Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie (29 page)

“I know. You can't help yourself.” She sniffled, letting out a choked, watery laugh at the same time. “You have to try and fix it anyway.”

He pulled her into his arms and wrapped her up tight, feeling her cheek pressed against his pounding heart. Trying to will her to feel what he felt—that nothing was more right than this—he kissed the top of her head. “I don't have a choice, sugar,” he whispered.
I'm falling in love with you.

He felt her stiffen in his arms, and worried for a split second that he'd triggered another vision. Good or bad, that was the last thing she needed. She needed to be held, stroked, kissed, reassured . . . loved. And love was worth the risk.

He relaxed his hold, leaning back so he could see her face. She looked up at him, and it was misery, rather than relief he saw on her face. He was thankful that she wasn't off in Never-Never Land, but it was scant comfort to him.

“I hope it's enough for you to know that I want to,” she said, and his heart fell another giant notch. “I . . . you're giving me more than I deserve.”

“Honey—”

“I want it all, but I have to know I can give back, just as fully. It's just . . . it's all happening so fast. I thought I could handle it, just let it roll over me and I'd roll along with it. That I would simply be assimilated, as Kit said. It turns out it's not that easy. I wish it was.” Honey reached up and cupped his cheek, and his own eyes burned. “I want to figure it out, Dylan. I just . . . need some time. And space. I have to slow it down at least a little and give myself a chance to work my way into it.”

“Okay.” He knew it should be. It was little enough to ask. It felt like the wrong tack to take, but it wasn't his choice to make. “Offer stays open, sugar,” he said, wanting to ease the tension.

He knew if he kissed her, he would be hard pressed to stop. Easing her out of his arms, he tapped the top of her car with the flat of his palm. “Why don't you take her for a spin.”

Honey looked a little lost for a moment, blinked behind those glasses of hers a few times, then turned and cleared her throat. “Yeah. Maybe I will. Get some fresh air, clear my head.”

“Do I need to block the bridge?”

She shot him a dry smile, and a part of him settled a little. “I'm not running away. Not tonight anyway.”

“Just don't run without saying good-bye.” Well, that had kind of slipped out. So much for lessening the tension.

She blinked a few more times and he knew tears threatened again.

Even though her pain tore at his gut a little, it was also too damn bad. He wasn't going to walk on eggshells.

“I wouldn't do that” was all she said, then opened the door and climbed into the Beetle.

He let her pull her seat belt on, then closed the door for her. He felt a moment of pride when the engine started right up with nary a rattle or wheeze. He knew she understood the magnitude of that accomplishment by the way her brows rose and the quick look of wonderment she shot his way. She put it in gear and pulled out, pausing once she'd cleared the bay and lowered her window.

He walked to the edge of the open bay door.

“Thank you, Dylan.”

He lifted his hand in a half wave, smiling briefly. “You'll get my bill.”

She smiled, too . . . then drove off.

He watched until the taillights disappeared around the corner at the end of the alley and wondered if either one of them had believed her. “Good-bye, sugar,” he murmured. Just in case.

H
oney used a wooden dowel to press a vent hole in the bottom of the snail body, then propped it back on her worktable and gave it a critical once over. Her favorite pieces incorporated real wood, whether it was a foundation she'd hand carved or a natural piece of wood—a small tree stump or limb. Hollowed out, then formed into a planter with either real or man-made moss, live plants, or life-like silk flowers and foliage, her clay creations were usually tucked in here or peeking out from there.

The snail she was working on would sit under a large red and white polka dot capped toadstool house she'd already completed. A series of smaller, fat little mushrooms would eventually be wedged in a great piece of dried wood limb she'd collected ages ago, but hadn't worked with yet.

She sighed and looked around at the bare basics of her new work studio. The larger rear storage room had been designated for her personal workshop. Reassembled metal racks lined the walls, all of which would eventually hold newly created product. Her kilns and small polymer ovens had been relegated to the smaller storage room. Now that she had fully functioning air-conditioning and ventilation fans in the rear workrooms, she'd moved her living space into what she privately referred to as the mezzanine level office. It was still a bit stuffy up there, so she'd supplemented with a few floor fans. She'd have to consider forced air ventilation at some point, but that wasn't anywhere in her budget at the moment.

Her stock had arrived from Oregon and was sitting in many boxes stacked in the front of the store. She wished there had been built-in shelving on the main floor like there was around the balcony level, but a few second-hand tables could display her wares in the front window. If she spent a little more on some interesting pieces she'd more or less have the bare bones to get going.

“Who are you kidding,?” she muttered. She'd painted only half the space and knew she needed professional help to reach the high central ceiling. She wanted to paper the walls and add other décor, wainscoting maybe, but until she figured out display setups, that would have to wait so she could incorporate all of it together.

Even keeping everything bare bones, and using all local labor, who had worked for as close to dirt cheap as she could have hoped for, she wasn't marginally close to opening. Without so much as a peep of interest in her farm property as yet, she knew the smartest thing to do was open up her online store again. By taking orders, working on new product, and getting that part under way again, she could use the income to finance the rest of the shop rehab. Running her online business was pretty much a full-time occupation and would leave little time for her to work on getting the shop going. While there was no actual deadline on opening, the longer it took, the longer she was taking advantage of Dylan's generosity.

If he thought she was worried about that, he'd be pissed off. Of course, he was probably none too happy with her, anyway. It had been a week since their conversation the night she'd gotten her car back. They'd exchanged greetings every morning since then, when he came to the garage—small talk, mostly updates about how the shop was going, discussions on work that needed to be done next, recommendations on who to use . . . business, essentially. He hadn't tried to so much as touch her, much less kiss her, nor had he made any effort to pick up the discussion where it had left off. He was giving her the time and space she'd asked for.

She was grateful for it, more than he knew . . . but she wasn't any closer to an answer. Her belongings had begun arriving the day after their chat, and she'd shamelessly buried herself in unpacking, and looked for solace and guidance where she'd always found it . . . in creating things from clay and finding whimsy in pieces of wood. It had helped to calm her nerves, soothe her worries. But it hadn't brought her any answers.

She knew that was why she hadn't pulled the trigger and reopened her online store or done anything more than scrape the dirt out of the shop and get all the utilities functioning. Those were things any tenant would have to do . . . without altering or putting her own stamp on it.

She was startled out of her thoughts by the jangling of the bell she'd hung on the front door. The various workers she'd hired had been told to come to the back door, but as often as not, they stood out front and banged on the door. So she'd left it unlocked and put a bell on it.

“Be right out!” she called, straightening from her work stool and stretching as she washed the clay from her hands in the industrial sink in the back corner. She was drying her hands on a towel as she stepped into the front area. “Oh, hello. I thought it was the guy coming to wire the fridge in the kitchen. I thought I could just plug it in, but I blew some circuit or other. Of course.”

Morgan Westlake smiled even as the little girl with him tucked herself behind his legs.

Honey came a little closer. “Hi. I'm Honey. You must be Lilly.” She glanced up at Morgan and he nodded, so she crouched down next to him. “What do you have there?”

Lilly kept her head ducked, but held out the big, stuffed binder she had clutched to her chest. “My turtle book. Miss Dre maded it for me.”

Charmed by her five-year-old pronunciation, Honey sat down on the swept out and scrubbed, but otherwise bare cement floor. “Can I see it?”

Lilly finally looked up, and Honey's heart was instantly lost in those huge, luminous eyes. “Okay.” She handed the book to her.

“Why don't you sit down and show me.” Honey looked up at Morgan. “Do you have time?”

“I just brought by the lease agreement papers on your new space. I have to stop in and talk to Lani and Kit about some last minute things for the opening tomorrow. Is it okay if—”

“Absolutely.” Honey looked at Lilly. “Would you like to see some of the things I make after we look at your book? Maybe we can figure out how to make a sea turtle.”

Lilly's eyes grew wide and she looked up at Morgan. “Can I stay, Moggy?”

“If Miss Honey is sure.” He waited until Lilly looked back at Honey and silently mouthed
I'll be ten minutes, tops.

“I'm totally sure,” Honey said. “I'm waiting for the repair guy and I should be setting up some accounting, but I got sidetracked making snails and toadstool houses. You know how that is.”

He chuckled. “I'm raising a five-year-old. I know exactly how that is.”

“You made snails?” Lilly asked. “What's a toast—toads—”

“Toadstool,” Honey said more slowly. “It's a big, colorful mushroom.”

Lilly made a face. “Uncle Moggy gets them on his pizza. Yuck.”

“I think you'll like mine.” Honey leaned closer and whispered, “Mine are actually houses where magic snails and fairies live. They're not for eating.”

Lilly's eyes shone with wonder. “Magic snails?”

Honey nodded. And just like that, Lilly plopped down next to Honey and took back her binder, opening it up and laying it out on the floor. “Miss Dre drawed me some fairies. See?” She opened it, quickly passing many pages of colored-in sea turtles, to another page Honey immediately recognized as Dre's immaculate and fantastic pen and ink work. That one, too, was colored all over with great enthusiasm and an amazing ability to stay inside the lines, by the little girl seated beside her.

“They're beautiful. Miss Dre made me a shop apron with fairies. You want to see it?”

Lilly scrambled to her feet, careful to close and pick up her much cherished, very dog-eared binder, and nodded.

Morgan saluted his good-bye and was grinning as he let himself out the way he had come. Honey would have told him to use the rear entrance so he could cross the alley to the bakery, but she had a very excited five-year-old claiming all of her attention. “Come on,” she told Lilly.

 

She spent almost an hour with Lilly, and knew by the time Morgan came around the third time that she was itching to teach classes. Lilly might be young, but her imagination was wildly unrestricted and that fueled Honey's own creativity. She was excited not only by how Sugarberry and its unique wildlife and shore life might impact her work, which had been all woodland focused, but also by how the people of Sugarberry would inform her artwork through their own creative impulses.

She'd told Morgan she'd look over the agreement, and having just signed away another chunk of the miserly remains of her budget to the appliance repair guy, she finally sat down at her worktable and slid the agreement out of the manila envelope, thinking in her present, optimistic mood, she'd be most prepared to deal with it.

So,
she thought as she skimmed over it. There it was, spelled out in black and white, with a nice blank space for her to sign her name. And another for Dylan's signature. She sighed . . . and laid the papers on top of the worktable without reading through the fine print. Maybe she wasn't ready yet.

She hadn't gone to Cupcake Club, begging off because her inventory had been arriving steadily all week and she didn't want to leave a note on the door to contact her at the bakery. That hadn't stopped Alva, Lani, Kit, or Franco from dropping by the shop, checking on her, seeing how the renovation was going. Kit had dropped off the list of tradesmen and subcontractors she and Lani had used on Babycakes and Cakes by the Cup. Alva had invited her to her poker tournament and tried to weasel more information out of her on what she'd seen regarding Riley. Lani invited her to the reception they were throwing together for Riley and Quinn, the weekend following the grand opening. And Franco had just hung out, teased and flirted with her, and generally been a friend. Of course, he'd also jokingly asked if she'd put her hands on him and tell him if the guy he was currently seeing was “the one” . . . but it had been funny at the time. She'd been grateful for the comic relief . . . and the friendship.

By comparison, Dylan's lack of involvement had been pretty glaring, but she understood he had to protect himself and didn't fault him for it. But it made her feel worse for not being able to sort her mind out faster. If she could just stay in her shop and have people drop by to visit like they had this week, that would be great. But the truth was, even though she dreaded certain aspects of it, she wanted to go to the grand opening, wanted to celebrate with Lani and Kit, and be part of the event, not just hear about it from people or read about it in the local gazette.

She missed Dylan. She missed his friendship, his teasing sexy grins; she wanted him naked, and wanted to be naked with him. She missed the way he looked at her and understood her. She missed talking to him, figuring things out with him, hearing his well considered thoughts. And dammit, she missed the way he took care of her, and wanted, so badly, to fix things for her so she'd be happy.

What it came down to was knowing whether or not she could make him happy. That was the reason she hadn't reinitiated things with him, which he was clearly waiting for her to do. She wanted to be all those things, do all those things for him, too. But she could only be honest about the situation, and the reality was . . . she was the one who was going to bring the issues, the drama, and the complications to any relationship she tried to have.

He'd made it clear he was perfectly happy living a life that consisted of working on cars, fixing up his boat, helping out how and where he could, but generally staying behind the scenes, uninvolved, a happy non-participant in active island life. Because he cared for her, she knew he'd try to help her by running interference, as he'd done with Frank Hughes. Dylan would try to help her find that critical balance she'd need, so people—her friends—would want to keep her in their lives, and not instinctively shut her out in order to protect their privacy.

Through all of that, his nice peaceful life would cease, and though he might initially think he was willing to make that kind of adjustment, wouldn't it wear thin in the long term? She couldn't help thinking it would. What would she bring to him? How would she be enhancing his life, in order to make that kind of sacrifice worthwhile?

Where would either of them be when he realized there was a huge imbalance in their relationship? He didn't need more heartache in his life. She didn't think she would survive living and working next door to a man who could quite possibly be the love of her life . . . if she wasn't any longer the love of his.

For the first time in her life she wished she could have a vision about herself, something to guide her and tell her which way to go. “And ain't that a kick in the pants,” she muttered. She thought about her aunt Bea, and knew what she'd say. She'd tell Honey she was a damn fool for not going for it, for not sticking it out and letting herself and everyone else just find out how it would all turn out. But would even Bea agree that it was worth it, given the potential cost if it didn't? Sure, Honey could tell herself she had the consolation of knowing she'd tried, but somehow that didn't make her feel all that much better.

The bell on the front door jingled again, which surprised her because she was pretty sure she'd locked it after the repairman left. She looked up to find Dylan strolling toward the open door to the storage room.

Honey actually blinked her eyes to make sure she hadn't just conjured him up from her thoughts. Maybe she
was
having her own personal vision.

Except nothing was ephemeral about the man entering her workroom. He didn't say hello, didn't pause at the door, didn't even take a look around at all the changes that had happened since she'd turned the room into her workshop. From the looks of him, he had only one thing on his mind and she had no doubt what—or who—that was.