Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (17 page)

“Well enough,” he replied. “It's a one man show now, more or less, so the size suits me. Economic recovery has been slow this time around, but the cupcake shop has brought some pretty good national exposure with that feature on Chef Dunne's television show. Having a celebrity chef living on the island hasn't hurt things any, either. Stays steady enough for me, anyway.”

“Plus, you're probably a bit more economy-proof than some businesses. When somebody needs work done on their car, they kind of need to get it done.” She smiled over her shoulder at him. “She says from personal experience.”

He flickered a smile in return, but his eyes were a bit more hooded and she regretted bringing his family into it. She was curious to know more of his story directly from him, but she'd made it a lifetime habit not to be curious about anyone, so the fact that she was curious about this man was enough to keep her quiet. Recalling Barbara's comments merely sealed the decision. If Dylan ever wanted to talk about his past, it would be up to him.

Easing away from that line of conversation and wanting to return to the more comfortable vibe between them, she went back to looking around the space. She wanted to give at least the appearance of taking his offer seriously. She didn't want to insult him, so she poked around a bit more, but stopped short of poking her head in the back rooms. The more she saw, the harder it would be to walk away. In fact, she was turning around with the intent of telling him that she sincerely appreciated the thought, but it wasn't possible, only to find him directly behind her.

She startled briefly, but fought her automatic instinct to move back, create space, and avoid contact. She held her ground and glanced up at him. “Thanks for trying to help. I mean that. But even if I had some wiggle room in the budget for a lease, I couldn't afford a space this size.”

“I watched you while you were looking around. You talk a good game about codes and cleaning the place up . . . but let's pretend none of that is an issue.”

“Even if it wasn't, that doesn't change—”

“Shh,” he said, then lifted a finger and very deliberately placed it across her lips.

She froze, didn't even speak his name in warning for fear the added movement of her lips against his fingertip could trigger something.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze probing hers.

She knew what he meant, and what signs he was looking for. She nodded . . . and was perversely disappointed when he let his hand drop back to his side.

“Good. Before, when I mentioned about folks giving folks a hand up? There were some folks here on Sugarberry who did that for me, tried to do even more in some cases, but I was too proud to accept most of it. Some went ahead and helped anyway. It took a while for embarrassment to turn to gratitude, longer than it should have, but I do understand now, that if you can offer to help, you do. The person being helped gains something . . . but so does the person who does the helping. Consider it giving back. Or building a community. It's what people do for one another. Or should.”

“I thought you'd prefer folks to leave you alone.” She didn't say it accusingly, but more because she was trying to understand him.

“I'm not one to sit around, shoot the bull, talk about other people's personal business. Never will be. And I prefer folks to keep their noses out of mine. For too many years, my family's personal business spent far too much time burning up the grapevine. But I wouldn't turn my back on a single one of them in need, if I could help them out. They stood by me. End of the day, that's what matters.”

Again, his comments about his family made Barbara Hughes's comments echo through Honey's mind, but she, better than anyone, understood the desire for privacy. “I respect that.”

“Good.” His expression shifted then, from sober and serious to something a shade or two lighter, and an expression she hadn't seen before entered his gray eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “So . . . let me stand by you.”

She'd been on the verge of smiling herself, seduced by the almost playful look on his face. He'd teased her before, but this was something else altogether. Then his words sunk in. “Stand by . . .
me
? How? For that matter, why? I just got here. I'm not a part of anything, yet.”

“Everybody has to start building a foundation somehow, make contacts, new friends if they're of a mind to, whatever it takes to weave themselves into the fabric of the community. Ours is close knit, but we have a real penchant for taking in those who come here to find a home. We're a small town, and folks here think that by taking you in, it gives them license to put their noses in where you might not want them, but we're also islanders—a different, interesting breed. None of us came here, or stayed here because we wanted a big life, but because we value setting ourselves apart, maybe a bit more than regular folk.”

Honey smiled at that. “You're saying you're not regular folk?”

His lips twitched a little. “I'm saying we understand the need to be ourselves. So while we might be all up in each other's business, we will stand together against anyone who wants to come in and try to change our way of life.”

“Bea always said she fit right in here, that it was a classic small Southern town and island eccentric. I'm beginning to understand that more and more. Of course, she was here for decades and was still considered the newcomer.”

“Didn't stop folks from considering her one of our own.”

“True. I know Bea said people pitched in right after the stroke. And Lani told me Bea wasn't alone when she was forced to move to senior care, even though it took her off the island.” Honey paused, trying to tamp down, once again, the guilt at not being there and not knowing something she felt she should have known. “I'll always be grateful she had that.”

“She wanted you to have that here, too.”

Honey nodded. “I know. So . . . what did you mean? Stand by me? I figure, of anyone, you'd be the one wanting to run as far away as possible.”

“That thought might have gone through my mind a few times.” His grin unfolded slowly. “Maybe more than a few.”

Her lips parted on a little huff at his blunt honesty, even as laughter rose in her throat.

“Careful, sugar, you might catch flies.” He shifted just a hair closer. “Or something else entirely.”

She closed her mouth, but felt the heat of his meaning seep into every pore of her body. Made her knees a bit wobbly, just thinking about what it would be like to catch what Dylan Ross was pitching.

“Bottom line is . . . you want to stay,” he said, keeping that intensity right in his gaze, seemingly quite at home in her personal space, even though he was well aware of the risks. “And I know a way to help you do that.”

“So . . . this is just about you fixing something you can fix?”

“Partly. If I can, then I want to, yes.”

“Not about me, then. Personally, I mean.”

“Shouldn't be.”

She looked up into his eyes. “Shouldn't?”

He reached up and gently pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. His smile reached his eyes, and she was so caught up in it, she didn't realize he was trailing his finger down the side of her cheek until it was too late to worry about it.

“Shouldn't,” he said again. “But I can't deny you've worked your way in, Honey Pie.” His voice got softer, deeper, his drawl vibrating along the surface of her skin as he leaned down so his lips were next to her ear. “Reached right in and grabbed hold.” The warmth of his breath feathered across her cheeks as he moved his mouth close to hers, still not touching her. “And I'm not sure why, but I'm not wantin' you to let go. Not just yet.”

His words made her heart pound so hard she could barely hear her own thoughts, and her knees went from kind of wobbly to downright woozy. “I'm not trying to complicate your life.”

He lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes. And his grin devastated any hope she had of reclaiming control. “Sugar, it was too late for that the minute I saw you sitting on that bench out back, looking across the alley like you wanted the world, if only it would want you back.”

She felt . . . exposed. For the first time, she had an inkling of what others felt like when she tried to tell them what she saw, what she knew. How exposed they must have felt, how vulnerable. It was terrifying to think he could look at her, and know . . . know what was in her heart, what she'd barely admitted to herself. “I-I just wanted my car fixed.”

His grin did that lazy slide into something deeper, more intimate, bringing out a devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, well . . . sometimes you get more than you bargain for.”

He took a step forward and she automatically shifted back, bringing her up against the door that led to the storage space.

“I'm giving you fair warning that I'm about to put my hands on you because it seems the right thing to do, but I'll admit, I'm not givin' you any time to think on it.” He framed her face with the palms of his hands, so broad and strong, warm, and a little rough. Before she could even begin to process all the delicious signals that sent out, his mouth came down on hers.

She had no time to brace herself, no time to think, and then she was lost in the scents, the tastes, the feelings coursing through her. There was nothing tentative in this kiss; he took, and simply expected to be given to in return.

Give she did. Willingly, helplessly . . . and to her shock, happily. The edges of her consciousness wavered, but with the demands of lust and want and desire. Every part of her was alert, in the moment, and quite wonderfully present.

“You good, sugar?” he queried in a deep murmur against her lips.

“Very,” she answered breathlessly, touched and turned on by the fact that, even in the throes of it, he was still taking care of her.

He chuckled at that. When she brought her hands up to his chest, he took hold of her wrists and pinned them gently, but firmly to the door on either side of her head. “My turn. Next time, we'll see what happens when you do the touching.”

He slowly slid her hands up the door, bringing their bodies closer, making hers vibrate with the need to feel him pressed up against her. She was past worrying about what might happen. Every thought she had was on one thing, and one thing only . . . feeling him pressed up against her.

He found her mouth again and slowed things down, taking his time, taking her mouth with patient, but devastating thoroughness until she was completely focused on that and only that. Then he eased his body against hers. He was hard, muscular, warm, the heavy air making his T-shirt a bit damp, his skin a bit slick.

She moaned as he slid his tongue into her mouth, moved his body against hers . . . and everything blissfully slipped away except the blinding need to feel more, taste more, have more.

He left her mouth, and she made a brief sound of protest. The whimper turned into a groan of pleasure as his lips found the soft spot under her jaw, then traveled along the side of her neck. She moaned and let her head shift to the side to allow him greater access, reveling in the experience of discovery, of learning what it felt like to be utterly seduced . . . and the thrill of how her body responded to it. Learning where her sensitive spots were, how easily he could elicit a gasp, a moan, when he discovered and exploited them . . . much to her delight.

She had the fleeting thought that pinned against the door, all but helpless, she should have felt trapped . . . panicked, at the very least, at not having any control over how her space was being invaded. Instead, she realized she felt protected, safe. She trusted Dylan. He knew what could happen and wanted her anyway . . . and at the same time, he wasn't being cavalier or selfish about it. There was no doubt she wanted this as much as he . . . and she could certainly say no if she didn't want this to happen, which meant he trusted her, too. So, there was sort of an inner sense of calm, knowing that, no matter what happened, even if the curse was triggered again, he'd stand by her.

It was tantalizing, even a little thrilling, despite the fear, to know he'd probably keep pushing her to reach for what she wanted. He wouldn't let her run and hide.

He pressed her wrists to the wall, then slowly drew his hands along her arms to her shoulders, and she arched against him, all of her thoughts riveted on one thing, wanting his hands to keep moving, to find more of those spots that drove her wild. Two in particular would kill to have his fingertips on them.

“Sugar, you have no idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you,” he murmured, his lips pressed to the base of the throat.

“I'm not . . . stopping you,” she managed between short breaths. Having an episode had never been so far from her thoughts. Trying to keep her knees from going completely to Jell-O while biting her lip to keep from begging him to cup her breasts, to please, dear God, play with her nipples . . . was taking up every bit of her concentration.

“If I start, no tellin' where it'll stop,” he said. “And a dusty, dank old building isn't what I had in mind.”

She wanted to scream, she ached so bad. “You've . . . had this in mind?” She was trying to stay focused on the words and not the feel of his wide palms, bracketing her waist.

He lifted his head at that and grinned. “It might have occurred to me once or twice,” he said, echoing his words from earlier. “Okay, maybe a few times.” He lifted his hands from her waist and carefully, without so much as brushing against her almost painfully erect nipples, he plucked open one button of her blouse. “Not to say I couldn't be persuaded . . .” He plucked open another one, and that devilish twinkle was back in his eyes again.