Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (12 page)

One thing was clear. “We have to tell her,” Honey said. “Warn her.”

“Now why don't we just wait on that, okay?”

“Just . . . find out if he's gone fishing today. Please.” It looked like Dylan was going to shut her down again, so she spoke before he could. “I can't head off to Savannah and not say something if it's going to happen today. Do you understand that? I can't do that and just let it happen. Not without at least saying something.”

He crouched down in front of her. “What, exactly, do you think is going to happen?”

“Don't do that.” She frowned, hating that she felt stung by his gently spoken dismissal.

“Do what, sugar? I'm just tryin' to sort things out and give you a few minutes to do the same before you go scarin' the bejesus out of Miss Barbara.”

“I don't
think
it's going to happen, okay? I
know
it will.”

“Never been wrong?”

She held his gaze steadily. “About my visions? No. Never.”

Dylan blew out a long, steady breath. “Well. Okay then.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Okay then, what?”

“We'll have to tell her. But you can't go sayin' something like that, looking all . . . like you do.”

Her frown turned to one of confusion, and she found herself lifting a hand, smoothing her hair, even as she smoothed the skirt she was wearing. “Looking like what?”

“Sugar, it's not your hair or your clothes. It's those eyes.”

She felt “those eyes” widen. “I can hardly help how my eyes look, but what's wrong with them?”

“They're damn spooky at the best of times, but at the moment, they look downright—”

“Stop.” She lifted a hand. “I get it. So, fine then. You tell her. Tell her that Frank can't go fishing with his nephew or grandson—”

“Nephew? You mean John John?”

“Does John John run a fishing trawler? Or captain one?”

“Owns and captains, yes.”

“Then yes. John John is going to hit an unexpected storm, and Frank is going to end up with a huge gaffing hook in his thigh . . . unless we stop him from going.”

Dylan held her gaze for a long moment. “Okay.”

“That's it? Okay?”

Dylan scowled. “What is it you want from me? You get mad if I don't want to help, and now you're pissed that I do?”

“I wasn't—I'm not mad. I just—I want to make sure you understand how serious this is. A moment ago, I felt like you were coddling me. You do believe me, right?”

“I do.”

“Just like that?”

Dylan sighed, and Honey knew she was trying his patience, but she wanted so badly to trust him, and it was such a new idea to her, that she could trust someone other than family. She needed to make sure it was well placed.

“Sugar, after yesterday, it seems clear to me that whatever it is you've got, you've got. I don't waste time wondering why something is what it is. Someone brings me something that's obviously not working right, I don't ask how it got that way—”

“You just fix it,” Honey finished. “Dylan . . . you can't fix this. Fix me.”

He surprised her by smiling. “Who said I was tryin'?”

Barbara came bustling out the front door with a covered basket and two big drinks in capped bottles. “Well, you look a mite better. Got some color back in your cheeks. Gave me a good start, you did.” She turned to Dylan and handed over the stash. “I know Honey's got an important appointment, so I filled up these drinks, one with ice water, one with lemonade. And a basket of some goodies to go with.” She turned to Honey. “You sure you'll be all right to travel, dear?”

Honey nodded, touched by the trouble Barbara had gone to for her. “I'm fine.” She glanced up at Dylan and started to speak, only to have Dylan speak up first.

“Miss Barbara, how's that nephew of yours doin' with his trawler this season?”

Barbara looked momentarily surprised by the change of subject—or maybe it was just surprise that Dylan would willingly ask after someone's family. Honey doubted that was something he did all that often. Or ever.

Barbara's surprise changed swiftly to pleasure, as it was clear she welcomed the chance to talk up one of her favorite people. “Well, we had such a mild winter, things weren't as bad off in the early season as they usually are, so it's been going fine. Could do without this heat so early on, of course,” she added, then smiled, “but men have to complain about something or it wouldn't feel right.”

Dylan nodded. “Mr. Hughes helping out like he did last season?”

“You know, his hip has been bothering him something fierce of late, but will he let that slow him down? Of course not.” Barbara harrumphed. “I've been trying to get him to see Doc Sievers about it, but he's a stubborn one.”

“Probably good to keep him off the boat then, till he's a bit steadier. Wouldn't do John John any good to have him fall and hurt something when the boat takes a hard rock.”

“I've made that same argument till I'm blue in the face, trust me. Turns a deaf ear when he doesn't want to hear something.”

Dylan nodded, paused, then said, “You want me to mention it to him when I bring the lawnmower part back? Maybe comin' from someone other than—”

“A nagging wife?” Barbara laughed when Dylan's neck got a little red. “Might as well call it like it is. And I'll take any help I can get. Don't be surprised though, if he acts like he hasn't a clue what you're talking about.”

Dylan nodded. “I won't.” He tipped his head and lifted the basket. “Thanks for the supply rations. We should probably get on the road.”

“Happy to do it.” Barbara beamed and started to turn to help Honey up, but Dylan deftly shifted between the two as Honey stood on her own.

“You all have a safe trip, now. I'll save some cobbler for you. Oh! I left water on to boil!”

“You best get to that then,” Dylan said, already following Honey down the steps.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes,” Honey called out.

The older woman merely tossed a quick wave over her head as she hustled back inside.

Honey turned to Dylan. “Thank you for doing that. I'm sure the last thing you want to be doing is talking to Mr. Hughes about his bum hip. But if we can keep him off that boat—”

Dylan glanced at her. “Don't worry, all right?”

Honey met his gaze, her mouth curving in a dry smile. “Easy for you to say.”

He stowed the basket in a bin container in the bed of his truck, gave Lolly a head scratch, and opened the passenger door for Honey so she could climb inside.

He closed the door after she was settled, then surprised her by leaning in the open window. His smile was slow, sexy as all hell, and made her heart pound all over again . . . for entirely different reasons.

“Sugar . . . nothin' about you is easy.”

S
omehow, in the span of a short forty-eight hours, Dylan's life had been tossed up in the air, twisted inside out, and had come flopping back down in a completely unrecognizable form. At least, that's how it felt.

He'd been perfectly happy to work in his garage, fixing what was broken, then head home, work on his boat, have a glass of something cold, maybe a steak, and a decent view of the sunset. It was a peaceful, contented life, and one he was damn grateful for. Hell, adding a dog to that equation had been enough of an adjustment. More than enough.

Between the fire last year, starting over with the new garage location, and taking on the care and feeding of a four-legged companion, he'd had about all the upheaval and change he could stand. He was all set to keep things status quo well into the foreseeable future.

Then Honey D'Amourvell had shown up and shot his peaceful, easy existence all to hell and back. And he wasn't happy about it. Not one bit.

So why on God's green earth was he whistling—whistling, for Godsake—as he drove back to the county courthouse complex to pick her up for the drive back to Sugarberry? It certainly wasn't because he was looking forward to the torture that surely awaited when she climbed in next to him with that odd exotic scent of hers, and those soul-exposing eyes. He'd be perfectly willing to keep his hands to himself if that's all it was, but then she'd say something or he'd see that look on her face, and his protective instincts would get all riled up, which was bad enough, but no doubt they'd be shot down again when she gave him that dry smile and smarter mouth if he so much as tried to help.

Somehow, that ended up leaving him frustrated with her, annoyed at himself . . . and dying to kiss her again until she kissed him back. He couldn't stop thinking about those soft little moans she made as want overcame worry, how, by turns, she'd be guarded, needing him to guide the way . . . and other times be bold and leading the charge. Kissing Honey twisted him up and wrung him out until he felt like the world would end if he didn't have every last inch of her for as long as he wanted.

And, dear Lord help him, he wanted.

“Yeah, and I really don't need this shit,” he muttered, then pressed his lips together in case the urge to whistle came over him again.

He'd gotten a call while picking up Frank's lawnmower part that a junk car dealer he'd contacted about Honey's car parts had actually managed to put his hands on a bunch of them, and at a substantially lower price than Dylan would have paid through his regular parts dealer. So he'd swung by to check them out, more than satisfied to discover they were in surprisingly good condition. He cancelled his other order and booked time with the junker to come back and look at a few of his other old wrecks to do a deal on some parts salvage, as well. The way it was looking, he'd not only be able to get Honey's car done sooner, but for about a third the price he'd quoted her.

All good news. Hence, possibly, the whistling. At least that's what he wanted to believe. The faster he got her car done, the faster she'd be out of Dodge and headed west again . . . and his life would go back to the way it had been—which was exactly the way he liked it. He could happily not get involved with the fine folks of Sugarberry's personal business and they could stay out of his. And if he wanted to sink himself into a willing woman, he'd find one on this side of the causeway, a woman who didn't want more than that. He'd make sure they both had a good time, then retreat back to his island. The more he'd thought about it, the more relieved he'd felt.

Then he'd stopped in at the farmers co-op to pick up a parts package for Bucky Werther's tractor, get some dog food and milk bones for Lolly, and maybe flirt a little with Sally Jo, the good looking blonde who'd just started working the parts department counter. She'd made it clear on his last visit that she might be interested in more than idle chitchat and, at the time, Dylan had been thinking that might be just the thing to end the dry spell he'd been in since the fire.

Perky Sally Jo hadn't changed her mind. She'd made it clear the minute she'd spied Dylan in the dog supply aisle. The problem was, he hadn't found himself all that interested in responding to her playful, suggestive banter. In fact, by the time he'd finished his business and paid his bill, she'd been none too pleased with his businesslike responses and had let him know it. Apparently men didn't say no to Sally Jo too often.

Clearly he'd dodged a bullet there, he'd told himself as he'd given Lolly some break time in the grassy field next to the shop. A demanding, temperamental woman he didn't need, even for one night. Obviously he'd sensed that in her and that had accounted for the sudden shift in his interest. He did have a knack for that, after all. What with his amazing powers of observation and intuition and all. He'd given the dog some water and a biscuit before putting her back in the truck bed, and had managed to make it all the way over to the courthouse believing just that . . . until he realized he'd been whistling.

And thinking not about a sexy blonde with killer blue eyes and a body that would stop traffic, but a quirky brunette who wore utterly unsexy horn rim glasses, weird clothes, had spooky, scary visions, a sardonic smile that put him in his place . . . and kissed him like he was the only man in the world.

He couldn't stop thinking about wanting to kiss her again, when what he should be thinking about was that, according to her, he quite truthfully was the only man in her world as there hadn't been another for quite some time.

“Yeah. And I really,
really
don't need that.” Idling at the curb in front of the courthouse complex, he squeezed his eyes shut and massaged the bridge of his nose, opening them again when he heard Lolly give a few happy yips. Honey would be gone soon enough, he reminded himself, and all this craziness would be over. After which he'd come back over to Savannah and find himself some other pretty blonde, or maybe a redhead who knew what was what without all the drama, and forget all about this crazy week in his life.

He looked up to see Honey walking up to the truck. She smiled at Lolly, paused to give her a good scratch and talk a little nonsense to her, before climbing in next to him. It didn't take any superpower to notice that, despite her smiles for the dog, whatever she'd found out at the courthouse hadn't been good news.

They hadn't talked much during the thirty minute ride over the causeway and into the historic southern city. Honey had seemed caught up in her thoughts, probably still dealing with her little moment on the porch with Miss Barbara, and Dylan had been happy to leave her to sort things out. Bad enough that he had to find some way to talk to Frank Hughes about his damn hip and keep him from fishing with his own goddamn nephew. The last thing Dylan wanted or needed was to get more involved. Forty-eight hours in, he reminded himself, and he was already being rooked into providing taxi service, playing watch dog, and running interference, all because of the woman sitting next to him. Two more days and who the hell knew what else she'd drag him into. Damn good thing he could tell her she'd be on the road back to Oregon sooner rather than later.

He was all set to explain it to her, only he screwed up and glanced over at her first. She looked so damned . . . controlled, again. All boxed up and isolated, without a friend in the world. If he so much as mentioned
that,
he could well imagine she'd be happy to set him straight, inform him she was perfectly fine. More than fine. Never had he met a woman so at ease with her self-enforced seclusion—except she wasn't as at ease with it as she wanted to be, or she wouldn't have come all the way to Sugarberry, looking to end her isolation, and she sure as hell wouldn't have put herself on a collision course with those visions of hers, again. Having witnessed them twice, he damn sure couldn't blame her for wanting to head straight back into her cave. Hell, he'd chosen to lead a pretty secluded life himself, and that was just because he wanted to steer clear of people in general. If he had to deal with what she had to deal with, he'd live on the dark side of the moon if he could.

Problem was, he'd been perfectly fine living his life. Honey, however, wanted people in hers. She wanted to stop being so alone and apart.

Dylan shifted in his seat as those protective instincts showed up again.
Dammit.

“Things get sorted out?” he asked, still with every intention of telling her she could get back on the road a lot sooner than she'd hoped . . . but not feeling so damn righteous and relieved about it any longer.

She'd been lost in her own thoughts and looked up in surprise, whether provoked by the question or his interest, he couldn't have said.

“Somewhat,” she said, looking at him guardedly.

That pissed him off all over again. She didn't have to want his help, but she didn't have to look so damn wary. Pretty much the only person on the planet she didn't have to be guarded with, was him. “Anywhere else you need to go before we head back across the channel?”

She frowned a little, surprised by the grit in his tone.

But he wasn't about to apologize for it. Just as well for both of them if he stayed pissed off. The sooner he distanced himself from her, the better.

She shook her head. “No. Thank you for waiting for me and driving me back.”

So damn polite. Already in hiding, carefully tucking it all away. No one understood the need and desire to do that more than he did, but it still bugged the hell out of him that she did it with him. And it shouldn't. He shouldn't give a good goddamn how he made her feel or what she thought about him. “Turned out I had another errand to run, so it worked out. No big deal.”

Her frown smoothed at his curt reply and her expression shuttered completely. She shifted her gaze to the front, again. “Well, I appreciate it all the same.”

He had to fight the urge to floor the gas and peel away from the curb like some kind of pissed-off teenager—which made him feel like an idiot. He'd asked after her business, then made it clear he wasn't in the mood for chitchat. She seemed fine with that. Problem solved. So it made no sense whatsoever that he was disappointed she hadn't tossed his attitude right back in his face, or at the very least had the decency to look hurt or a little miffed. But no, no. She was apparently just as ready and willing to write him off as he was her. Happy for the shuttle service, and see ya later.

He started the engine, proud of himself for not gunning it. Small triumph, but at the moment, he'd take any edge he could get. He didn't pull away from the curb, though. “I met up with a guy who found some parts for your car from one of his salvage yards.”

That roused her attention, which he realized was exactly why he'd said it. One step forward . . . one step back. He was busy watching her expression, so he'd have to kick himself later.

She turned and looked at him, her eyes a little brighter.

Naturally, since he was telling her she could leave Sugarberry sooner.

“Really?” She sounded a little more like the Honey he'd gotten to know and less like the Honey who'd shown up on the doorstep of his garage two days ago, looking like a nervous, wounded bird. “That is good news.” Her shoulders softened a little, and she pushed up her glasses.

He wondered if she realized that she wouldn't have to do that so much if she didn't keep her gaze half averted all the time.

“It'll cut the estimate I gave you by a third, maybe more,” he said a little gruffly still, but trying harder not to sound like such a dick—despite knowing he was acting like one. “It'll cut the time frame down, too.” He wished he didn't care so much what her reaction was to that little piece of news, but he was holding his breath as he waited for her response.

She didn't smile in relief as he'd half expected her to. In fact, she went right back to looking torn and pensive again.

“I really appreciate all the trouble you're going to,” she said, looking down at the fingers she'd twisted together in her lap. “Both with the car and with . . . the other—”

“It's fine,” he said, cutting her off in a tone that clearly said it was anything but.

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. “Is something else wrong?”

“I wish to hell I knew,” he retorted, raking a hand through his hair and swearing again because he'd meant to get it cut that day. It was easier to be frustrated by his long hair than it was by the woman seated next to him, who shouldn't have that much power over how his day went. Any power, for that matter.

“Is it the truck?” she asked, apparently assuming as much since he hadn't pulled out onto the road yet.

“No, it's not the truck.” He took a moment to get a grip, then turned to look at her. “It's the people in the truck.”

“People in the—me?” Her eyes went wide. “What did I do? I mean, I know what I did, but I apologized that Barbara asked you to play taxi driver, and I can talk to Mr. Hughes about the boat trip—”

“Just . . . stop, will you? Stop apologizing, stop thinking you know me, or know what pisses me off. That's what pisses me off, okay?”

She sat back and folded her arms over her middle. “Okay. Not a problem.”

His breath whistled out through his teeth. He'd pissed her off, too. Finally. He shouldn't be happy about that, but the fact was, she was sharper when she was riled up, more direct with him, more honest with him. Not so damn controlled. And not so damn absent. And not so damn . . . raw.

“You know what? I can get a ride back. I've troubled you enough for one day.” She gathered the small piece of luggage she regarded as a purse and reached for the door handle.