On Lavender Lane

by JoAnn Ross

  “It had to be worse for you. Hell, you lost both parents. When you were a lot younger than I am.”

  “I’m not sure comparisons matter when your heart feels broken.”

  “Good point. Thanks.” His smile was a ghost of the one that had always warmed her from the inside out. The one that caused that sexily adorable crease in his cheek.

  It was her turn to shrug. “So, if you’re not going to be my grandmother’s new cook, I take it you’re doing the remodeling work?”

  She remembered him puttering around the cottage with his dad. Remembered him telling her that while he enjoyed working with his hands and enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing something he’d helped build turn into a reality, he didn’t want to follow Duncan Chaffee into architecture.

  Architects spend way too much time in stuffy offices, he’d told her that long-ago summer. Designing things other people end up getting to build. I admire my dad more than anyone I know, but his life wouldn’t work for me. I might not have a handle on what I’m going to end up doing, Maddy. But I do know, whatever it is, it’s gotta be something where I can be hands-on.

  “That’s the plan,” he said now. “My father retired a few months ago. The idea was for the two of us to go into business together, restoring old houses.”

  “That sounds like a good plan.”

  “It was a great plan,” he said. “And I might still consider it down the road. But, to be honest, my heart isn’t into doing that right now. Not without him, since it was his idea in the first place. So I was sort of at loose ends yesterday when your grandmother offered me the job.”

  Suspicion stirred. “What time?”

  “What time, what?”

  “What time did she make the offer?”

  “Oh.” He rubbed his lightly stubbled jaw. “Let me think. She told me, while we were all on Cole’s boat, scattering Dad’s ashes at sea, that she wanted to talk to me about something. But she didn’t actually tell me what she had in mind until the memorial supper, here last night.”

  Not that many hours after Madeline’s world had exploded.

  Surely her grandmother, who knew the story of that long-ago Labor Day breakup, wouldn’t already be matchmaking? Not with the one man Madeline had sworn never to speak with again? Ever?

  And yeah, so far you’re sticking to that vow real well.

  She had just determined that she was going to have to be tougher when she found herself drowning in chocolate brown eyes.

  “I’m sorry as hell what happened between you and the Frenchman,” he said. The sympathy in his gaze seemed genuine. It wasn’t a gooey pity, but that of the friend he’d been before she’d admittedly pushed him into intimacy. “But I’m going to have to be honest here and tell you that it feels really, really good to see you again, Maddy.”

  11

  “Don’t do that.” She held up a hand like a traffic cop and shot him a warning glare.

  Lucas had thought he was making headway. Apparently, he’d been wrong.

  “Do what?”

  “You know.”

  He did. But damned if he was going to admit that after giving it some serious thought, he wouldn’t mind starting over again. Doing things right this time.

  Her hair was sleep tousled, which had Lucas imagining her in bed. Which wasn’t the safest thought at the moment. But it was definitely one that had not only tortured his sleep last night, but had continued flitting through his mind on the drive from the cottage to the farm.

  Her pink flannel pajamas definitely hadn’t been designed with seduction in mind. But the ice-cream-sundae print only had him wanting to lick her. All over.

  Her smoky eyes were almond shaped, and brought to mind tambourines and gypsies in colorful skirts dancing around a campfire. He remembered, one night, in their own special, secret cave, after they’d first made love on a burst of joyous, youthful romanticism, telling her exactly that.

  And, oh yes, Lucas also remembered how the next night she’d actually shown up at the beach with a tambourine she’d bought at Moonstruck Music and danced for him.

  Just for him.

  As his hormones spiked, he wondered if she’d ever danced for the Frenchman.

  Jealousy had teeth. And they were gnawing at his gut.

  “What? I’m not allowed to say that I’m glad to see you? That you’re looking damn fine on the eyes?”

  She grimaced and brushed at her hair. “Liar. I look like roadkill.”

  “Not at all.” Because he’d lied to her once, Lucas decided, now that fate—or perhaps that wily Sofia—had thrown them back together, he would tell the absolute truth. “You do look a little tired.”

  Because he could not be in the same room with her without touching, he skimmed a finger along the shadows beneath her remarkably expressive eyes.

  Despite having grown up in Europe with parents who’d cooked not just for their neighbors, but for the rich and famous, she’d always been the most genuine person Lucas had ever known. Which is why her television stardom had come so quickly, he considered. Because the women who’d tuned in to every show, bought her book and pots and pans, and made her a household name could identify with her.

  “And sad,” he said. Also, despite the lush curves, which he was grateful to see she hadn’t lost during her years living among the rich and chic in New York City, there was an air of fragility about her.

  “I’m not sad.” Now who’s the liar? She batted at his hand and backed away from his touch. “I’m angry and disappointed and embarrassed.”

  He understood the first two. But the third?

  “What the hell do you have to be embarrassed about?”

  She held up a finger. Her unpainted nails were still short—better, she’d once told him, for working in the kitchen.

  “How about the fact that if anyone Googles my name, a damn sex video is the first bazillion hits?”

  “But you’re not in it.”

  Color tinged her too-pale cheeks. “Of course I’m not. Just because I’m on TV doesn’t mean I’m an exhibitionist.”

  “You don’t have to convince me of that.” Although she’d been the one pushing to take their relationship to the next level, she’d proven sweetly shy after that first burst of passion, afraid he’d find her soft, curvy body a turn-off. Which had so not been the case.

  “I told you. Don’t you dare go there.”

  “Where?” he asked with feigned innocence, remembering the first time he’d talked her out of her bra.

  “You know where.” He found her flare of heat encouraging. He’d rather have her angry at him than cool as a cucumber. Cool could mean indifference. Anger was an emotion he could work with. “Bad enough that, thanks to my grandmother, we’re apparently going to be sharing this house for the next few weeks—”

  “So, you’re home for a while, then?” Things were definitely looking up.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.” She threw her hands up, apparently forgetting whatever else she’d been about to list. There were very few things that could throw Maddy off track. Lucas decided he liked being one of them.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t distracted for long.

  “Getting back to my point, I’m embarrassed that people think I’m not good enough in bed to keep my husband from straying.”

  “O-kay. That one is so far off base, I don’t even have words to respond.” He leaned closer. “But you know what they say about actions being stronger than words.”

  Her back was against the counter. Even knowing that he was pushing, some voice of reason in the back of his mind cautioned that touching would be a major mistake.

  At least at this point.

  Instead, he put his hands on the counter, framing her between his arms.

  “Lucas…”

  The little hitch in her voice reminded him of the first time he’d kissed her.

  They’d driven into town on some errand for her grandmother. What, exactly, he couldn’t recall. But he did remember walking along the harbor as
the old-fashioned gaslights flickered on, casting a fog-softened, warm yellow glow over the buildings that were not much different from the day they’d first been built during the 1800s.

  They passed the bright and cheery shops, selling local crafts and gifts, and dropped into Coastal Candy, where he bought her a white bag of saltwater taffy.

  They were sitting on the stone seawall, watching the fishing boats chugging back in with their day’s catch of fish and Dungeness crab, when she held out a pink and white piece of peppermint taffy.

  And suddenly, lightning struck from the crimson and gold, sunset-tinged sky, hitting his heart, which stumbled beneath his chest.

  You’re going to screw up a good thing, his head had told that unsteady heart.

  You don’t know that. And it’s not like you’re planning to do her right in front of all those tourists, another, more vital part of his body, argued.

  It’ll complicate things. She’s leaving town. You’re leaving town. You’ll probably never see each other after this summer, his logical head had pointed out.

  All the more reason to go for it, his traitorous body insisted. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life wondering what it’d be like.

  Oh, hell…

  He’d still been arguing with himself when she’d leaned forward just the slightest bit. And as he’d found himself drowning in her eyes, Lucas totally understood how ancient sailors had allowed themselves to be drawn beneath the sea by sirens.

  Throwing caution, along with all his good intentions, to the wind, he’d made his decision.

  It was only a whisper of a kiss. Just a brushing of lips, a touching of mouths. She’d tasted sweet. And tart. Lucas knew that he’d never again taste taffy or peppermint without thinking of this girl.

  When her breath trembled, he imagined how it would be—lying with her on the beach as the waves washed the sands and the summer sun warmed her vanilla-scented skin. Her fluid body moving beneath his, the soft little cries she’d make as he tasted her. All over.

  But for then, in that stolen, unexpected moment in time, when the tides seemed to have stopped their ebb and flow and the earth appeared to have stopped spinning, he’d forced himself to be satisfied with savoring her moist, luscious mouth.

  “Do you remember,” he asked now, “that day on the seawall? When I kissed you for the first time?”

  From the way her pupils flared and her eyes darkened, he knew she did. “Vaguely.”

  She was lying.

  He knew it.

  And he knew that she knew that he knew.

  “I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it.”

  “Sure you have.” Her brows drew together as her eyes focused like a laser on his. “I didn’t just fall off the truffle truck, Lucas. If you actually expect me to believe that while you were traipsing all over the world fighting terrorists, you were thinking about kissing me, you’ve obviously mistaken me for that naive eighteen-year-old I used to be.”

  “I’m not saying that. But ever since I started watching those cooking shows of yours—”

  “Coming from a man who’s already stated that an MRE is the height of his culinary abilities, I’m finding the idea of you sitting in front of your TV, watching the Cooking Network instead of ESPN, a bit of a stretch.”

  “I caught a few episodes. While channel surfing,” he lied. “And, hey, thanks to you, I now not only know how to double bake a potato, but I even have a handle on braising short ribs.”

  Lucas felt the change in her instantly. He could practically see the ice flowing over her.

  “Back up.” Both her hands pushed against his chest and her voice shook.

  “Sure.”

  Lucas had gotten good at reading people’s thoughts. Many times when it had just been his SEAL team and him alone up in the mountains of Afghanistan, his life had depended on it. A cold fury and what appeared to be pain had replaced the reluctant desire in her eyes.

  “Although you’re the last man on earth—other than my cheating rat of a husband—I’d want to spend time with, for my grandmother’s sake, it appears we’re going to be stuck with each other for a while,” she said, her tone now as sharp as that lethal-looking carving knife she’d been holding. “However, I’m going to expect you to behave professionally. Which means, unless you want to lose them, keep your damn hands off me.”

  “Okay.” He’d never been one to pressure a woman into bed (truthfully, he’d never needed to), and he damn well wasn’t going to begin with Maddy. “But am I allowed to ask one question?”

  “What?”

  “Are you saying you’ve never thought about me?”

  “Of course I have.”

  So he wasn’t alone.

  Her smile was as cold and sharp as an ice pick. “Whenever I’m pounding cutlets or making sausage.”

  “Ouch. That sound you heard was my ego deflating.”

  She tossed her head, morphing back into the self-assured TV chef who’d assured him that sizzling was good. Something he figured he’d better not mention.

  “Don’t ask a question if you’re not prepared for the answer,” she said. “Now, if you promise not to steal the silverware while you’re alone in the house, I believe I’ll change and go out for something to eat. I have a sudden craving for a Grateful Bread Belgian waffle.”

  With the deftness of moment he’d admired while watching her cook, she put the ingredients away, then left the kitchen with an amazing amount of dignity for a woman clad in peppermint pink, ice-cream-sundae pajamas and bare feet.

  12

  After getting her marketing done, Sofia dropped into the Dancing Deer Dress Shoppe Two for her weekly visit with Doris and Dottie Anderson, identical twins who owned the boutique. As usual, Adèle Douchett, Sax’s grandmother, was there, though lately, due to what everyone hoped were temporary memory problems, her husband had taken to walking to the shop with her, then picking her up later.

  Usually, Zelda Chmerkovskiy, who’d established Haven House, a shelter for abused women, and lived there as a sort of housemother, would join them. But according to Dottie, she’d called earlier to say she was helping a new resident settle in.

  Sofia was grateful that whoever the woman was would have the former Ukrainian ballerina there for her. But she was also sad that such a place would be needed at all. The good news was that Maddy hadn’t been in danger. At least she sincerely hoped that hadn’t been the case.

  “So,” Dottie asked, with scandalized excitement, “is it true what people are saying about your granddaughter’s French chef husband?”

  “Dottie,” Doris, the older by five minutes and the more sedate sister, chastened. “That’s none of our business.”

  “I know.” Beringed hands fluttered beneath the sleeves of the rainbow-colored blouse she was wearing over turquoise slacks. “But it’s all over town.”

  “Unfortunately, I suspect it’s all over the planet,” Sofia said with a long sigh as she bit into a melt-in-the-mouth vanilla custard cupcake from Take the Cake. She always picked up a box before showing up at the shop, where the other women would have tea brewed with herbs from Lavender Hill Farm waiting. Today’s blend was a refreshing lemongrass chai.

  “And while the video appears to be genuine—”

  “You’ve seen it?” Dottie’s eyes widened.

  “Sister,” Doris warned cautiously.

  “I felt I had no choice.” Although Sofia and her husband had always shared a healthy sex life and she liked to think that she’d kept up with the times, she was still of a generation not that comfortable discussing intimate bedroom matters. Especially when they concerned family. “If only to know how bad things were.”

  “How bad are they?” Doris asked, proving even she wasn’t immune to tabloid fare.

  “Not good, I’m afraid.” Sofia tried to close her mind to the images that seemed to have been burned into her memory as she took a long sip of the milky tea.

  “Poor Maddy. My heart aches for her.” Adèle Douchett shoo
k her head with what Sofia knew was very real regret.

  Adèle had been her dearest friend for fifty years, since they’d both arrived in Shelter Bay as young brides. Sofia from Livorno, Italy; Adèle from Louisiana’s bayou country.

  There’d even been a time when they’d both hoped that Madeline would marry one of Adèle’s grandsons, giving them the great-grandchildren they both were yearning to spoil. Although Cole and Sax were both now taken, Sofia had been holding out hope for J.T., the youngest Douchett brother. She’d never believed Maddy’s marriage to that Frenchman would last.

  But now, with J.T. still traveling the world as a Marine and Lucas Chaffee back in town, her sights were shifting to a more eligible candidate.

  After all, it had been obvious to anyone who’d taken the time to truly look—and she had—that what the two of them had shared ten years ago was much more than puppy love. And although what Lucas had done appeared on the surface to be unforgivable, Sofia had always suspected there was more to the story.

  She’d been considering changes to Lavender Hill Farm for some time. But her life had been in flux after being widowed, and everything she’d read advised against making any major lifestyle changes after the loss of a spouse.

  Still, while she had a great many friends, the unpalatable fact was that she’d slipped a bit into the doldrums. The new dog Charity had coaxed her into adopting—not that it had taken all that much coaxing, since Winnie was adorable, and needed her as much as she needed the dog—had brought sunshine back into her days.

  But having always been active and involved in the community, Sofia needed more. She was ready to shake up her life a bit. And if she could do a little matchmaking while turning the Lavender Hill Farm’s kitchen into a family restaurant serving fresh, sustainable food from local farms, why, all the better.

  13