s eyes grew wide, and she looked to Jack, who sat across the table, for help.
He chuckled. “Not like dirt. Think she means your cooking tastes like island food should taste.”
Marie nodded, holding on to Caden’s arm, her smile growing. “You’re an amazing talent, and we love working with you.”
“I think you mean my dad. He’s the one with the training. He went to school for it.”
“We want you. We want your talent and your generosity. Your willingness to experiment. If your dad can spare you from the bakery, we want to hire you as the executive chef at the Red Door.”
Caden’s lips twitched in an attempted smile, but her eyes were still filled with uncertainty. “There’s a big culinary school in Charlottetown. Don’t you want someone who knows how to handle a kitchen?”
“Yes. Which is why we want you.”
Jack nodded his agreement, really only at the table for official purposes. After all, it was his inn and his future. And he’d told Marie to do whatever it took to get Caden to take the job. He’d negotiate the contract when it was time.
“What about your New York chef? Doesn’t he want that double oven?”
Jack harrumphed deep in his throat, and Marie smiled. “He decided to take another job in New York City, which is for the best. I’m pretty sure that his specialty would have been snooty eggs and tiny portions.”
Caden cringed. “I don’t cook like that.”
“I know. That’s why we’re glad he’s not coming.” Marie bit into her bottom lip, her mouth watering at the very memory of the first time she’d eaten one of Caden’s sweet rolls. “Think about what a bed-and-breakfast is supposed to be. It’s a home away from home. A place where your first meal of the day is a special treat, not something that you have to pick at. Guests want something that tastes great and will give them the energy to hike into Prince Edward Island National Park and walk along the beach. And we want something that will keep them coming back to the Red Door year after year. Breakfasts should feel like you’re at home. Only better. That’s what the food you make tastes like to me.”
Caden chewed on a fingernail, her usually happy features pinched in thought.
“In fact, I think your cinnamon rolls are the reason that Seth started tolerating my presence.”
With a little chuckle, Caden said, “I need to think about it.”
Seth slid the newly painted red front door into place, angling it until the hinge pieces fit together. A low whistle split the air. He spun to see Jack and Marie walking up the road, and the momentum of the door nearly toppled him.
“Looks great.” Jack’s voice carried past the neighbors on their front porch, who waved brightly.
“The inn is coming along,” the middle-aged man called.
“Sure is.” Jack’s chest swelled, his shoulders back and head held high despite the gutted kitchen and an uncertain future.
The meeting with Caden must have gone well.
When they reached the front porch, Seth asked, “So? Did she take the job?”
Marie’s grin split her face. “She’s going to think about it and let us know, but I’d stake good money on her taking it. You should have seen her eyes light up at the offer. She kept saying she wasn’t qualified and there had to be someone better, but we know we can trust her. She cares about this place or she wouldn’t have helped us paint cabinets and sent over so many goodies to keep us going. Besides, Aretha swears to her skills, and I don’t know anyone who would argue with Aretha.”
Her words bubbled like an overflowing fountain, her face shining even in the shade.
His fingers ached for the feel of her skin, his heart hammering at her nearness. She maintained a safe distance between them, but all he could see were her pink cheeks and the gentle curve of her neck.
And he had to touch her.
He leaned against the door to keep it in place and reached to brush his fingers down the side of her neck into the hollow where it met her shoulder. Her entire body trembled, but she smiled at him.
How was it possible that someone like Marie could feel for him even a fraction of what he felt for her?
His stomach bunched then soared. Writhed then quivered. And he was consumed by the memory of their kiss. Why on earth had he denied himself the acute pleasure of holding her against his chest and inhaling her fragrance even once? She was kind and smart and beautiful.
And he’d never have known her if Reece hadn’t taken everything.
She’d emptied his accounts, his wallet, even the pockets of his jeans.
But she couldn’t take his future. And with every passing day, he was pretty sure that Marie was going to play a big role in that.
Jack cleared his throat loudly, pointing back and forth between them. “Something going on here that I should know about?”
Marie laughed, and Seth shrugged. “Nothing to worry about.”
His narrowed gaze said Jack didn’t entirely believe them, and he homed his finger in under Seth’s nose. “Be careful, boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
After he walked away, mumbling something about Aretha being right, Marie grabbed his hand and laughed up at him. “Do you feel sixteen, or is it just me?”
“Oh, it’s not just you.” He dipped his head to press his lips to hers, but stopped just shy. Were they at this stage? Was he free to kiss her anytime he liked?
That could end up being more often than not.
She leaned in, resting a hand over his speeding heart. But instead of the kiss he hoped for, she whispered against his lips, “Were you able to work on Jack’s surprise?”
“Jack’s surprise? That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
She blushed and looked away. “Well, not the only thing.”
The door shifted, and he had to lean away or drop the whole thing. Blasted door. He’d much rather invade her space and watch the inevitable pink seep from under the collar of her sweater, up her neck, and make the apples of her cheeks glow.
“Were you?” she prodded, tugging on his hand. “Able to work on his surprise?”
“Are we in a rush?”
Her smile faded, leaving only remnants of joy where it had been. “I think he could use some good news. I think it’s been a hard week, and I want to give him something wonderful, something that reminds him why all of this is worth it.”
Why did she care so much? What was it in her heart that melted at the sight of an old man losing a personal battle? He’d wondered the first time she’d mentioned the frame for the old black and white picture of the Red Door.
Reece wouldn’t have cared a lick about a man’s failing business. Marie worked night and day to help save it.
For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what he had thought was so special about Reece.
He pushed the door back into place
and pulled one of the hinge pivots from his pocket. “Will you put this in the barrel of the bottom hinge there?”
She knelt down and slipped it in place. Then took the top one and slid that into place too. She stepped inside as he swung the door all the way closed.
“I finished the frame while you were talking with Caden. And I ordered the glass from a guy I know who’s also going to do the brass plaque like you asked for. Just write down what you want it to say, and we can have it in plenty of time for the grand opening party.”
When he spoke the words, he felt so much more certain that they would have a grand opening. That the insurance company would pay out and the kitchen would be fixed, the doors would open, and Jack’s venture would be a success.
“Thank you.” She grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down until she could reach his lips with her own. She smelled of berries and cinnamon, like Caden’s kitchen. And she tasted like heaven, warm and pliant in his arms.
He’d build her a hundred picture frames if that was his reward.
Marie was elbow deep in dirt and flowers, her shins and knees caked with mud, when the phone rang that afternoon. She jerked out of the muck, stumbling up the steps and leaving dirt clods in her wake.
As soon as she was inside the door, she called out, “Is it Caden? Did she call about the job?” But no one answered her. The house felt empty as the phone rang again. She snatched it up. “Hello?”
“May I speak with Jack Sloane?”
The grouchy voice did not belong to Caden.
“I’m not quite sure where he is right now. Can I have him call you back?”
“This is Jeff Tate.”
From the insurance company. She scribbled his name and number onto a piece of paper on the kitchen counter, her hand shaking. This call was the difference between triumph and collapse.
“I work for Jack. Can you tell me what the decision is?”
“No. Have him call me immediately.”
“I will.” The other end of the line clicked in her ear, and she set the handset back in its cradle.