Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (11 page)

He stepped closer then, and stopped even trying to rationalize the why of it. She was hardly a flame and he was hardly a moth, and yet . . .

“You put the
crazy
label on in big bold letters before others can do it for you. Only, the first thing you told me was that you weren't. Crazy. It bothered you that I thought you might be. Why?”

“I—” She broke off, then surprised him by smiling briefly. “For all the reasons a woman doesn't want to look like a total freak show in front of an incredibly good-looking guy. Don't let that go to your head, by the way.”

“See, right there. That's the thing. You put on this big show of being self-deprecating and casting yourself in the shadows, the poor little misunderstood crazy chick . . . but that's not who you are at all. You're no shadow dweller. You're up front, direct.”

“Maybe I'm both,” she said, but her expression had turned considering. “I don't want to need your help. But I appreciate that you tried to give it.”

“You thanked me for sticking by you. What did you expect me to do?”

“It's been so long since I've been involved with anyone, I guess I only have very outdated data to use as a guide. Most—no, any guy who might have wanted to get to know me, despite it being common knowledge that I was the crazy, misunderstood chick, would only have done so in private. In public? They'd have pretended they didn't know me, or worse, that they wouldn't be caught dead wanting to know me.”

“Small towns can breed small minds.”

“Well, this is a small town, too.”

He grinned at that. “Nice to know I'm not small-minded, then.”

“Mr. Westlake,” she countered. “I don't know him, but I'm guessing he understood we weren't just standing here having an evening chat. I'm also guessing he'll mention as much to Kit or Lani. After which it will be—”

“I've never given a flat damn what folks think of me,” Dylan said. “And, trust me, sugar, their opinions of me couldn't possibly get any worse than they already are.”

Honey surprised him by smiling again. “So . . . maybe I'm the one who should be worried about being seen with you then?” Her smile spread to a grin. “Go, me!”

Dylan couldn't help it, he grinned along with her. “You are the damndest woman.”

“So I've been told. Only with slightly more emphasis on the damned part.”

Dylan shook his head and started to step around her.

She stepped forward, lifted her hand, but stopped just shy of placing it on his arm. “Kidding aside, I meant what I said. About appreciating the help. Not just with Mr. Westlake, but also before.”

Dylan's grin was slow and lazy. “Sugar, most women don't thank me for taking advantage of their kindness.”

“Not the kiss,” she said, though that incredibly endearing flush climbed into her cheeks again. “All along, you've tried to figure out what my deal is, and you've also tried not to make it harder on me, and to . . . I don't know . . . provide a barrier, or a shield, I guess. It—nothing can do that, but that you tried, that it mattered, that—” She stopped, dipped her chin. “Never mind. I'm babbling, it's late, and you've already been kinder than—”

“See, that's the part that makes me nuts,” he said quietly. “Don't do that.”

She looked up, her expression one of honest confusion. “Do what?”

“You get the least bit emotional about something and you duck it, start makin' excuses. Sugar, what does it matter if the person you're thanking doesn't appreciate your gratitude, or why it meant something to you. You felt it enough to want to say it . . . so say it. Then stand by it.”

“You are the damndest man,” she said, and though she wasn't smiling—in fact, she looked a bit poleaxed—there was the tiniest twinkle glimmering in her eyes.

“So I've been told,” he said. “Emphasis on the damned part.”

She smiled up at him then, honest, open, and sincere.

His body leaped once again in response. Even more disturbing, so did that clutch in his chest. His gaze drifted from her eyes to her mouth, and he knew they were standing far closer than was wise. “Sugar, you might want to get in the truck before I kiss you again.”

He lifted his gaze back to hers, and grew harder when he saw her pupils expanding, swallowing up her eyes and him in the process. “I might have been testing you a little before. But now I think I'm testing myself. And it's a test I'm going to fail.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, and that breathy hint was back, undoing him and his resolve.

“I barely managed to keep my hands off of you last time. You think I'm some kind of protector, but I'm no Superman, Honey.”

“Right,” she said, but her gaze was all caught up in his. “That wouldn't be a good idea, then.”

“Not even close.” His gaze drifted to her lips, which parted on a soft sigh. “Aw, sugar, you're killin' me.”

“I think I have some idea,” she managed.

He inched closer or she did, or both did. She was right inside his personal space, as close as she could be without touching him.

“Get in the truck.” His mouth hovered just above hers.

She tipped her head back to look into his eyes, baring all that lovely soft skin along the side of her neck. “I will” she said, breathless indeed now. “Any second now.”

“This wouldn't be a good idea for either of us,” he said, hard to the point of pain.

“For you, maybe,” she murmured, her sweet breath warm against his cheek. “Me, I'm feeling a bit . . . cloudy. And, I have to say, it feels pretty damn good.”

For a split second, maybe a few more, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to put his hands on her, mold her mouth to his, and slide his hands down her body . . . to take her home, and . . . take her to bed. Because there was absolutely nothing about that scenario that made him want to move off, he forced his thoughts back to when they were standing beside her car and she was trembling in shock in some altered state of mind. He forced his thoughts even farther back to that first moment he'd laid eyes on her, when she'd looked across the alley with raw, naked yearning at what he now knew was her inheritance.

He took an unsteady step backward, clenching his hands into fists by his sides. The need to touch her hadn't diminished with his thoughts. It had grown. And not only were his thoughts sexual in nature . . . they'd become personal.

It wasn't his job to protect her. Not against what might happen to her on Sugarberry, not against her own desires, much less against something or someone triggering her . . . thing. The only thing he would—should—protect her from, was himself.

So, that's what he did. “We should get going.”

“Okay.” To her credit, she didn't look away, didn't look remorseful, or chastised for being bold enough to ask for what she wanted only to be turned down. In fact, she didn't look . . . anything.

He didn't know how that made him feel. “Okay.” He stepped back, allowed her to climb in the truck on her own, then closed the door for her. Their eyes met through the window and she smiled briefly, simply, before turning away to deal with the seatbelt.

He stood there a second longer, then turned to walk around the back of the truck, tucking the boxes in more securely. Lolly was up, tail thumping, as he approached the driver's side. He gave her head a good rub. “Good job there, earlier. Thanks for the warning.”

She butted her head against his hand, then looked toward the rear cab window and Honey. Tail still wagging, Lolly whined.

“Don't you start,” he told her. “I'm droppin' her off. Fixin' that heap of hers, and that's going to be that.”

Lolly turned those big, liquid eyes of hers on him.

“She'll be fine,” he assured the dog. But as he climbed in the truck and pulled his own seatbelt on, he wished he could say the same about himself.

“Y
our ride is here, dear.”

Honey opened her bedroom door to a smiling Barbara Hughes. “Thank you. And thanks again for not minding that I took my meal up here this morning.”

Barbara's tanned and age-spotted skin crinkled as she gave Honey a commiserating smile. “I've been married for more than forty years, happily so, but there are mornings when I don't want to bear witness to canoodling newlyweds, either.”

From what Honey had seen of Mrs. Hughes around the young honeymooners who had checked in the evening before while Honey had been at the garage, it was pretty clear the senior B&B owner adored young love in all forms. But Honey appreciated her trying to make things easier for her single guest.

Barbara's warm brown eyes twinkled a bit as she added, “You have a safe drive over the causeway. I hope you can get things straightened out okay.”

Barbara had chatted up Honey first thing that morning when she'd come down to grab coffee and some biscuits with gravy, which was when Honey learned it was already common knowledge that Bea Chantrell's niece had come to claim her inheritance, only to find it leased out to the much beloved cupcake baker—who also happened to be the daughter of the very well respected island sheriff—and her equally adored television star, British pastry chef husband.

The realization of how much Lani and Baxter Dunne had come to mean to the islanders, as people and as respected business partners who'd helped boost the island's flagging economy with their joint enterprises, cemented Honey's decision that moving herself lock, stock, and carving tools to a wonderful new life on Sugarberry had been a nice dream, but not a particularly practical one. With the farm in Oregon still on the market, and not a single offer on the place as yet, her miserly budget didn't extend to securing housing, leasing a new space, and funneling money into renovating it. Which left her with . . . a farm. And a barn to work in. All paid for . . . and empty. Just waiting for her to return.

“I just want to get it sorted out so things are all in order going forward” was all Honey said.

“Well, Miss Lani and Miss Kit are good folks. As is Morgan Westlake, though I'll admit that came as a surprise to those of us who knew his mama. What she did to Birdie Wiggins, not to mention her dear, sweet little granddaughter Lilly, depriving them of a life together . . . well, I won't tell tales out of school.”

No, of course not,
Honey thought, stifling an amused smile.

Barbara reached out to pat Honey's arm, but fortunately Honey had her empty plate and coffee cup in hand, so she neatly intercepted the movement without appearing rude. “Oh, thank you,” she said, handing over her dishes. “I was just going to take these downstairs. Breakfast was delicious. I've never had that kind of gravy before, but it was really good.”

Barbara beamed as she took the dishes, balancing the cup on top of the plate. “Scrapple gravy. My mama's recipe. Won many a contest with it, she did.”

Honey smiled. “Not surprising. I'll follow you down.” She shuffled them from the room, closing the door behind her. So far, except with Dylan, she'd been able to maneuver pretty well with the folks she'd met. Of course, Alva and Lani knew she'd inherited the Chantrell's “special abilities,” but if Barbara knew, she hadn't mentioned it.

Mrs. Hughes hadn't known Bea all that well, as she'd explained to Honey that morning, being as Mr. Hughes had always taken his tailoring to Bea's shop himself. Honey suspected Barbara well knew of the other “service” Bea had provided to many of the islanders, but the older woman didn't bring it up, much less query Honey on whether she planned to carry on with the family tradition, for which Honey was eternally grateful. After her run in with Alva the day before, Honey found it hard to believe the topic hadn't been covered by the island grapevine, as she'd imagine it would be among the juicier tidbits about the island's newest resident. But maybe the property battle involving the Sugarberry's pastry chefs had trumped that bit of business. At least for now. She didn't care why the reprieve, but was just thankful for it.

Barbara set the breakfast dishes down on the small foyer entry table so she could open the front door for Honey. “Will you be coming straight back? I'm making cobbler today.” She leaned closer and added in a whisper, as if it were a secret of some importance, “Rhubarb. Another of my mama's favorites. We'll be serving it with iced tea and lemonade this afternoon.” She beamed. “We Southerners deal with this ungodly heat by being unbearably civilized. I hope you'll be back in time to join us.”

Honey smiled. She really did like Barbara Hughes. “I hope so, too.”

Barbara stepped back from the open doorway so Honey could usher herself through. “And please feel free to invite your driver in as well.”

Honey didn't note the merry twinkle in the older woman's eyes right off as she'd been too busy thinking that inviting random taxi cab drivers in for tea was taking Southern hospitality to surprising extremes. So, she wasn't at all prepared to step out onto the front porch . . . and spy Dylan's pickup truck idling at the curb. Dylan was behind the wheel with a very happy Lolly in the open truck bed.

“He called this morning to let Frank—Mr. Hughes—know he was going to pick up that part for our old lawnmower when he was over in Savannah today,” Barbara explained, clearly happy with herself. “I knew you were headed that way and thought I could at least spare you taxi fare one way.”

A whole lot of things were going through Honey's mind at the moment, but what came out of her mouth was “Dylan repairs lawnmowers?”

“Why, not as a usual thing, no. But Mortimer Smart, who runs our little appliance repair shop on the square? Well, he's taken to being closed more than he's open of late. He's got the gout, you know. Poor dear. Dylan happened to be passing by when Frank was swearing up a storm at our ancient mower. I keep telling him to just get a new one, but he's determined this one will outlive both of us. Men. Anyway, Dylan stopped by, took a look, and said he just needed some new thingamajig or other.”

“That was very nice of him,” Honey said, still wrestling with the fact that she hadn't exactly gotten over yesterday's . . . everything, and she really wasn't prepared to sit in a truck cab next to the cause of most of it, quite yet. Maybe ever. But there was no way out of it that she could see. She wondered how Dylan felt about being corralled into providing ferry service. She couldn't make out his expression, but she doubted he was happy about it, either—leaving Lolly as the only excited party in this endeavor.

“Well, folks may say about him what they want,” Barbara went on, “but the way I see it, just because there are some bad apples on a family tree doesn't make the whole tree rotten to the core.”

Honey pulled herself from her thoughts. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Why, I have a second cousin on my mother's side who was about as bad an apple as they come. Certainly on par with Mickey Ross, that good for nothing brother of Dylan's. My lord, the trouble he put that family through. Lettin' us all believe it was their daddy whuppin' on Dylan all that time when all along, it was Mickey himself. Never did like the look of that boy, but I felt sorry for him just the same. Bless their souls. What with their mama runnin' off the way she did, leavin' Donny to care for them. Not that their daddy was a prize, of course. Leavin' those boys to all but fend for themselves while he drank himself to death. I understand grieving a broken heart, but when you've got children to care for, you find a way to pull it together.”

Honey blinked, trying and failing to keep up with the flood of information. “Dylan has a brother?” She thought he'd said he was the only Ross left.

“Had. Died in prison. Was a better end for him than he deserved, I'll tell you that much. I know it doesn't sound very forgiving of me, and I like to think I'm a better person than that, but that boy . . .” She trailed off, shook her head. “Well, listen to me tellin' tales, anyway.”

Honey was still staring out at the truck by the curb, as Mrs. Hughes's words and the images Honey had seen the day before all collided together in a huge jumble. Add to that all the things Dylan had said and done, not the least of which was kissing Honey completely and utterly senseless, and she couldn't have rightly said which way was up had anyone asked her at that exact moment—which was why she didn't notice Barbara coming to stand beside her.

The older woman slid her hand through Honey's arm and gave it a good, solid squeeze. “Don't you listen to this old woman, now. You go and have yourself a good morning. I say you play your cards right, perhaps there might be a nice lunch in the day for you. Don't let the dark looks and that serious air put you off. There's a decent man in there, mark my words.”

Barbara's reassurances had faded to a distant hum. Honey had already been sent spinning off into that other place of fragmented visions, snippets of words, overwhelming emotions as she not only observed glimpses of future events, but felt them as if they were happening to herself. Mrs. Hughes—Barbara—was running . . . somewhere. Honey felt her own heart pound in fear, her breath coming in short gasps. Where was she running? Not across a yard . . . Honey couldn't see exactly. It was foggy, but there were docks, boats. Fishing boats, the big kind. The commercial kind. Barbara was screaming . . . something, or trying to, but she was too out of breath and it came out as a rasp. Her chest hurt, it squeezed so tightly. Frank? Frank!

Something had happened to Mr. Hughes. The skies were very dark. Wind was whipping. Raining . . . it was raining. Hard. And then Honey saw the boat. A . . . trawler or something like it. Big, with huge nets, and a loud, thrumming engine. Mr. Hughes—Frank—had gone out on one with his . . . grandson? Nephew? Someone . . . family? . . . owned the boat, or captained it. He'd been helping out. The storm had come on fast, too fast. They hadn't beaten it in. Frank had been thrown hard against the holding tanks. Cleaning knife . . . no, some kind of big hook, used to pull in fish, embedded in his thigh. Lots of blood. Too much blood.

“Honey? Dear? Oh my, I shouldn't have said those things. It wasn't my place. Oh dear, are you okay?”

“That's okay, Miss Barbara. I've got her.”

Dylan?
Why was he on the boat? No, wait . . . not the boat.

“Hey sugar, time to come back. Come on now.” His voice was a low, deep purr in her ear, but she could barely hear him. Why didn't he help Frank? There was so much blood.

The pressure on her arm lessened—someone's hand?—then let her go.

“Honey.” Dylan spoke again, sharper, his voice still low, but clear. Like an order.

She blinked, and the images and all that blood faded away. The wind and the storm receded, but her heart still pounded. The air was warm. Hot, even. And very sunny. She blinked again, and realized she was standing on the front porch of the B&B. Even as she shook off the vestiges of the vision, and tried to quell her racing pulse, mortification made her face go hot. “Oh God.”

“Dear, are you okay? It's this heat, I tell you.” Barbara fluttered around them, but Dylan shielded her from making any direct contact with Honey. “Why, you're white as a sheet. Dylan, you have her sit down in the rocker on the porch there and I'm going to grab some water and some ice.”

“Thank you, Miss Barbara,” Dylan answered her. “That's a good idea.”

“Thank goodness you were here and saw her starting to fade like that. There I am, going on and on, and not paying one whit of attention. Serves me right for talking like that. Poor dear, coming from the northwest, of course she isn't used to this humidity.”

“Ice water?” Dylan prompted.

“Yes, yes, of course.” She bustled away and Honey heard the front screen door slap shut behind her.

Dylan shifted so he was directly in front of Honey, angling so he could look into her eyes. “You okay now, sugar?”

Honey blinked again and focused on Dylan's face. “You keep trying to rescue me.”

“I'm no white knight, darlin'. Just didn't want you collapsing in a heap on top of Miss Barbara. Then you'd have both gone down the porch steps.”

The more he talked, the easier it was for her to focus on him and let the vision slip entirely away. The aftereffects took a little longer, but she was far, far steadier than she'd been yesterday. Of course, for all the intensity of the vision itself, it hadn't come close to dealing her the emotional blow the vision of Dylan almost dying in that fire had. Why that was, when she didn't know Dylan any more than she did Barbara and Frank Hughes, she couldn't have said. And thinking about it made her head ache.

As her panic settled, she realized there were more important things to deal with at the moment. “Has Mr. Hughes been in some kind of fishing accident recently? A serious one.”

“No,” Dylan said. “Come on, sit down. Miss Barbara will be out in a minute and you should get your bearings back before she does.”

“How did you realize what was happening?”

“I saw it up close and personal yesterday. It's not something a man's likely to forget.”

“And you could tell, all the way from the curb?”

“Man doesn't forget that look,” he muttered under his breath. “You need to sit down or I'm going to have to help you, and we both could probably do without touching each other right now.”

That had her glancing sharply in his direction. She didn't know if he meant because it might trigger one of her visions . . . or because of the kind of touching they'd been doing last night. Either way, she sat down. And her head began to ache in earnest. It was all too much.