by Melody Grace
Summer blinked. The bookshop was empty, but she needed him in a good mood to give the OK for her demolition plans, so she didn’t push. “Later is fine,” she said quickly. “How about you come by the bakery around six? I’ll be able to show you everything in person.”
“Six.” Grayson nodded. “See you then.”
He picked up his book again, clearly done talking. Summer hesitated, but he didn’t look up again, so she took the hint and let herself out. The door shut behind her with a ring.
What a curious man.
Curious, unreadable, and undeniably handsome. He also didn’t seem in a hurry to make friends, but Summer wasn’t worried. It might take some time for him to warm up to her, but she had a few tricks up her sleeve—starting with their meeting tonight.
She was going to need a lot of butter.
7
Grayson waited until he’d closed up the shop, reorganized the local history section, and gotten a jump-start on that month’s accounts before finally locking up and heading over to Blackberry Lane. It wasn’t that he wanted to make Summer wait, but her arrival had already disrupted his schedule in a handful of small ways, and he was determined not to let the disturbance spread.
Women had a way of throwing everything off course.
Grayson knew his reputation around town. They thought he was too reserved and self-contained. Part of that was his natural inclination as an Englishman, but he liked to think of himself as a man of routine. He’d constructed his life to have minimal drama, no wild-card chaos charging through, leaving havoc in its wake. Drama was exciting in the moment, sure. It made the heart pound and your blood run hot, but like one too many drinks at the pub on a Friday night, it was liable to leave you with a killer hangover the next morning, trying to remember that parade of bad decisions. Grayson preferred all things in moderation. After all, he could savor a single glass of scotch, and get his heart rate pumping on those early-morning runs. No need to chase an excess of danger, when just a small taste suited him fine.
Which is why he arrived at the property on Blackberry Lane already cautious, wondering what his new tenant had in store. He found the front door ajar and piles of trash already stacked out front. Inside, there were rags draped over furniture, and more boxes littering the room.
“Hi!” Summer appeared from the back, startling him. She was dressed in cut-offs and a clinging tank, with her riot of dark curls caught back behind her ears. “You’re right on time.”
Grayson took another few steps deeper into the mess, trying to avoid stepping on anything sharp.
“Don’t freak out,” Summer said quickly. “It gets worse before it gets better.”
“I know.” Grayson wondered, with the anxious look on her face, if he’d come on too strong with his “no mess” line before. “I figured you’d need to tear everything out, for a fresh start. Salt the earth,” he added. “Or at least, disinfect it.”
“OK, good.” Summer let out an audible breath of relief. “Then come on back.”
He followed her through to the kitchen area. To his surprise, this area was spotless, with the floors swept, windows sparkling, and countertops gleaming like they were brand new.
“I can’t focus unless the kitchen’s clean,” Summer explained, pulling out a chair for him at the makeshift table of a couple of upended crates covered with a cloth. “Doesn’t matter where I am. Once, I was crashing with friends, and I couldn’t sleep knowing the dishes were still in the sink. They found me polishing silverware at three in the morning.” She smiled at him again, her whole face lit up with excitement, and Grayson blinked from the warmth.
That smile spelled trouble.
He cautiously took a seat. “You said you had some plans to run by me,” he said, trying to stay on track. There were a couple of candles lit along the counter, flickering in the sinking sun, casting the whole room in a rosy glow.
Romantic.
“Right. Plans. Are you hungry?” she asked.
He blinked. “Well, I was on my way home for dinner—”
“Great!” Summer exclaimed. She whipped a couple of plates off the counter, and set them down in front of him. “I made apple strudel.”
Grayson took in the spread. It looked damn good.
“You’re trying to butter me up,” he said, even as his mouth was watering.
“Literally.” Summer beamed. “Go on, try some.” She cut a slice and nudged his plate closer. It would have been downright rude not to take a bite, so Grayson obliged.
The dense, flaky pastry broke apart in his mouth, and the tart, sweet flavor of the fruit broke through. Apples and cinnamon and . . . “Is that cardamom?”
“Good catch.” Summer looked impressed. “Most people only use it for savory dishes, but I think it really plays off the acid notes in the apples.”
Grayson wolfed down the rest of the slice in three bites, and Summer cut him another. “I shouldn’t . . .” he said, not meaning it for one minute, and luckily, she didn’t believe him.
“I had Cooper over, and he had some great ideas for the renovations,” Summer said casually, while he was digging in. “It’s all pretty straightforward, just painting and decorating, and taking this wall out, and maybe some built-in shelving out front.”
He was still savoring the strudel when her words filtered through. Grayson stopped. “Wait a minute, what did you say?”
Summer looked at him with an innocent expression. “Built-ins,” she explained. “In the front. To display cookbooks, or old china. Here, he did some sketches . . .”
“No.” Grayson put his fork down. He didn’t need that sugar rush clouding his judgment. “The wall.”
“Oh. Right. That.” Summer looked guilty. “It would just make sense to open it up, don’t you think? That dining room is just taking up space, and with it gone, I could fit a big central island for food prep.”
Grayson sadly pushed his plate away. “I knew there was no such thing as a free lunch.”
“It’s only strudel,” Summer comforted him. “Believe me, if I was making lunch, I would have asked for a whole lot more.”
Grayson had to give her points for style. Still, he didn’t like how close he’d come to not even noticing the request, sandwiched as it was between delicious layers of butter and sugar. “I told you when I agreed to the lease: no drama.” He tried to look stern, but Summer laughed.
“It’s ten feet, not the Berlin Wall. Come on, Cooper will take care of the permits, and I’m the one footing the bill. What do you have to lose?”
She smiled at him again from across the milk crates, and Grayson felt his resolve falter. When she put it like that, it seemed like a reasonable request . . .
He sat back and looked around. He couldn’t believe that in a couple of short days, the kitchen had been transformed. She had stacks of colorful mixing bowls and Tupperware everywhere, and even a vase of wild roses on the window ledge, brightening the room. “You really love this place, don’t you?” he asked, not understanding her fervor.
“I fell the minute I laid eyes on it,” she said simply. “I know it might seem strange to you, but this is my dream right here.”
“You dreamed about damp patches and faulty wiring?” he asked, still dubious.
Summer shook her head. “I dreamed about somewhere to share my food with people. To write my own menus, and make my own rules, and put a smile on their faces—like the way you smiled when you took that first bite of strudel. ”
Her voice was soft, but her eyes shone with passion, and her cheeks were flushed—from the heat in the kitchen or just the dim light of the setting sun he wasn’t sure. Either way, she was too beautiful to be sitting so close and looking at him that way—like he could make all her dreams come true with a few simple words.
“Fine,” he agreed, surprising himself. “You can lose the wall.”
Summer leapt to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you!” she cried, hugging him close.
Grayson tensed in surprise.
Her hair brushed his cheek, and he caught the scent of sugar and butter and vanilla, as intoxicating as the curves pressed softly against him.
She was delicious.
The hunger startled him, a fierce rush of longing to taste her for himself. Grayson lurched back in time to catch a glimpse of her lush lips parted, inviting more. He could have reached for her right then and taken it—claimed her mouth the way he wanted, pressing those curves back into the counter until he’d tasted more—but in that brief hesitation, Summer seemed to blink back to reality.
“Sorry.” She pulled away, blushing. “Boundaries, I know. I have a bad habit of acting first, thinking later. In case the whole ‘pack it in and move to Sweetbriar’ thing didn’t make it obvious enough.” She gave a flustered smile, and for reasons Grayson couldn’t fathom, he decided to take her advice.
He acted first, thought later, and kissed her.
She didn’t know quite how it happened. One step, that’s all it took for Grayson to close the distance between them and brush his lips to Summer’s. It was barely a whisper, a split-second rush of heat, but somehow, it sparked through her like wildfire.
She wanted him.
His mouth was warm, sweet from the strudel, and infinitely tempting. His lips pressed softly, slow as molasses, and Summer felt the heat roll through her.
Delicious.
But before she even had a chance to move closer, Grayson pulled away.
“Well, that was unfortunate.”
Her eyes shot open. There were a dozen words she’d use to describe a kiss like that—yes; mmmm; more—but unfortunate wasn’t one of them.
Grayson cleared his throat, looking awkward. “I don’t know what came over me,” he said, oddly formal considering he’d just had his lips pressed intimately against hers. “My apologies.”
Summer blinked. “I . . . OK.”
“Call it a lapse in sanity,” he continued.
“Gee, thanks.”
Grayson seemed startled. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“No, you did.” Summer turned and busied herself packing up the strudel in a Tupperware container. Her heart was still pounding, and if she didn’t do something with her hands, she was liable to reach for him and show him exactly what unfortunate looked like.
“Here, for the road.” She presented it to him with a bright smile. If he could act like that kiss didn’t affect him one bit, then she could too.
Kiss? What kiss?
“So, we’re alright?” Grayson looked puzzled.
“Why wouldn’t we be?” Summer countered, trying to sound breezy. “You think you’re the first man to kiss me after tasting that strudel?” She winked. “It’s a good thing I didn’t bake you my chocolate mousse cake. You’d have me naked on the floor by now.”
Too far.
Grayson’s eyes flashed with something dark and hot, and Summer felt a shiver of pure lust spiral through her body. She gulped. “Anyway. Thanks for approving the plans. I appreciate it.”
He nodded. “Right. Of course. Good night.”
He turned on his heel and left before Summer even had a chance to say goodbye. But that was probably for the best, she thought. He clearly thought the kiss had been a mistake, but if he’d stayed any longer, she might have tried to prove him wrong.
And replay the feel of the tall, solid planes of his body pressed against her . . .
Summer didn’t know what had happened. The look on his face when he’d bit into the pastry had made her heart beat faster, and when he’d almost closed his eyes to savor the taste . . .
She wanted him to taste her like that.
And then, suddenly, he was.
There was a meowing sound, and she looked up to find that ginger ball of fluff on the window ledge, pawing at the catch.
He meowed again.
“Fine.” Summer opened the window and the cat jumped down, nuzzling at her ankles. “But no messy paws in the kitchen. I don’t suppose you have a name?”
There was no collar or tag, so Summer scratched his chin. His purr could have stopped traffic. “You look like a Marmaduke,” she decided, and his nuzzling seemed to agree. She found a saucer and poured him some milk, watching as he eagerly lapped it up. “So tell me, Marmaduke. How are you with a mop?”
He purred in response, then settled down to lick himself. She smiled. “Figured.”
Summer grabbed a broom and got back to cleaning. Whatever was going on in that Grayson’s mind, there was work to be done. She already knew mixing romance and baking was doomed to failure, and she may be impulsive, but she wasn’t about to risk this amazing opportunity before it had even begun.
Last time, it had nearly cost her everything.
They had warned her. Every female chef she’d met—and there weren’t many of them—said getting involved with someone in the same industry was a mistake; even worse, the same kitchen. But Summer had been young, and head over heels for New York and her first big pastry chef job, and thought they were exaggerating. Besides, she barely left the kitchen—who else was she going to date? In the heat and chaos of the restaurant, it all seemed so romantic: Danny was the young, hot sous-chef on the rise, their eyes met over the mise-en-place, and soon they were sneaking off to the wine cellar together every chance they got. She was crazy about him, and even better, he understood her life. The late nights and long hours didn’t matter, because he was right there toiling alongside her, brainstorming menus and restaurant ideas for the day they would finally venture out on their own. It was the two of them against the world: they moved in together, made plans, and everything was perfect . . . until she found him sneaking off to the wine cellar with a pretty blonde server from morning shift. And just like that, the restaurant—her favorite place in the world—became somewhere tainted with humiliation and regret.
But this was her dream, and the job was too good to just walk away, so every day, Summer had to go to work and watch him fawn over every other female staffer there—feeling that agony of rejection and betrayal fresh all over again. She was heartbroken and distracted, and soon, she started messing up the food: easy mistakes that threw the whole balance of the kitchen off, subjecting her to daily screaming episodes that broke down her confidence until she wondered whether her mother was right. Maybe she just didn’t have what it took to be a great chef—or even a halfway good one.
Maybe this had all been a mistake from the start.
It was her chocolate torte that had saved her. One night after another terrible service, she’d found a rival chef waiting for her outside. He was opening a second location, and wanted her to run the desserts. She said yes on the spot, and after two years there, she’d been poached by Andre, one more rung up on the ladder. And now she was here: Sweetbriar Cove. With four dusty walls, her dream kitchen, and her limitless imagination.
Which kept drifting back to Grayson, and the way his mouth felt, that brief brush of heaven against her lips . . . She’d been joking before, but now, she wondered if the way to that man’s heart wasn’t his stomach. If he felt that way about her strudel, just wait until she fed him some of her éclairs . . . or her devil’s food chocolate cake with the sinful spicy ganache . . .
Stop right there.
Summer shook her head. What was she thinking? She’d learned her lesson with Danny, and she wasn’t twenty-two anymore. This dream was her biggest yet, and she’d put everything on the line to make it a reality. Just because the man had eyes she could drown in, and a body made to press her into the mattress, didn’t mean she was going to make the same mistake again.
Grayson Reid could keep his distance, that was alright with her. The only buns she needed in her life were the kind that came with pistachio crumble and caramel glaze.
After all, once people had a taste of her sticky morning rolls, they all swore they were better than sex.
8
Summer worked around the clock, and with the help of Cooper’s crew, the bakery was quickly transformed. New lights, paint, clean windows . . . she co
uld hardly believe that the bright, airy space was the same as the dim cave of a shop she’d stumbled over just a few weeks ago. There was a gleaming counter and a display case, just waiting to be filled with delicious treats, and those bookshelves Cooper built gave the whole room a vintage, lived-in feel. With the wall removed in the back, her kitchen was twice the size, and once the gas was hooked up and the electricity was running, she was ready for action.
“You don’t have to move out just yet,” Poppy said, helping Summer pack her things up. They were at Aunt June’s, where Summer had been crashing while they made the bakery habitable. “Stay another few days.”
“Are you talking about me or my morning pastries?” Summer teased.
Poppy laughed. “Busted. I swear I’ve put on five pounds this week.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. And don’t worry,” Summer added. “I’m going to need help testing my recipes. I have so many ideas about what to put on the menu, I have no idea how to whittle them down before opening.”
Poppy let out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s asking a lot, but friendship is about sacrifice. I guess I can help, if you really need. Oh, you know who would be great?” she added, brightening. “My friend Mackenzie. I’ve been meaning to get us all together. She’s the sculptor, she made those cute bowls you like.”
“The more mouths, the merrier.” Summer laughed. “Wait, that sounds dirty.”
“Speaking of . . .” Poppy gave her a knowing look. “How’s your landlord?”
Summer shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him around this week. He’s pretty much left us in peace.”
“Mmmhmm.” Poppy sounded like she didn’t buy Summer’s nonchalant act one bit. That was the problem with best friends: they saw straight through you—especially when you’d spilled all the details of your unexpected kiss. “Maybe you can invite him for a tasting session, too.”
Summer knew exactly what she wanted Grayson to taste, and it wasn’t her croissants. “Maybe,” she said, and changed the subject. “What color should I paint the apartment do you think? A warm yellow, to catch all the sun?”