Sweet Stuff Page 2

  For that matter, Sugarberry didn’t have any other high-end beach bungalows. The old Turner place—bought at a bank auction by a pair of Atlanta investors looking to mine new Gold Coast development opportunities—was the first of its kind. And, if Sugarberry residents had anything to say about it—and they had plenty to say—the last.

  Unlike Quinn Brannigan, who was exactly high-end, upscale bungalow, yacht club material.

  “Yes, this is the one,” Riley answered him, making a grand gesture to the room around them. Anything to take his concerned gaze from her face. “It’s truly a gem. I’m so very sorry your first impression of the property was well ... you know. Hugely unprofessional of me. Not the hoped-for introduction, I’m afraid.” She deliberated a brief moment on asking him not to mention her little adventure to Scary Lois, but ditched that idea, too. Not a good idea to beg favors from the guy who’d just saved her life. Inadvertently, maybe, but still.

  “You’re not Lois of the multi-hyphenated last names, are you?”

  That earned a real smile and a wince before she could control it. “No. No, I’m not.”

  Quinn gave her that ridiculously charming half smile again. “I didn’t think so.”

  “You mean I don’t look like the Gold Coast’s most successful A-List Realtor?” she said dryly. “I’m stunned.”

  His half smile grew to a full smile and if she’d had any doubt her heart had fully survived her Jog Master marathon, that fear proved unwarranted. It was pumping just fine, thank you very much.

  “I’ve not had the privilege of meeting her as yet,” he said, a bit more of that honey-coated-biscuits-and-melted-butter tone flavoring his words. “But what communication we’ve had, well, let’s just say you seem far more ... approachable.”

  “You mean less scary?” Riley looked down at herself and sighed. “I don’t know about that. I don’t want to see myself in a mirror anytime soon.”

  “Come on. Let’s find the kitchen and get you cleaned up a little.”

  A gentleman’s way of saying, yep, super-scary looking. Not that it would have made a difference either way.

  “That’s okay, really. I’ll go take care of it. Why don’t you have a look around? Lois has all the literature with her, but once I’m cleaned up, I can give you a tour. I’m familiar with all the upgrades and should be able to answer most of your questions, at least as they pertain to the house itself.”

  In actuality, Riley knew every last inch of the place, before renovations and after. She knew every gizmo and upgrade that had been installed, as well as what parts of the property had been preserved, and why. Not because she had personal knowledge of Sugarberry history—she’d only been living on the island for a little over a year. This was actually the first project she’d done on the island itself. She normally worked farther down the barrier island chain, where the money was. She’d simply made it her business to know everything there was to know about the Turner place, just as she did with all the projects she was hired for.

  In many ways, staging an entire home or condo wasn’t any different than styling food for an elaborate magazine layout. She used to learn as much as she could about the cuisine being presented, including the history, the traditions, and, in many cases, preparing the dishes herself, or as close an approximation as she could, in order to come up with the most unique, authentically detailed settings possible. Knowing the history and setting of the property she was staging was as important as all the more glamorous, flashy details.

  Not that every client, or even most clients, were interested in half of what she took the time to find out. They might not care, specifically, about the fact that the refinished, hand-carved sliding panel doors were original to the house, or that she’d purposely matched the colors of the pottery and doorstops throughout the house to the terra-cotta shingling on the roof, but she knew it was that attention to detail that ended up selling them on the place. It didn’t matter that they didn’t appreciate why they loved it, just that they loved it enough to write Lois a big fat check. And, in turn, Scary Lois kept signing hers.

  “Why don’t you start with the ...” She’d been about to say the deck, pool, and gardens, but remembered the sunbathing Brutus. Crap. Normally she and her faithful companion were no longer on the premises when the actual event began. That she occasionally brought Brutus with her while staging various properties was also a teeny-tiny detail she’d neglected to tell Lois. This project had been so close to home, and she’d known he’d love lolling out on the deck. And, frankly, she enjoyed the company. Obviously not for protection purposes.

  “Uh, bedrooms,” she improvised, careful to keep her gaze averted from the sliding French doors. “Just up the stairs from the foyer entry. You’ll love the master suite.” Too late, she remembered it had a second-story deck that looked right down on the first-story deck. “Though you might want to begin with the guest bedrooms along the front of the house. The, uh, lighting, right now ... they have the morning sun. Truly spectacular.”

  If he sensed the slightly panicked edge in her tone, his affable expression didn’t show it. “And risk my dearly departed Grams coming back to chase after me with her wooden rolling pin for being anything less than the gentleman she raised my pa and me to be?” The easy grin returned. “No, ma’am. Especially considering I caused the calamity in the first place.” He gestured for her to lead the way to the kitchen. “Pretty sure she’s capable of it, too,” he added with a touch of dry reverence, as he followed her from the room.

  Riley smiled, and didn’t mind the wincing so much. It was impossible not to be charmed by him. But she needed to get him poking around upstairs as swiftly as possible. Not that she had any place in particular she could quickly stash a dog the size of a subcompact car, but she was due for a little luck.

  She entered the kitchen, and if Quinn was impressed by the newly installed, state-of-the-art appliances, the marble-topped center island, or the array of terra-cotta-toned Calphalon pots and pans hanging from the hand-hammered silver overhead rack, he didn’t mention it. Nor did he seem to even notice them. Of course, things like that were probably par for the course for his lifestyle.

  He was opening cupboards and pulling out drawers, but she doubted he was taking inventory. “Not much to work with here,” he murmured.

  “I’ve got it.” Riley stepped around the center island and walked over to the small breakfast nook table and the three-tier crystal cupcake display. She grabbed a few of the color-coordinated napkins that were artfully arranged next to the themed paper plates and plastic forks, then edged back around the center island to the twin stainless-steel sinks. “Really, you should take a look—”

  “Here.” He came right up behind her just as she’d turned on the water and shoved a wadded-up napkin underneath the steady stream.

  As in, right behind her. Deep in her personal space. Like she hadn’t just recently recovered her ability to breathe normally.

  “Let me.” Quinn put one broad palm on her shoulder and turned her to face him, relieving her of the soggy party napkins with his other hand, which he used to carefully dab at the scratches on her cheek and her forehead. And her chin. And her neck.

  How lovely that must look.

  She couldn’t think about that. Unless she closed her eyes, there was nowhere else to look but directly into his, and though he was busy attending to her wounds and not really looking at her ... she couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him.

  And, up close? He looked even better. Every laugh line, every crinkle, even with a tiny scar just above one temple ... he was truly and spectacularly gorgeous. So unfair. Even scratch-free, she wouldn’t hold up to the same up-close-and-personal perusal. For one, she had freckles. And not that faint little scatter you got from being out in the sun. No, she had real freckles. Thirty-one years old. With freckles. Not adorable at that age. Then there was the whole mouth situation. Hers was wide and full, just not in that sexy and mysterious Angelina Jolie kind of w
ay. Instead of a vampy pout that did wonders for selling lipstick and lingerie, Riley’s was sort of perpetually curved in a big, goofy smile. At best, good for selling bubble gum.

  She always looked like she was smiling, which shouldn’t be a bad thing. But just try being taken seriously in an editorial meeting full of men when no matter how much you tried on your stern, I-mean-business face, you always looked like a brainless bimbo. Dolly Parton looked fiercer than she did.

  And don’t even get her started on being a natural blonde. With curls. Lots of them. Long or short didn’t matter. Her hair fell in big, happy, springy sproings no matter what. No one took that seriously, either. No matter how sleek a bun she’d torture her hair into, curls sprang out to frame her apple-cheeked, freckled face. Throw in the bombshell-sized boobs, with a back porch to match and ... yeah. Maybe slim, perfectly coiffed ice princess blondes got respect, but she couldn’t pull off even a hint of that kind of frost. Smiley, sproingy, and stacked never added up to frost. No matter how you did the math. And that had been before factoring in a year’s worth of Cupcake Club get-togethers.

  “There,” he said, with a final dab.

  “Thanks.” She felt herself flush as his eyes finally met hers.

  The corners of his eyes crinkled ever-so-fabulously as he smiled. “Least I could do.”

  “Right.” She heard the breathy note in her voice. She needed to get out of his personal space, pronto, or get him out of hers, before she made an even bigger fool of herself. If that were possible. “I mean, no worries. It was just one of those things. Could have happened to anyone.” She took a step back, banged her hip into the counter, then turned with the intent of putting herself anywhere but in proximity to him and caught the edge of the refrigerator handle where it jutted out just a bit farther than the cabinets and counters. “Oooh, ouch!”

  And just like that, his hands were on her again. On both shoulders, as he guided her back to safety. Dear God, didn’t he know he was the more dangerous thing? She was a natural klutz on her best days—yet another minus from the ice princess equation—and what he did to her equilibrium was downright hazardous to her health and well-being.

  “I’m fine, really, I just—” She turned around, attempting again to put space between them, but somehow only managed to wedge herself, front-to-front, between him and the counter behind her.

  His gaze caught hers and held for that moment. You know, that moment. Like the one that happened in the movies, where a hundred things are said, but not a single word is spoken. And the tension is so tightly wound it all but makes its own soundtrack with its taut silence, fraught with so much promise, so many possibilities, if only one of the couple would just ... do something. One little move was all it would take, and you watch, and wait, dying inch by inch, waiting for one of them to make that oh-so-crucial, heart-pounding move. The moment stretches, and expands, until you think you’ll scream from the sweet, knot-tightening tension of it all.

  A small furrow creased the center of his forehead. “I do think maybe you should sit for a bit. You’re still a little flushed.”

  She slowly closed her eyes, and felt her cheeks flame hotter. So not what the movie guy would say. “Thank you,” she murmured, making a point to be looking anywhere but at him when she opened her eyes. She edged herself to one side, away from the Viking monster, and Quinn mercifully stepped back.

  “Why don’t you sit at the table and I’ll fix you some water. Unless there’s something stronger—”

  “No, really. You’ve been more than kind. You really should take advantage and go look at the place before the event starts. Scary Lois will be here shortly and I—” She broke off when he stifled a laugh with a fist to his mouth, followed by a clearly faked coughing attack.

  “What did I—?” Then she realized exactly what she’d said. Wow, just ... wow. Apparently she really didn’t want to work again. Ever. Except she did. She loved her job. Maybe not as much as the one she’d left behind in Chicago, but as close—closer, really—than she’d expected to find again. Groaning in ever-deepening embarrassment, she turned toward the pantry door and leaned her forehead on it. Any other time she’d have given her noggin a good rap, but she wasn’t too sure, given how the day had gone so far, that she wouldn’t end up in the ER with a concussion. Or in a coma.

  “Are there any beds? In the bedrooms? Upstairs?”

  “What?” She lifted her head and turned to look at him. Had she rapped her head anyway and hit it so hard she’d just forgotten? Clearly she did not just hear him say—“Beds? Wh-why?”

  “I think maybe a little lie-down would be even better.”

  He didn’t even give her the chance to respond. He gently, but firmly, took her elbow and guided her to the front hall and the staircase landing. Unfortunately not in that “Hurry! I must ravish you now!” kind of way. More in the way a person would when helping the frail and feeble-minded.

  “And don’t worry,” he added dryly “I’ll keep an eye out for Scary Lois.”

  Riley groaned again, her mortification complete. At least if she got him upstairs, she could redirect his attention to looking at the rooms, then slide back down, round up Brutus, and make her escape.

  They were at the halfway landing when the entry chimes reverberated through the foyer, finally announcing the arrival of the piano delivery guys. How had she forgotten she still had a baby grand to stage? Not to mention there was foliage carnage to clean up.

  It turned out the delivery guys weren’t exactly Sven and Magnus.

  More like Jeffy and T-Bone. Those were the names someone had actually stitched on their navy blue uniform shirts. She also doubted that either had enjoyed a modeling career. At any point in their lives. Though, with neither one of them clocking in at a day under sixty, who was to say that with less around the middle, and more on top of the head ... and, well, teeth in the mouth, they might have, at one time, turned a lady’s head.

  Then Jeffy wedged a fingerload of Skoal inside his mouth and Riley thought ... then again, possibly not.

  “I’m—I need to go direct them to—” She didn’t keep explaining. She just turned to make her escape. “Go on up and look around.”

  Quinn shifted so she could pass by him to head back down the stairs. He put a guiding hand on the small of her back as she took the first step, which sent a delicious shiver over her skin she had no business feeling. He is just being kind to the feeble, she reminded herself. She put her hand on the railing, just to be safe. As she started down the stairs, she felt a tickling little tug at the back of her head and almost lost her balance all over again when she instinctively swatted at it ... only to freeze momentarily when her hand come into contact with Quinn’s. She glanced back to find him holding a small palm frond that he’d apparently plucked from her hair. He gave her the briefest of smiles as he tucked it discreetly behind his back.

  Apparently her cheeks were never going to be any shade but flushed as long as she was around him. She managed to nod a quick thank-you before turning back to oversee the matter at hand.

  Mercifully, the task quickly enabled her to get her footing back—and hopefully her equilibrium—as she directed the two men to put the piano in the space she’d saved in the Florida room at the rear of the home.

  “What the heck happened to you, missy?” Jeffy asked, nodding toward her face.

  “Slight mishap with the foliage,” she said, which reminded her she still needed to clean up that mess. “Nothing to worry about. Here, this way,” she directed, not even so much as glancing back at the staircase. She could all but feel that half-amused smile heating up the back of her neck. “Right through there.”

  The two men put down protective runners on the hardwood flooring and rolled the piano—frame-packed on its side—into the house and carefully angled it through the arched doorway.

  Naturally, that was when Brutus’s up-to-then nonexistent protective instincts kicked in. He didn’t so much bark as emit a very loud woofing noise that came from somewhere
deep inside his mutant-sized canine frame.

  “Good gravy. What on God’s green earth is that?” T-Bone paused in removing the packing from the piano legs to stare through the French doors at Brutus, who was staring directly back at T-Bone from his position on the other side of the dog-slobbered glass.

  The same glass she’d spent half the morning cleaning. Lovely. “That’s just ... my dog. Don’t worry. He’s fine.”

  “I don’t rightly know that it was his health that concerned me,” T-Bone replied. With one eye carefully still aimed in the general direction of the deck, he went back to work.

  “Must be like feeding a horse,” Jeffy commented around the lump in his cheek, less worried than his partner. Actually, he looked like he was trying to gauge how many of his family members he might be able to feed hunting with Brutus.

  “If you could just position it here, so it’s out of the direct sun, but facing the windows and the ocean view, that would be perfect,” Riley directed, trying to keep them—and herself—focused on the task at hand. She worked at setting the potted plants back to rights and sweeping up the dirt and plant detritus while they finished up.

  “You know it ain’t tuned or nothing,” T-Bone said. “We just deliver. You want to play it, you’ll have to get in touch with Marty and set up an appointment.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She didn’t need it to be in tune. It was just for show. She had specifically chosen some sheet music—Debussy’s First Arabesque, perfect for sunsets—to place on the rack above the keys, but intended to keep the key cover down, so hopefully no one would actually touch it. Marty was one of her better contacts, and she didn’t plan to do anything to change that.

  By the time it was all said and done and she’d signed the paperwork stating she’d personally be responsible for any damage done to the piece before its return, Quinn was no longer in the immediate area. Assuming he’d gone off to look at the rest of the place, Riley took a moment, after ushering the men out the front door, to duck into the bathroom off the foyer.