No More Secrets: A Small Town Love Story (The Pierce Brothers Book 1) (3 page)

Back upstairs, she tweaked the pictures with filters in her editing apps and then uploaded them to her draft post. She needed one more picture. Her followers deserved to see the striking Carter Pierce. A shot of him on the blog would guarantee fevered interest in the story when it came out in the September issue, she thought with a smile.

Speak of the devil. She heard him on the stairs. A moment later, he was framed in the doorway of her room. His arm rested on the frame, thumb swiping at a streak of dirt on his forehead.

“Hey. I’m going to take a shower. My mother will be here soon to start dinner. I should be out before she gets here, but she’s obnoxiously early to everything.”

Summer raised her phone and clicked a picture of him. “I’ll keep an eye out for her just in case,” she said.

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

Summer smiled innocently. “It’s for the blog.”

He pushed away from the door and stalked down the hall, muttering about blogs and articles.

While Carter got naked, Summer distracted herself by changing into black skinnies and a soft gray tunic with a flattering scoop neck. It was the exact color of Carter’s eyes.

She styled her hair into a simple topknot and slipped on ballet flats. Some subtle smoke at her eyes and rose on her cheeks and she considered herself presentable for a casual family dinner.

Summer was halfway down the stairs when the front door swung open.

“Yoo hoo!”

The woman was wrestling a stockpot through the door when Summer got to her.

“Here, let me help.”

“I’ve got this if you can grab the grocery bag out of the backseat,” she said with a quick grin. “I’ll meet you back in the kitchen for a proper introduction.”

Summer hustled outside and grabbed the cloth bag out of the late model sedan. Back inside, she found the woman hunched over the pot on the stove. Dressed in a chunky knit cardigan and jeans, she had dark rimmed glasses and a blunt bob with streaks of silver that framed her oval face. Trim and fashionable, she was clearly very comfortable in Carter’s home.

Summer put the bag on the island.

“Ah! Thank you,” the woman said, slapping the lid back on the pot and turning around. “So, you must be Summer Lentz.” She extended her hand and a trio of bracelets jingled.

“I am.” Summer took her hand.

“Welcome to Blue Moon Bend. I’m Phoebe Pierce. Carter’s mom.”

Her grip was just like her expression, friendly and confident.

“Mrs. Pierce, it’s great to meet you. I’m so excited to be here.”

“Call me Phoebe. And we’re excited to have you,” she said, digging through the drawers for a wooden spoon. “Spaghetti okay for dinner tonight? It’s one of Carter’s favorites.”

“It smells incredible.”

“Pierce family recipe and Pierce family veggies. So where is my handsome oldest?”

“Carter’s upstairs taking a shower.”

“Good. Then we’ll get to know each other before he comes down. Wine?”

Summer grinned. It was going to be much easier getting answers out of Phoebe than her son. She was sure of it. “Sure. Can I help with anything?”

“How about you start chopping for the salad? Pretty much anything you find in the fridge is fair game,” Phoebe said, gesturing with a loaf of garlic bread toward the stainless steel behemoth.

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W
hen Carter came downstairs, fresh from a shower, he found his mother and his houseguest chatting and laughing in the kitchen.

“There’s my favorite son,” Phoebe said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.

“That’s what she calls us when she can’t remember our names,” Carter explained to Summer.

She was clutching one of his nicest knives in a white-knuckle grip and focusing on her massacre of a carrot. Anticipating bloodshed, he grimaced and moved in.

He closed a hand over hers clutching the knife. “I’ve got this. Why don’t you sit and interrogate my mother?”

Those long lashes fluttered as her eyes widened in surprise. He knew she felt it too. That zing of current that passed through them every time their hands met.

She had changed and put her hair up, revealing the curve of her neck. Those full lips, painted with a tempting cherry gloss, were parted. The rounded neckline of her sweater would have seemed modest to anyone shorter. But at six-foot-three-inches, Carter was afforded an accidental and spectacular view.

He frowned. He was thirty. Not seventeen. Leering at a houseguest, no matter how punch-in-the-gut gorgeous, was not acceptable or respectful.

He couldn’t exactly remember the last time he’d had sex. And that meant it had been way too long. He’d been busy, had other things on his mind. But since Summer had walked in, it had been the
only
thing on his mind.

She handed over the knife and then bobbled her wine glass in her haste to get out of his way.

Carter caught his mother’s smug smile out of the corner of his eye and frowned harder. He knew nothing would make her happier than to see him stupid in love. But a fling with a writer that he’d never see again? That didn’t qualify.

He concentrated on salvaging what was left of the carrot while Summer peppered his mother with questions about the farm’s humble beginnings. He moved on, expertly dicing pepper, onion, and radish.

“You’re good with a knife,” Summer observed. He hadn’t rattled her too badly, he decided.

Carter snuck a piece of pepper off the mound and popped it into his mouth.

“Is that kitchen or Army expertise?” she pressed.

His brother’s greeting from the front door saved Carter the trouble of answering.

Beckett strolled into the kitchen carrying a six-pack, his wingtips echoing on the hardwood.

“Didn’t we say dinner was casual?” Carter eyed Beckett’s pinstriped trousers and unwrinkled button down. Only his brother would wear a starched, white shirt to a spaghetti dinner. The only nod to casual was that Beckett had removed his tie and opened his top button.

Carter and his youngest brother, Jackson, shared a suspicion that Beckett slept in a suit.

“Give me a break,” Beckett grumbled. “Mediation ran long. Didn’t I order my spaghetti with no beard hair?”

“Boys!” Phoebe said in mock exasperation. “Not in front of our company.”

Carter saw the exact second that Beckett registered Summer’s appeal. There was a widening of his eyes, and he smoothly shifted into baby-kissing mode.

“You must be Summer,” he said, taking her hand in both of his.

“And you must be Phoebe’s favorite son,” Summer quipped.

“You’re obviously very observant,” he grinned down at her.

“Writers generally are,” Carter muttered, glowering at Beckett behind Summer’s back. His brother was still staring and still holding her hand. He put the knife down on the cutting board a little louder than necessary.

“What’s in the six-pack?”

Beckett finally let go of Summer’s hand and brought the pack around the island. “A variety of BP’s finest.”

Carter met him at the fridge and opened the doors.

“Why didn’t you tell me she looked like that?” Beckett hissed, throwing an elbow in Carter’s gut.

“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered, checking Beckett with his shoulder.

“Are you calling dibs?”

“She’s a woman, not the last piece of fucking pie. And yes, I’m calling dibs if it keeps your hands off of her.”

“Did someone say pie?” Summer asked hopefully from across the island.

“If you two are done with your conference over there, I need someone to cut up the garlic bread.” There was amusement in Phoebe’s voice.

“I can do it,” Summer offered.

“No!” Carter insisted, a little too sharply. “I got it.”

He pulled a bag of spinach out of the fridge and gave Beckett one last shove before moving back to the island.

“Where is it?” Beckett called from the depths of the refrigerator.

“Where’s what?” Summer wanted to know.

“Boys and their beer,” Phoebe sighed and topped off their wine glasses. “My sons are obsessed with home brewing.”

Beckett triumphantly pulled an unlabeled bottle from the vegetable crisper. “You think you can hide this pretty little CP Blonde from me.” He grabbed another bottle from the six-pack he brought. Opening them, he slid one down the granite to Carter.

Taking a deep swig of his bottle, Beckett sighed. “It’s almost as good as my IPA that you’re drinking.”

“Almost as good as? I think you meant to say ‘blows your IPA out of the water.’”

“Clearly your beard has ruined your taste buds.”

Phoebe winked at Summer. They can go all night like this if we don’t distract them.”

“CP and BP? Carter Pierce and Beckett Pierce?”

Carter nodded. “We have an ongoing competition.”

“Can I try one?” Summer asked.

Did anyone ever say no to those baby blues?

Carter slid his bottle across the island to her. “This is one of Beckett’s. An India pale ale. It’s not too bad.”

Summer picked up the bottle and Carter watched her lips wrap around the mouth.

Shit.

Realizing his mistake, he turned his attention to assembling the salad.

Phoebe, her kitchen prep done, settled in to tell Summer how she had earned a degree in sustainable food and farming and met the boys’ father while researching her master’s thesis.

“John Pierce took one look at me and tried to run for the hills, but he never stood a chance.”

“You knew what you wanted,” Summer said.

“He had these soulful, gray eyes and unruly hair and was frowning more often than not. I fell head over heels. The work he was doing here didn’t hurt either. This used to be 200 acres of broken down fields and ramshackle buildings rotting on their foundations.”

Carter moved around the kitchen, grabbing a basket for the garlic bread, and starting to slice. “Mom and Dad took what had been a century-old dairy farm and turned it into Pierce Acres.”

“What kind of animals do you raise here?”

“We don’t raise most of them in the traditional farm sense,” Phoebe said. “We’ve got free range chickens for eggs and horses for the riding program. But everyone else is a pet or a rescue.”

“Mr. Vegetarian here lets his bleeding heart make the decisions,” Beckett said, snagging a piece of steaming bread.

Carter shot Summer a glance and saw her mentally filing information away. He didn’t like it. Every conversation with her would be focused on dragging private details out of him. He took another swig of beer.

“I still say spaghetti without meatballs is sacrilege,” Beckett sighed.

“You’ll get over it.” Carter tossed him another piece of bread.

A knock at the side door caught their attention. The three Pierces shouted a welcome, and the door swung open.

“Joey, how many times do I have to tell you that you don’t have to knock?” Carter reminded her.

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T
he woman who let the screen door slam behind her had the height and strut of a runway model. “Unlike you gentlemen, I wasn’t raised in a barn. Besides, I don’t want to give any of you the idea you can burst into my house any time you want,” she said, in a voice as husky as a jazz singer.

She strolled in, navy riding breeches and tall boots accentuating legs that went on for days. Her long sleeve polo was untucked and her chestnut hair was pulled back in a low, sleek ponytail. Summer felt like she was looking at a Ralph Lauren Polo ad come to life.

“You wouldn’t have let them in the house either, if you were their mother,” Phoebe joked from the stove.

“You just come from the barn?” Carter asked, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a beautiful woman had just entered his house.

“Yeah. I stayed after the lessons to check on Gonzo. He was favoring his front leg today and I wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything serious. He’s fine. Just being a baby.”

Joey worked her way through the greetings. A kiss on the cheek for Carter and Beckett and a tight hug for Phoebe.

“Joey, this is Summer. She’s writing the article on the farm. Joey is our on-site horse whisperer,” Carter said.

Summer offered her hand and they shook.

Joey’s brown eyes coolly measured. “Hi.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Summer said, hoping a friendly smile would disarm her.

Joey dropped her hand and shifted her attention to Phoebe. “Thanks for having me to dinner.”

Not a warm and fuzzy kind of girl. Summer could respect that.

“Anytime, sweetheart. You’re always welcome to help me even out the testosterone,” Phoebe chuckled, her glasses steaming from the contents of the pot.

Joey dumped a worn tote on the counter and Beckett dove for it. “Please tell me you brought dessert. Apple crisp?” he asked hopefully.

“Peanut butter pie,” she corrected.

“Are those crumbled up peanut butter cups on top?”

“Of course.”

“When are you going to give up spending all your time with horses so you can marry me and make me desserts every day?” Beckett sighed.

Joey rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “Keep dreaming, Mr. Mayor. I have no desire to be first lady of Blue Moon.”

“You’re the mayor?” Summer asked, eyebrows raised. That was an interesting tidbit. Beckett had to be a year or two younger than Carter’s thirty years.

“Mayor and an attorney. You couldn’t tell from the bullshit that spills out of his mouth?” Carter smirked.

“Carter Pierce, you watch your damn mouth,” Phoebe warned, brandishing salad tongs.

“Yes, ma’am,” Carter answered contritely.

Beckett flipped him the bird and quickly ran his hand through his thick, dark hair when Phoebe set her sights on him.

“Put that finger away before I break it, Beckett,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned back to Summer. “I am the mayor, two years into my term.”

“It was either Beckett here,” Joey jerked a thumb in his direction. “Or Crazy Fitz from the bookstore. And Fitz wanted to make it mandatory that all residents had to build fallout shelters.” She leaned in and snagged a cucumber out of the salad.

“For the love of — if you all are going to keep picking, we might as well eat,” Phoebe sighed.

Dinner was an entertaining and informative peek into family life. The Pierces — and Joey — bickered and laughed their way through dessert. It was an easy dynamic, one bred from years of knowing every detail of each other’s lives.