“It tastes like . . . regular old fudge. Nothing special. Nothing that people are going to travel hundreds of miles to buy.” She dipped a finger into the empty pot, tasted the chocolate, and scowled. “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“You have a recipe?”
“Of course, and I’m following it exactly. For some reason, though, I can’t get it right.”
“Want some help?” he asked, as if he knew something about making fudge.
He didn’t, so it was just as well that Adeline shook her head. “Granddad would kill me if I let someone who wasn’t family in on the secret recipe. Besides,” she continued, eyeing the pan of fudge as if she thought scorpions were going to crawl out of it, “I have to figure it out. It’s a point of pride, a rite of passage.”
“Says Byron?”
“Says me. But I don’t think I’m going to figure it out tonight, and I’ve got a boatload of accounting work to catch up on, and then there’s Tiny. He may have chewed through the mudroom door by now.” She took off her apron, hung it on a hook near the door, grabbed a dry-erase marker from a drawer, and walked to the whiteboard.
“Fudge attempt number ninety,” she said, putting a line through one of the items. “Complete.”
“And the kitchen is clean,” he added, leaning past her and running his finger through another one of the items.
“Not quite. I still need to . . .” She turned, and they were so close he could see deep blue flecks in her violet eyes, see that little smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth and the golden tips to her red lashes.
Whatever she’d been planning to say must have gotten lost in the moment, in the quick zip of heat that seemed to spark between them.
Her cheeks went bright red, and she scurried away, grabbing a broom from a closet.
“You should probably go,” she said, and he thought she was right.
He should go.
He didn’t really want to go, though.
He wanted to take the broom and sweep the floor, and listen to Adeline hum another one of the songs he’d played.
Not good, Sinclair, his brain whispered.
Adeline was as deeply connected to Benevolence as anyone could be. Everywhere he’d gone, he’d heard her name. The diner. The hardware store. The Daily Grind. People loved her, and she seemed to love them. Why else would her whiteboard be filled with things she had to do for other people?
Chocolate hearts for May. Balance Jeb Forsythe’s books. Make a batch of white chocolate bark for Maeve Henderson. Visit Leticia Miller in the hospital. Call Janelle.
He ran a finger through that one, smudging the marker.
Lose ten pounds.
He ran a finger through that too.
“Hey!” She marched over, her eyes flashing, her cheeks still pink. “You can’t just arbitrarily cross things off the list, Sinclair.”
“You already spoke to your mother, and you don’t need to lose ten pounds.”
She scowled. “I do if I want to fit into the bridesmaid dress.”
“You’ll fit just fine.” He let his gaze skim over her curves, because she looked damn good in a T-shirt and jeans.
“Easy for you to say,” she murmured, turning away and sweeping the floor as if her life depended on it. “You’re not going to be standing in front of Benevolence Baptist Church looking like a giant orange sausage.”
“I can think of plenty of things you looked like in that dress, but a sausage isn’t one of them.”
She stopped sweeping, swung around. “I don’t want to hear any of them. Not one.”
“Okay,” he said, because she was teary-eyed again, and he thought that had a lot more to do with the wedding and the list than it did the dress and the way she looked in it.
“Just okay? No platitudes? No compliments? No sweet words to soothe my ravaged ego?”
“I could give you a hundred compliments, Adeline, but it wouldn’t change the way you feel.”
“You’re right about that.” She sighed, leaning over to sweep a few crumbs into the dustpan, her jeans clinging to the curves she seemed so determined to lose.
“You know what the real problem is?” she continued, oblivious to the direction of his thoughts and his gaze.
That made him feel like the lowest kind of heel, so he took a dishrag and started scrubbing chocolate off the stainless steel counter, focusing his energy on something more productive than eyeing her gorgeous curves. “What?”
“I don’t know how to say no. If I’d told Granddad I wouldn’t run the shop or told May I couldn’t be her maid of honor, or told my mother there was no way I was bringing a date to the wedding, I wouldn’t be in the mess I’m in.”
“You’re not bringing a date to the wedding?” He glanced at the list. She’d written that in bold red: Date to the wedding.
“Nope, because first, I don’t want a date to the wedding. Second, I don’t have one to bring.” She grabbed bowls from the drainer and stood on her toes to place them on a shelf.
And he found himself noticing again the way her jeans clung to slim thighs and rounded hips, the way her T-shirt pulled across full breasts.
“God knows, I’ve tried to find one. I’ve asked every friend, called in every favor, but the only person available is Randal Custard.”
“Why not go with him then?”
“Obviously, you haven’t met the guy. He’s a jackass whose head is so big I’m surprised he can fit it through doorways and into his sporty little car.” She paused. “He’s the kind of guy who has a new girlfriend every few months. He wines and dines them with his family’s money and then cuts them off when a younger, prettier model comes along. He’s been married three times. And”—she took a deep breath—“he drives a Mazda.” She spit that out as if it were poison, and he smiled.
“I take it you don’t like Mazdas?”
“I don’t like Randal, and I’m disgusted that he’s my only option.”
“So, don’t go with anyone. You did say that you didn’t want a date, right?”
“Janelle wants me to have a date. Both my sisters will have dates, and I’ll be her poor old spinster daughter who can’t catch a man.” There wasn’t a hint of self-pity in her words, no real sound of regret or self-deprecation.
Still, he wanted to tell her that she was the farthest thing from a poor old spinster that he’d ever seen.
She snatched the rag from his hand and rinsed it in hot water, her shoulder pressing against his arm, tiny tendrils of hair curling at her nape.
He couldn’t resist, or maybe he just didn’t want to. He brushed the hairs from her neck, his fingers sliding over cool, smooth flesh.
She met his eyes, and there was something there between them, something so strong, so undeniable that he leaned in, was so close to tasting her lips that his blood burned with the need for it.
The back door flew open, a gust of icy wind racing in. Janelle raced in with it, her hair perfectly in place, her black coat swishing around slack-clad legs. She had gloves, a scarf, a purse hiked over her shoulder.
“Sinclair,” she said, her gaze jumping from him to Adeline and back again. “Just the man I was looking for.”
He didn’t back away from Adeline.
Why would he?
He did straighten, moving himself a little out of range of her soft lips.
“If this is about the light on in the apartment, it’s not a big deal.”
“That isn’t the way I see it.” She crossed the room and set her purse on the counter. She opened it, pulling out a hardware bag. “You are my father-in-law’s tenant, and I want you to feel secure in your new home.”
“I’m plenty secure,” he assured her, but she had a bee in her bonnet, and he didn’t think she’d hear a word he said.
“I contacted a friend of mine. He’s a locksmith. He’ll be here first thing in the morning to change the doorknob and lock on your front door.” She opened the bag, pulled out a generic doorknob that wasn’t going to do the b
uilding justice.
“I can take care of it, Janelle,” he offered, because there was no way in hell he was letting anyone put a modern doorknob on an antique door.
“Contractually, Byron is to pay for and handle any and all maintenance issues.”
“This isn’t a maintenance issue,” he pointed out.
Janelle frowned. “It is a security issue, and it’s worrying me.”
“There’s no need to worry.”
“I beg to differ,” she responded, her attention turning to Adeline again. “You’re sure you weren’t up there today, Adeline?”
* * *
Holy cow! I almost kissed the man!
That was all Addie could think, and thinking it filled so much space in her head that she barely heard her mother’s question.
“Adeline?!” Janelle snapped, her gaze razor sharp. “Were you in Byron’s apartment today?”
“I already told you that I wasn’t,” she snapped right back.
“No need to get snippy, young lady.” Janelle thrust the bag and doorknob in her direction. “You remember Noah Story?”
“Yes.” Noah had been the workshop instructor at Benevolence High for most of Adeline’s childhood.
“He’s in town for May’s wedding, and I mentioned the problem at Byron’s apartment. He offered to install the new lock.”
“He’s already in town, and you’ve already seen him?” she asked, surprised and a little intrigued.
There was a story she’d heard. One that Janelle had refused to refute or confirm because she and Noah were key players in it. Childhood friends who might have become something more if Janelle hadn’t fallen so hard for Brett Lamont, Noah and Janelle had remained friends through Janelle’s marriage, through her early years of grief. They’d been such good friends that people had been sure they’d marry eventually, that long-term bachelor Noah would finally get a ring and pop the question.
Some people said that he had. Those people said that when Janelle refused to marry him, he’d left town, brokenhearted and finally willing to admit that the only woman he’d ever loved would never return his affection.
“We had coffee at the diner.” Janelle studied the nail on her left index finger. “I think I’m going to have to get a new manicure before the wedding. This one just isn’t holding up.”
“How is Noah?” Adeline asked, getting right back to the thing she was most interested in.
“Spokane doesn’t suit him the way he hoped it would. He’s thinking about moving back to Benevolence,” Janelle said as if it didn’t matter.
That made Adeline think that it did matter.
A lot.
“So, you’re planning to show him some properties?”
“Yes. I have a few in mind. He wants something small, and something close to town. He made some good investments and was able to retire early, but he’s not the kind of guy who likes to be idle. He’s planning to apply as a substitute teacher, maybe try to coach football again. The high school is looking for a coach, so it’s good timing all the way around.”
Janelle had learned a lot during their coffee meeting, but Adeline didn’t point it out. Her mother wasn’t one to open up about her feelings. She never shared her hopes and dreams, never talked about future plans unless they involved work. For as long as Adeline could remember, Janelle had done what was necessary to make sure her daughters thrived. She’d helped them navigate elementary school, middle school, high school. She’d pointed out their strengths, tried to move them toward reasonable goals. She’d enforced the importance of education, downplayed the importance of tradition, tried to balance out the Lamont legacy with her more practical outlook on life.
What she hadn’t done was share her grief and sorrow, her disappointments and defeats. She’d never talked about her insecurities and vulnerabilities. She’d never ever let her daughters see the woman beneath the façade.
“I told him he could pick up the lock here when he is ready to install it,” Janelle continued. “Since you’re always at work at the crack of dawn, I didn’t think you’d mind.”
There was a hint of censure in her voice, as if Adeline’s early mornings were a direct insult to Janelle’s sensibilities.
Adeline ignored it. “I don’t.”
“I do,” Sinclair cut in. “Byron’s door is from the late nineteenth century. The lock needs to be the same.”
“Does it matter?” Janelle asked. “As long as it fits—”
“A gunnysack would fit on a princess, but that doesn’t mean she should wear it.” He cut her off, and Adeline smiled.
She couldn’t help herself.
Janelle frowned. “You may have a point, Sinclair, but I don’t have time to hunt up a period lock to fit that door.”
“I can find one, and I can install it.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“You’d be putting me out if you insisted on having that”—he gestured to the new lock—“installed. I make my living by ensuring that junk like that isn’t put on beautiful old doors like Byron’s.”
“In that case,” Janelle conceded, “I’ll call Noah and tell him I won’t be needing his help after all. Keep your receipt and bill me for your time, Sinclair. You’re a very busy man, and I know that your expertise is of high value.”
“I’ll take my payment in shortbread cookies,” Sinclair said as he crossed the room and opened the door. “See you around, Adeline.”
That was it.
He was gone and the door was closed before she even said good-bye.
“What in God’s name is going on, Adeline?” Janelle nearly shouted. “I could feel the sexual tension—”
“Mom!”
“What? You think because I’m fifty-three, I don’t remember what desire feels like?”
“Can we stop now? Please?” She grabbed the bag and doorknob and thrust it at Janelle. “I have a million things to do before the wedding. I really don’t have time for another lecture.”
“Another one? When else did I lecture you?” She tucked the doorknob back in her purse. “By the way, May called me today. She’s worried about the wedding favors. I told her that you had them under control.”
“I do.”
“You think you do, but I don’t think you realize how much work five hundred wedding favors are going to be.”
“Trust me. I realize it.”
“You need to hire some help. I mentioned it to Byron this afternoon.”
“Mom, I am seriously busy right now. Can we discuss this another time?”
“No time like the present, Adeline. Besides, you will be less busy if you hire someone. Byron always hires extra help for big events.”
“Not in recent years, he hasn’t.”
“He has. You’ve been too busy with your accounting business to pay much attention. Last year, he hired Glenda Sherman to help with the town council’s Valentine’s Day gala.”
“Glenda?” A war veteran who’d lost her legs in Afghanistan, she designed brochures and advertisements for a living, staying mostly to herself in a cute little rancher that had been made handicap accessible.
“He heard she needed a wheelchair for that racing she does. Paralympics? She’s not one to take charity.”
“She isn’t one to take anything.” Adeline had offered to do her taxes for free, but Glenda had very firmly said no.
“No, but she’ll take a job if she’s offered one, and Byron just so happened to mention that he needed help when she came in to buy fudge. She was quick to offer to help, and the way Byron tells it, she’s one of the best workers he’s ever hired.”
“He never mentioned it to me.” And she felt a little hurt that he hadn’t. She and Byron were as close as a grandfather and granddaughter could be.
“Because you were gearing up for tax season, and he didn’t want you to feel obligated to help him with the order.”
“I wouldn’t have felt obligated.”
“You would have.” Janelle sighed. “Just like you
feel obligated to run this place like it’s a one-woman show.”
“I do not.”
“You do. It’s as if you think you have to prove something. You don’t. You’re a great young woman with a good head on your shoulders. You have a successful accounting business. Your worth is not wrapped up in whether or not you can do all this.” She gestured around the shop. “On your own.”
“I didn’t think it was.”
“Then prove it by hiring someone.”
“Fine,” she said, because she didn’t have the energy or the time to argue, and because she really could use some help around the shop.
“Great.” Janelle beamed. “I’m glad you agreed, because I already called Randal and asked him to run a help wanted ad. I also brought you this.” She pulled a paper from her purse, held it up gleefully.
PART-TIME HELP NEEDED was emblazoned across the paper in bright pink letters.
“I’ll just stick it to the window in the front door. By this time tomorrow, you should have people lining up, begging to learn how to make Lamont chocolates.”
She hurried into the service area.
Adeline stayed right where she was, the sound of a guitar filling the sudden silence, the light strains of “Young at Heart” making her smile even though she sort of felt like she wanted to cry.
Chapter Six
Janelle was right about Adeline needing help at the shop.
She was wrong about a line of people anxiously waiting to learn the fine art of chocolate making. The next day came and went and not one person called about the job. No one walked into the shop dressed to the nines and hoping to gain access to Chocolate Haven’s kitchen. By the end of the day, Adeline had served six dozen customers, boxed and shipped three Internet orders, and received May’s approval for the wedding favors. What she hadn’t done was gotten an assistant.
She wiped down the display case, humming “Young at Heart” as she worked. She hadn’t been able to get the song out of her head since she’d heard Sinclair playing it. Sinclair, who’d been on her mind almost as much as the song.
God! What was it about the man? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d looked when he’d told her that sometimes people stayed busy to keep the things they were running from at bay. She couldn’t quite get that feeling out of her head either—the one that had zipped across her skin and made her want to throw herself into his arms. Heat and longing and something else. Something she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt before and that she couldn’t quite put a name to.
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