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Authors: Donna Kauffman

BOOK: Sweet Stuff
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“Don’t hold back on my account,” she told him. “I mean, any sixteen-year-old girl who has ducks on her underwear deserves what she gets.” She waited a beat, then added, “Soooo sexy.”
He opened one eye, caught hers, and they went off in peals of laughter. “I’m sorry. That’s just ... so wrong of me,” he finally managed, wiping the corner of one eye. “I’m sure you were adorable in ducks.” That sent them off all over again.
“Sadly, they were utterly me,” she agreed, trying to catch her breath.
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” he said as they struggled to get themselves back under control, “we share track and field attempts to impress gone awry. I think I told you, I was a skinny kid in school. I really loved sports, but I was too small for football, and not tall enough at that point for basketball. Baseball wasn’t my thing, so I went out for track. In the case of my brutal downfall, it was the state championship meet, my first year on the team, and I was going to impress Amy Sue Henderson, star distance runner from our crosstown rival, with my mad pole-vaulting skills.”
Riley covered her mouth to keep the laughter from starting all over again. “And?” she said, the word muffled behind her hand.
“You know how you run down the lane, plant the pole in the pit, then launch yourself over the bar to the big mat on the other side?”
All Riley could do was nod at that point, tears of mirth already forming at the corners of her eyes.
“Well, I took off running, and made the mistake of looking over, midstride, to see if she was watching. And when I saw that she was, I got all hung up in those pretty green eyes, and it threw me off count. I planted the pole on the track, missed the pit entirely, tried to launch myself anyway—”
Riley covered her open mouth.
“—snapped the pole in half, and landed in a skinny, crumpled, disgraced heap in the pit.”
Riley’s hand dropped away. “Were you okay?”
“My body was fine. I would have sworn then, though, that my ego would never recover. Or my self-confidence.”
“What did Amy Sue do?”
“Let’s just say she wasn’t raised with the same admirable traits as Mr. Flanagan. She and her teammates were highly amused.”
“Bitch,” Riley whispered.
Quinn grinned. “It was painful, but a lesson was learned that day.”
“Which was?”
“Run softly and be careful where you plant your big stick?”
Riley spluttered a laugh. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Sorry.” A mischievous twinkle glowed in his blue eyes as he laughed along with her. “Actually, I learned to be more realistic in my goals. On and off the field. And to stay focused on the more important ones.”
“How did you get yourself back in the meet? I mean, could you?”
“I stumbled through the three other events I was in. It’s mostly a mortifying blur. Unfortunately there was no Hollywood ending where I went on to dominate in all the other disciplines and take home multiple golds. But by the time track season rolled around the following year, I’d gained some size along with a lot of height. I worked really hard, and I got pretty good at it.”
“Decathlete, you said. That’s impressive.”
He shrugged, his smile self-deprecating and far too endearing because of it. “By my senior year. Maybe I was just trying to prove myself to the Amy Sue Hendersons of the world.”
“Maybe.” Riley understood the feeling. “Maybe we’re always doing that, in one form or another.”
His expression sobered a bit, and their gazes connected again, but, for once, he didn’t probe, didn’t push. And she was more grateful than he could possibly know. The whole fiasco with Jeremy had brought a lot of her insecurities crashing back, and though she was dealing with them, it was still a sensitive topic.
Quinn turned and nodded toward the photos framed on the wall by the door. “Lani tells me this is your work.”
“It is,” she said, thankful for the shift in topic once again.
“They’re really good. I’m assuming the prints in the bungalow are yours, too? And obviously, the houseboat. I guess I should have put it together.”
She shrugged. “I don’t see why you would have.”
“David handled all the paperwork for keeping the furniture and things, but I did go over the inventory list to make sure we hadn’t missed anything. I didn’t see you listed as a lease or buyer contact.”
“Since most of my jobs are somewhere along the chain of barrier islands, I use my prints in some of the houses I stage.”
“So, were some of the shots taken on the other islands as well?”
She glanced at the photos that Lani had chosen for the shop. One in particular was a small print of a picnic table in the wilderness park just down the road from Lani’s place. It had played an important role during Lani’s courtship with Baxter. She’d talked about it once at Cupcake Club, so Riley had done some exploring, found the place, and shot it as a gift for the couple’s first anniversary. A larger print of the same shot, matted and framed, hung in their home.
“Occasionally, but these were all taken here.” Various other memories flitted through Riley’s mind, of time spent wandering with her camera. Brutus often forged the way. That made her smile. She had albums full of photos of him, discovering his place in island life, too. “Taking them was a large part of how I came to fall in love with the island,” she murmured, then realized she’d spoken the musing out loud.
“I can see why.” He came to stand beside her.
She kept her gaze fixed on the prints, but there were a lot of other images crowding her mind. None of them framed and on the wall.
“I didn’t mean to keep your work from you,” he said. “I’m guessing you usually take your prints back down after the homes are done being shown. If you want me to return them, I will.” He shifted his gaze to her. She could feel it, like a warm caress. “But I’d prefer to keep them, or at least some of them. I’ll get David to work out whatever compensation—”
“They can all stay. No compensation required.” She wished like mad every little glance and word from him didn’t affect her so acutely.
“Well, if you ever need them for a job—”
“I’m good,” she assured him. “I have plenty. And I’m always taking more.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. They’re a big part of why the bungalow feels ... right to me.” He made a soft snort. “How’s that for a descriptive turn of phrase?”
She smiled. It made perfect sense to her. “I’m glad you like them.”
“Does Lani sell your prints? Are they for sale, I mean? If so, I’d—”
Riley shook her head. “These were gifts to her, mostly because she kept bugging me about them after seeing a few I’d put up on the houseboat. She’s offered, many times in fact, to put more in here on a commission basis. But I don’t want to ... I don’t know, commercialize the work, if that makes any sense. I take them because what I’m looking at makes me want to capture it, for my own pleasure. If I think it will move someone else, then I give it to them. But that’s all the satisfaction I need or want, really. It’s just something I do for myself. A hobby, I guess. I don’t want it to be work.”
“Well, as hobbies go, it’s a spectacular one. If you ever change your mind, the offer stands.”
“Thank you. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“What about the older prints?” he asked, motioning to the black and whites on the other side of the door. “There are some of those in the bungalow, too.”
“Lani came across them when she was cleaning out this place after buying it. It had stood empty for some time and there were boxes of stuff left behind long ago.”
“Nice find,” he said. “I like the historical bookends. Old and new, then and now. So the older prints in the bungalow, they wouldn’t have come from here?”
“No, they didn’t. I don’t know how much you know about the place, but the bungalow had been unoccupied for a very, very long time. The older gentleman who owned it had apparently used it as a summer place decades ago. He had been in ill health for many years, and left it to sit, mostly neglected. When he passed away a few years back, his executor put it on the market. Two investors finally bought it, had it completely renovated and updated, and really made something of the place, as you’ve seen. It’s quite a showpiece, especially here on Sugarberry. The pictures you have were either already on the walls, or found in storage boxes. Fortunately, the new owners didn’t ditch them. I found them stacked up in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and decided to use them. So, they go with the house.”
“That they do,” he agreed, though she knew he understood she’d meant they were conveyed with the lease agreement. “Your work complements the vision of whoever took them. Your viewpoints are much the same. Kind of interesting, when you think about it. Two people whose paths never crossed, from different eras, both moved by the same setting in much the same way, both documenting it in their own way.”
She smiled at that and found herself nudging his arm with her elbow. “You’re such a writer.”
“Storyteller,” he corrected. “And yep, I can’t help it. That’s how I see things, I guess. How I document what I see. I think about the story that goes with them, or that might have gone with them. If I were telling it.”
“Have you always known?” she asked. “About being a storyteller?”
“Um ... my understanding of the calling developed over time, but looking back, there were clues all along. What about you? Have you always had an eye for setting? Either behind the lens, or staging and styling the things in front of it?”
She smiled. “I was forever rearranging my stuffed animals and I set a mean tea party table, even as a five-year-old, so ... yes, you could say that.”
He grinned at that. “Did you head straight into that field?”
She glanced up at him again. “Yes, Curious George, I did.”
He laughed. “I’ve gone from dead cat to curious monkey. But I’m done apologizing. I can’t help it. The subject matter is very interesting to me.”
“Interior design?”
“No.” His gaze landed very squarely on her own. “The woman doing the designing.”
She hadn’t been prepared for that. For the intensity of his gaze. Or the way it tied her tongue right up.
“Bonsoir, ma petite bakers,” Franco called out as he sailed into the shop. “Oh.” He stopped short as he almost stumbled straight into them. “Didn’t see you there.” He ran his gaze openly over Quinn. “Well, ’allo,
Monsieur
... Brannigan, I presume?”
Quinn kept his gaze on Riley’s for a fraction of a second longer, then glanced up at Franco. “Quinn,” he said. “Please.”
“Franco.” He stuck his beefy hand out and they struck a quick shake. Franco glanced between the two of them and Riley could see the struggle between the knowing smile and the frown of concern.
“Lani is in the back,” Riley said. “Alva is next door.” She wiggled her eyebrows, hoping to distract him. “Dealing with Sam. And Charlotte is back! She’ll be in tonight.”
Franco clapped his wide palms together. “A tasty evening menu, for sure.” He kept his gaze straight on Riley’s. “Will you be joining us?”
“I will. Quinn—Mr. Brannigan, was just dropping something off for me.”
“Ah, the borrowed shirt,” Franco said, his openly curious gaze moving back to Quinn. “I see.”
“I’ve taken up enough of your time,” Quinn said to Riley, then looked at Franco. “A pleasure to meet you.” He turned back to Riley. “Thank you for the loan, and for indulging the dead cat. And the curious monkey. Both are greatly appreciative.”
She couldn’t help it, even with Franco sucking in every blink, she grinned. “Did I have a choice?”
“We all have choices.” He smiled at them as he sketched a slight bow, and let himself out.
Riley immediately lifted her hand, blocking Franco’s handsome face. “Don’t start. Do not even start. I can’t. Okay?”
She looked up, expecting to find either a pout or a devilish smile. Instead, his expression was completely unreadable. It was so unlike him, she wasn’t quite sure what to think of it.
“Okay.” He put his hand at the small of her back and guided her to the counter where her baking tote and toolbox still sat.
“That’s it? Are you feeling all right?”
“Better than I have in a very long time.” He surprised her by leaning down and planting a kiss on top of her head. “Just remember, I’m always here if you need me.”
She surprised them both by turning and hugging him tight. “I know you are.” She looked up and smiled. “I’m a lucky girl.”
He leaned down and kissed her nose. “You don’t know the half of it, honey.” They laughed as they headed to the kitchen.
Chapter 8
“
I
t’s coming along fine,” he lied. Quinn tucked his cell phone between his ear and shoulder as he shifted gears and pulled his Carrera into the narrow, crushed shell and gravel lot behind Laura Jo’s and parked. He didn’t immediately get out, wanting to finish the call with his editor first.
It was already humid and, even though the calendar had finally turned the page to September, he knew the day would be a scorcher. At the moment, there was a steady, early morning breeze. It carried the rich, mingling scents of sizzling bacon and fresh roasted coffee wafting out the screened kitchen door, straight through the open windows of his car, making his stomach grumble in appreciation.
He’d started something of a habit, indulging himself with a hot breakfast a few mornings a week. Those delectable smells didn’t begin to promise what they actually delivered, providing another reason to end his call as swiftly as possible.
“Good, great! So ... can you give me a delivery date? Pretty please,” Claire begged. “Just so I can keep the wolves at bay. They’re starting to circle.”
“I’m sure they are, and I’m sorry for that. I am. But it’s not like we’re behind schedule.”
“I know, I know. We just usually have a publication date all picked out by now. Can you give me even a whisper of a general idea?”
Quinn sighed. He’d known the pressure would start sooner rather than later, but he hadn’t expected the Big Push this soon. He should have, he supposed. With the industry struggling to find its way in an era filled with new gadgets and an ever widening variety of publishing formats, all the New York publishing houses were feeling the pressure to do whatever it took to ensure their upcoming release lists remained strong and vital. He was at the top of his publisher’s list in that department. An announcement of a new release from their best-selling author would go a long way toward quieting the wolves, from the publisher, to the distributors, and on down the chain, to the most important element ... the reader.
No one was more keen on satisfying that particular link in the chain than he was.
“Claire, as soon as I feel I can give you a target, you’ll be the very first to know. You know I’m consistent, I’m never late, and I don’t let you down. So just tell everyone to calm down. They’ll have another Brannigan title for next year’s schedule. Sitting on my shoulder is not helping the process.”
“I know, I know. You know I wouldn’t be making a peep unless I really had to,” she said, all contrition now.
“I do. Just glad we’re on the same page. I’m looking forward to some uninterrupted writing time,” he added pointedly.
“Of course,” she said, though they both knew his uninterrupted time had been officially marked as limited now. “So, how is it down in Georgia?” she asked, which translated into
Is migrating to the middle of nowhere making you write any faster?
“It’s great, actually. Better than anticipated.”
“Good, great!” she said, overly excited by the news. He knew she’d take that and run with it.
He’s on a roll!,
she’d tell them.
“Always good to talk with you, Claire.” He seized the chance to end on an enthusiastic note. “I’ll be in touch.” She should hear those words as
don’t call me, I’ll call you,
but they both knew she’d ignore them.
“It’s good to touch base with you, Quinn.” Sincere affection mixed in now that her official duties were complete. “You know, if you want to send me a partial, so I can start the marketing ball rolling—”
He rolled his eyes even as he smiled. Claire, after all, would always be Claire. Her professional duties were never really complete. He didn’t fault her for continuing to push. Her bulldog-in-a-poodle-suit tenacity was what made her the successful executive editor she was. It worked to his advantage when she was fighting in-house to get him every possible edge in promotion and placement.
There was sincere warmth in his voice when he continued. “You know I don’t write that way. I’m all over the place until the book is finished. That hasn’t changed.”
She laughed. “Can’t fault a girl for trying. Besides, you know at heart I’m just a fan who can’t wait to see what you’re up to next.”
If you only knew,
he thought, feeling a different tug in his stomach.
The shame of it was, Quinn knew her statement to be utterly true. In addition to being savvy about marketing, branding, placement, and the business side as a whole, she was keyed in on an intimate level with his work. She didn’t just get his work as it pertained to current marketing trends. She truly understood and enjoyed his stories purely as a reader. She was his target audience.
It was that very duality that made them such a good team. He valued her input on all things, especially on story, more than she knew. However, the politics of the game didn’t make that easy to express. Over the past few months, he’d been sorely tempted to pick up the phone, wanting to pick her brain about the new direction the current work was pushing him toward. Not to get her blessing, or force the panic attack such a revelation might induce, but to discuss the work itself. More than current market analysis, that was what he needed to help him decide what to do.
The problem was, she played for both sides. A fact he could never forget. There was no way to talk with her about his idea, without simultaneously announcing the same news to his entire publishing house. He couldn’t ask her to keep it a secret until he decided, and he wasn’t ready to make any kind of public announcement yet. It was the same reason he hadn’t bent the ears of any of his fellow authors. Not that he couldn’t trust their discretion, but this was not a typical brainstorming session. The idea that someone so successful in one genre was even contemplating switching it up would be too juicy a tidbit to keep under wraps. Especially in the current writer-eat-writer economic environment.
If and when he decided to change it up, he’d need to control the big reveal as best he could. He’d have to tell Claire immediately. It would be career suicide, on many levels, to just spring the manuscript on her, fait accompli, then let the chips fall where they may. But when—and if—he did tell Claire, he needed to be damn sure of what he was doing, so he could defend the book as thoroughly and enthusiastically as possible, ensuring to the best of his ability that it would be well received, with everyone on board his new train and thrilled to be there.
“We’ll talk soon,” Claire was saying.
Once again, he bit his tongue and kept his tumultuous thoughts to himself. “I know we will,” he said dryly, accepting the inevitability of that. “Take care.” His smile faded as he clicked off the phone. He groaned as he slid his sunglasses off and hooked them on the rearview mirror. The dragons were officially breathing fire.
Climbing out of the car, he pushed the aggravation away, focusing instead on the pleasures of Laura Jo’s bacon and egg sandwich, the world’s best coffee, and the friendly smiles and hearty welcomes of the locals who also made the diner part of their morning routine.
He’d wondered at first if he was making a mistake, if bumming around the island would end up inviting more distractions than he already had. Thanks to a small write-up in the local paper announcing he’d leased the old Turner place, and mentioning his ties to his grandfather and the island, everyone knew who he was, even those who’d never heard of him three or four weeks ago.
Although his ties were tenuous at best, it was precisely that connection to Sugarberry that had made him an instant local to the other islanders; welcomed, accepted, and, other than a nod and a friendly hello, largely left alone to his own devices. He appreciated both. More than he could have imagined. They also took a sense of pride and ownership of his accomplishments—local boy makes good—which could have come off as a bit of latching-on, but felt like a warm, supportive embrace.
He hadn’t realized how un-embraced he’d felt, or just how solitary a life he’d led over the years. He considered himself social, and involved. He did charity work, played a round of golf with a few fellow writer buddies when he could. David and Finch were always about or in contact, and there was rarely a time when he wasn’t traveling to see places he wrote about, or tracking down, meeting, or talking and listening to the broad range of people he interviewed and came to know while doing research for his books. He’d have said he had a full, vibrant, interesting life.
Yet, in a very short time, the span of a single month, the whole island had become as comfortable to him as his bungalow had been the moment he’d set foot in it. It felt like home. Or certainly a place he’d like to call home. Even with the monumental decision he had to make, he couldn’t remember ever feeling so ... grounded. Centered. As if rooted, toes in the sand, island breeze on his skin, and the quiet, loyal support, so good-naturedly offered up by everyone around him ... he could free the rest of himself up to think, to ponder. To plot and plan—which would be ever-so-glorious ... if he could just decide which version of the story he was going to tell.
His problem wasn’t that he didn’t know what to write next. He wasn’t blocked. Quite the opposite. There were two stories dueling for supremacy in his head. The one he knew he could write, because he’d written it, or some version of it, a dozen times before. The one he knew, hands down, was a solid, marketable, exciting idea that would produce a great story once it was all done and told.
And the other one, the tantalizing one, the one luring him down a path that was dark and shadowy, where there was no rich experience, accumulated knowledge, and certainty to fall back on. That story was all but bursting inside his head, luring him like a seductive siren. Promising heat and fun and heady anticipation, even though he knew there was a better than average chance his career would end in one huge, crashing, explosive ball of flames.
The only real question was ... did he risk the flaming ball of destruction for the chance to achieve what might be a slow, steady burn? One that could keep him in a heady, exciting place for many years to come?
“I wish to hell I knew,” he muttered as he climbed the short set of steps to the rear door of the diner. He’d needed to escape the four walls of his house ... and the four sides of his beckoning computer screen.
Write what you know ... make everyone happy ... keep your day job.
Those were the words echoing in his ears when he sat down to work. As was often the case of late, it had driven him straight out the door through the dunes and to the beach.
But a long, limit-testing run or punishing sea swim hadn’t done a damn thing to silence the voices ... or convince him to embrace them. He knew the creative process was unpredictable at best, so he remained hopeful every time he set off down the sand, that the epiphany would come, that some thought or idea would signal to him why he should turn his back on the seductive siren call torturing him, and stick to the steady reliable companion he’d worked so hard to cultivate. To believe in. To trust. He’d already achieved that with his publisher, his editor, and most important, his readers. Was he tossing those relationships away, like a sorry bastard who cheated on his spouse?
But that wasn’t even half his problem. Half his problem—hell, it felt like all of his problem—was those long runs that were supposed to promote clearheaded, rational thinking ... did nothing of the kind.
No sooner would he settle into a nice loping stride than his thoughts would trip away from the dialogue his characters should be having to echoes of other conversations, real ones, of laughter shared and insights revealed ... and a pair of devastating dimples bracketing a mouth he’d spent far—far—too much time wishing he’d already tasted.
What should have been a brief, inconsequential run-in at the bakery the previous week had turned out to be neither brief nor inconsequential. Every time he was with her, he learned more ... and the temptation grew. He’d first told himself he was using his attraction to distract himself from the confusing and challenging choices he had to make. It wasn’t the first time his head had been turned. He’d been writing long enough to see a distraction for what it was.
Riley Brown was in a whole new category. He couldn’t truly imagine that he’d ever forget her.
Quinn opened the screen door to the kitchen and gave a small salute and smile to Laura Jo and her line cooks, who were busily plating and serving up dishes, sliding them across the top of the half wall that divided the kitchen from the front diner counter and the tables lining the walls beyond it. He’d come in through the kitchen door by mistake his first time, thinking it was merely the rear entrance, since that was where the parking lot was. But he’d learned most everyone either lived within walking distance, or worked around the town square, so they came on foot. A few tourists or island wanderers would park along the curb out front, in the few spaces available. Typically, the other cars in the rear lot belonged to Laura Jo and her staff.
She’d thought he was sneaking in due to his celebrity status, which had made him laugh. Despite his sales numbers and his smiling face plastered on book jackets around the globe, he was like the rest of the best-selling authors out there—household names no one would recognize in person.
At best, he got the “where do I know that guy from?” look or a head scratch. It was amusing when Laura Jo had seated him discreetly in the back of the restaurant, right by the kitchen door, thinking he wanted privacy, and then had snuck samples of all kinds of heavenly goodies to him. He’d appreciated her sensitivity even if, normally, it would be unwarranted. With Sugarberry being so small, and folks knowing everything about each other’s business, he’d accepted the privacy she’d offered, simply for the chance to think and plot without interruption.

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