Unexpectedly Hers (Sterling Canyon Book 3)

by Jamie Beck

  All things considered, impulsiveness didn’t seem like a good plan to Emma.

  “My reputation. My pride. My dignity.” My heart.

  “Fine. I won’t bring it up again.” Kelsey fell silent for two seconds. “Before I hang up, you still have time to bake the cupcakes for the engagement party next weekend, right?”

  “Red velvet, your favorite.”

  “Thanks, Em.” Kelsey snickered. “So, I guess you won’t be bringing Wyatt as your date, then?”

  Emma scowled. “You said you’d drop it.”

  “When have you ever known ‘Boomerang’ to drop anything?” Kelsey laughed, which proved how far she’d come. She’d turned that horrible nickname that Grey had coined for her former stalker tendencies into some kind of badge of honor. In a way, Emma did envy Kelsey’s devil-may-care attitude, even though she didn’t believe she could live with the consequences as blithely as her friend. Then again, Kelsey’s bold maneuvers had led her to happiness, while Emma’s caution had not.

  Naturally, Wyatt reappeared before Emma had hung up. “Kels, I’ve got to go. I’m baking for the Care Center now.”

  “Emma Duffy, it’s high time you consider cookin’ something other than food in your kitchen,” Kelsey sang before she hung up.

  Emma set the phone down and stared at it, afraid to face Wyatt. She could actually feel the blush creeping up her body. Had he really told Trip he had a crush on her? It didn’t seem possible. Trip must’ve misunderstood.

  But a bet could explain Wyatt’s sudden interest in coming to the Care Center. What a lame schoolboy diversion to keep him from thinking about the avalanche and the huge task ahead. Shouldn’t surprise her, though, given his age.

  How foolish of her, to forget all of her mom’s lessons and fall for his “everyone likes to be needed” line. She could turn on him now and confront him, or she could use this knowledge to her advantage. Torture him a bit to make him pay for being an ass, and then turn him down.

  ’Cause if he’d made a bet, he was going to lose. She’d make sure of that.

  Chapter Six

  Before facing Wyatt, she unbuttoned her outer sweater and removed it to reveal the snug, V-necked T-shirt beneath. With a friendly smile fixed in place, she turned and hoped her eyes twinkled with the mischief she planned to cause.

  “Sorry, I got sidetracked.” She watched his gaze home in on her cleavage. To his credit, he didn’t let it linger overlong before it flicked back up to her face. “I need a few minutes to mix up the icing.”

  “That’s cool. Mind if I hang out?”

  “Why would I mind?” She strolled to the refrigerator to get the separated egg whites and butter, making sure to add a tiny oomph to each sway of her hips. “There’s a stool by the back door if you’d like to sit and rest your knee.”

  “Later.” He rested his butt against the counter while she whipped the egg whites and added confectioners’ sugar and vanilla.

  Emma swallowed hard because, aside from the fact that he was fully clothed, he looked exactly as she’d envisioned Dallas in the kitchen scene of her book. The one where he bent her, er—Ella over the counter and made use of a rubber spatula then secured her hands on the counter and took her from behind. Do not call him Dallas. Do not call him Dallas.

  “Did you know that confectioners’ sugar actually has a little cornstarch in it?” he asked.

  “Actually, that’s a bit of trivia I do know!” She grinned, feeling good about surprising him.

  “I should’ve guessed you’d know food trivia.” He crossed his arms and grinned. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

  Thankfully, a hundred beautiful memories of the hours she’d spent in this kitchen with her Grammy tumbled around her brain, obliterating naughty thoughts about Wyatt—er, Dallas.

  Grammy had taught her how to can tomatoes and peaches, how to make the flakiest piecrust with Crisco and ice-cold water, how to pair unusual herbs for optimal flavor. Grammy had been Emma’s calm in the eye of the storm, whether that had been her parents’ hot-and-cold relationship, the dark months after her father left, or the awkward teen years when her mother’s starchy attitude made it impossible to talk about crushes on boys without earning a lecture about keeping her legs closed.

  “My grandmother.” Emma smiled at the memory of Grammy’s gigantic pink curlers, the paunchy gut she camouflaged beneath muumuus, her nightly bourbon nightcaps, and the stash of racy romances tucked away in her room. The ones Emma had routinely sneaked to read. “She taught me everything I know, although I can never quite replicate her recipes. She had a magic touch.”

  “Sounds like you miss her.” Wyatt rested his elbows on the counter, leaning closer. The casual pose made her relax, too.

  “I do. She was wise and kind. Helpful without being overly preachy. Tolerant, which isn’t always something you see much in small towns. She had a good sense of humor, too.”

  “Was she Native American?”

  “No.” Her chin jerked inward. “Why would you think that?”

  Wyatt shrugged. “The name of the inn. The artifacts. Although, you don’t look like you have any of that heritage.”

  Emma grimaced. “I look like a relative of Casper the ghost.”

  “You have a beautiful complexion.” His matter-of-fact tone didn’t sound like a come-on or a ploy.

  If not for her good manners—a reflex from her mom’s conditioning—she probably couldn’t have spoken. Compliments weren’t something she heard often, or something she tended to believe. “Thank you.”

  Suddenly shy and self-conscious, she turned away, wondering if she should compliment him.

  While she floundered for something safe to say, he asked, “What about your parents? What are they like?”

  “My mother is . . . unique.” Emma looked upward, searching her brain for a better answer. “Most people would say she’s fastidious, chatty, dictatorial, and on occasion, a bit ridiculous. I suppose that’s all true, but she’s a goodhearted person who simply prefers order and rules. I think structure gives her comfort.”

  “Is your dad strict, too?”

  “Hardly,” Emma snorted. “He moved to Hollywood years ago to be a ‘big star.’ He landed some bit parts in movies and TV during those early days, but nothing that ever matched his dreams. People called him charming and handsome, but he was also a little selfish. Over the years our relationship has faded. I only hear from him on my birthday and Christmas, if that, and I haven’t seen him in four years.”

  “I’m sorry.” Wyatt fidgeted with a whisk Emma had left on the counter.

  “Me, too.” Emma wrinkled her nose. “Not so much for myself, though. My mom suffered more.” Emma had left so much about those early post-divorce months unspoken. Those months that had changed the course of her mother’s life as well as her own. “Maybe if she’d met someone new, she’d be less . . .”

  Then Emma paused, because she couldn’t put her finger on the words she wanted. She eyed Wyatt, a man much like her dad, and reminded herself that she’d never want to follow in her mother’s footsteps and fall for a chick magnet with big dreams, no matter how flattering his attention might seem at first.

  Silver screen-styled passion—the kind that steals one’s breath—was fleeting. The reality was that her mother had spent most of her marriage vying for her dad’s attention and resenting him at the same time. Emma had learned from that exactly what kind of husband to avoid. She wanted someone devoted to her and a family life, not to a career, and not to his own ego.

  Wyatt’s voice interrupted her private musing. “And you had to live through all of that here, with strangers around. Was it weird to grow up in an inn?”

  Emma shrugged. “However someone grows up is ‘normal’ to that person, I suppose, so it didn’t seem all that weird to me. And there are months when things are really quiet. November is a pretty quiet month, actually, since the resort doesn’t usually open until closer to Thanksgiving.”

  “So I ruined your peace and quiet?”
Wyatt smiled.

  More like her peace of mind. That lazy smile sent her right back to Aspen and the moment Wyatt had talked her into coming to his room, when he’d tugged her close right at the bar. When he’d boldly kissed her jaw just below her ear and whispered a pleading invitation.

  Heated shivers raced through her now, begging for her to act on the feelings. “Something like that.”

  Snap out of it! She’d been taking his friendly questions at face value, enjoying the exchange, the eye candy, the company. Now she remembered the stupid bet with Trip and her mission. My goodness, she was as gullible as her mom, letting herself wish for a kiss from a smooth talker like Wyatt.

  After folding the last ingredients of the icing together, she scraped a spoonful, dipped her finger into the icing, brought it to her mouth, and gave it a lick. “Deee-licious.”

  His pupils widened so fast they practically exploded, which spurred her on. Smiling, she dipped her finger in again but, to her shock, he grabbed her wrist.

  “Let me try.” He then tugged her hand to his mouth, and closed his lips around her iced finger.

  Too far. He knew he’d gone too far, but he didn’t care. She’d finally shed the baggy sweater and put her awesome, milky cleavage on display. That, plus the little smile tugging at her mouth and that damn erotic icing lick had made it impossible for him to stop himself.

  Now she stared at him, wide-eyed and stock-still.

  “Sorry.” He loosened his grip, wishing she’d dip her finger into the icing again and offer it up. “You made it look so tempting.”

  She slowly retracted her hand, wrapping her other hand around it and curling them both against her chest. Almost dazed, really. Very cute.

  Trip was right; Wyatt would probably lose the first bet, but maybe not the second.

  He watched her body quiver as she snapped back to the present. She didn’t slap him, although she also didn’t offer another swipe at her finger, either.

  “We need to wash our hands.” Emma refused to look at him. He sensed her internal battle as she crouched down and sorted through other mixing bowls. After selecting a cavernous metal one, she thrust it at his chest. “Gloves, actually. You should wear gloves before you break apart the cake.”

  “Okay.” Wyatt’s body buzzed with need, urging him to sidle up and seduce her. Take your time. He set the bowl down. “Where are they?”

  Emma looked at him now, her brows drawn in confusion, like she hadn’t heard the question, or couldn’t remember where she kept them—he wasn’t sure which. He’d clearly knocked her off balance. Unlike most chicks he’d known, Emma didn’t play coy. She seemed entirely unpracticed when it came to flirting and men. He felt protective even as he yearned to scale those walls.

  A dilemma he wished his conscience hadn’t raised.

  “Sorry. Over here.” She walked to another drawer, retrieved two sets, and returned. “We’ll wear these while rolling the balls, too.”

  He quirked a brow and held up the glove. “Sounds kinky.”

  So much for his conscience.

  Her cheeks bloomed red as strawberries against her creamy complexion. That thought gave him all kinds of ideas, because few things were better than mixing food and sex.

  “I didn’t, you shouldn’t . . .” She shook her head and peered at him. “Stop it.”

  Grinning, Wyatt held up his hands. “Stop what? Stop having fun?”

  “Stop flirting with me. Licking my finger and playing this game.” She pointed that sweetened finger at him and narrowed her eyes. “I know about the little bet with Trip, so you can just stop right now. I’m not interested in you and your little sexual diversions.”

  Dammit. How’d she know about his conversation with Trip already? Could he play dumb and deny it? Or should he throw Trip under the bus? Yeah, that. The guy had stacked the odds against Wyatt with the bet, and then gone and told her. The injustice rankled because Wyatt’s interest in Emma had nothing to do with that bet.

  If anything, learning a little bit about her past only made her more admirable, and him more curious. “Hold on. I never made a bet with Trip. He proposed one, but I never shook on it.”

  She straightened her shoulders, hands on her hips, looking bossy. “I don’t really care, Wyatt. Game over. So, if you want to help with this you can, or not. If you want to come to the care center tomorrow because you really want to, not because it’s part of a plan, then you can come. But this,” she gestured between them, “isn’t happening.”

  “Okay.” He told her what she wanted to hear, but her rejection had essentially laid down a challenge. That meant he’d probably just exert more effort to win.

  He slid the gloves on his hands and went to work crumbling up the cake. He’d be pissed at Trip, except he guessed the guy was alerting her to the chance that Wyatt would seduce her with false promises. Trip needn’t have bothered. Emma had never shown any real interest in Wyatt. All the tension he’d thought he felt between them had probably been more from scorn than attraction. Even now she resumed her work, apparently unaffected by his presence, lost in her own thoughts while she finished setting up the icing.

  “Tell me something,” Wyatt began, unable to pretend it didn’t bug the shit out of him. “Why don’t you like me?”

  “Did you come to that conclusion simply because, unlike other women, I’m not jumping into your bed?” Emma slid the bowl of crumbled cake toward her and mixed it together with the icing. “I like you fine for someone I barely know. I’m just not interested in being the next notch on your bedpost.”

  “That’s a big assumption . . . about me, I mean.”

  Emma cast an incredulous look his way before laughing. “Are you really going to stand there and pretend you haven’t been with a hundred women, if not more? Don’t bother, Wyatt. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Reputations are usually exaggerated.” He knew it. She’d written him off because of his past.

  “Whatever.” She paused, looking as if she were about to lay him out with a whopper of a statement, then reeled it in and shrugged. “Point is, I don’t dislike you, but that doesn’t mean I want to . . . be with you.”

  He noticed she didn’t look at him when she said that last part. Could she be lying to him, or to herself? It might not matter, but he hated the way she’d thrown his reputation in his face, even if it wasn’t really all that exaggerated. He’d never forced any woman to do anything she didn’t want to do.

  His mood shifted, veering toward irritation. If he wanted to get laid, he could find a dozen willing partners, none of whom would try to put him in his place.

  “Who says I’m dying to be with you? Maybe I’m only looking to make things friendly around here this month. The pressure on me is pretty damn intense. Ryder’s giving me attitude, Mari’s up my ass, and you barely crack a smile around me. All I want is for everyone to be a little more positive and fun.”

  Emma frowned, pouring the contents of an industrial-size container of jimmies into a baking pan. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Normally my mom’s here to help run the inn. Right now I’m responsible for everything, plus I have other obligations like,” she stopped, almost as if she’d stopped herself from confessing something else, “the care center, things I have to do for my friend’s engagement party, and so on. Compared to you, my pressure must look abysmally small, but that doesn’t mean I’m not busy or without obligations. Everything isn’t about you, least of all the reasons behind my behavior.”

  Once again, he’d been firmly put in his place. Based on her remarks, she thought he was an ego-driven athlete. In a town like this, she’d probably seen her fair share of those guys.

  Heck, her own dad had walked out on her to pursue his dreams. That alone explained why she didn’t trust men. Why she chose to hole up in this inn, repressing every womanly part of herself rather than letting her hair down. “Guess it’s all been in my imagination, then.”

  Emma measured the rum, poured it into the goopy mess of cake crumbles and
icing, and started mixing. “All what?”

  “The way that you’ve been avoiding me since I arrived.”

  Emma’s hands went up in the air. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not avoiding you. I’m working, Wyatt.”

  “Yet you have time to cozy up to Ryder.” Wyatt bit the inside of his cheek, embarrassed by the sulky tone of his voice.

  Emma inhaled exactly the same way his mom had done when he was a teen and annoying her. She slid the tray of jimmies between them and started rolling the cake balls. Apparently she liked to keep busy, no matter what else was going on. “I’m not cozying up to Ryder. But you’ve got a purpose, with your big goals and obligations. Your brother, on the other hand, seems a little lost. My heart goes out to him. I think he might like to be something other than a planet in your orbit.”

  Maybe she meant well, but like the baggage comment from earlier that morning, her explanation only set a fuse to his simmering temper.

  “You make it sound like I’m some kind of dick that’s dragging him around to be my gofer. That’s not what’s going on. I’ve dedicated the past couple years of my life to his recovery and helping my mom. I asked him to be part of this film for his sake as much as mine.”

  “Asked him, or commanded?” Her damn composure remained distant and efficient. “Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like he’s excited about being part of this production or by what you’re doing.”

  That jab landed like a punch to the jaw. She’d known Ryder for less than forty-eight hours. He’d known him for a lifetime. What the hell did she know, and yet, she had utter confidence in her conclusion. “For a girl who hides away in this inn under baggy clothes, you sure aren’t shy with your opinions, are you, Emma?”

  “If you don’t want them, don’t ask for them. You came into my space, not the other way around.” She dipped her hand in to scoop another bit of the rum ball mixture. “But before you go, has it occurred to you that maybe seeing you getting back into competition hasn’t just scared Ryder, maybe it’s made him jealous? Maybe watching you doing something he’ll probably never be able to do—not even for pleasure—makes him feel that loss more keenly?”