Sweet Stuff Read online

  “Yet another bad idea.” She sighed as she catalogued the damages in the beveled vanity mirror positioned over the transparent glass pedestal sink. She hadn’t thought it possible to look worse than she’d imagined, but she’d managed to pull that off. Making a stab at cooling off her face with cold water, she cleaned up the worst of the scrapes on her arms and hands. The dirt smears on her plaid camp shirt were beyond repair, but since it was still damp and rumpled from her sweaty Jog Master marathon, there was no point in trying to salvage it.

  She smoothed her hair and rewound it back into the knobby bun she’d previously been sporting—before the palmetto fronds had yanked it down and to the side, like a drunken harlot’s. She addressed her reflection as she snapped the puffy, sky blue braided elastic back into place. “This is your life, Riley Brown.” Smirking at herself, she squared her shoulders and took one last inventory of the cuts and scrapes. It was either laugh, or cry. And she’d learned one thing for certain in her year on Sugarberry Island. “Laughing is a hell of a lot more fun.”

  Chapter 2

  Quinn was standing on the back deck, with snapped-in-half pieces of a pretty decent size tree limb in either hand, when the curly-headed blonde found him. Well, them, really. “I didn’t get your name, before.”

  “Riley,” she responded as she crossed the deck. “Riley Brown.”

  “Quinn Brannigan,” he offered in return, well aware she already knew his name, but being polite nonetheless.

  That dry smile tugged at the corners of her outrageously compelling mouth. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, though perhaps I’d have chosen a different way to greet you, had I to do it again.”

  “You do know how to make a lasting first impression,” he said, hopefully appealing to her dry sense of humor.

  The wry hint of a smile remained as she inclined her head and performed a quick curtsy, but it was the rather lovely shade of pink that suffused her freckled cheeks that ended up captivating him. “I’m quite the master of all-eyes-on-me entrances,” she replied gamely, “just not always executed in the most preferable manner.”

  He chuckled at that, but not wanting to cause her further embarrassment, he shifted his gaze back to the beast. “He’s not much for fetch, is he?”

  “Search and destroy is more his idea of a rousing sport.”

  Quinn hefted the weight of the longer chunk of tree limb in his palm and looked to the far end of the property, past the small pool, toward the gardens and the dunes that lined up beyond it. “Yep. I’d say he’s got scholarship potential in that department. What’s his name?”

  “Brutus.” She held up a hand when he choked out a laugh. “I didn’t name him. It really doesn’t suit him at all.”

  “If you say so. Here you go, big fella.” Quinn gripped the limb, pulled it back, then launched it like a javelin, in a high arc, over the pergola and the organic sea gardens, to the more sparsely designed pine-needle-carpeted rear of the property. Scrub-covered dunes formed the rear fence line, somewhere behind which, from what he could hear, was the ocean.

  “Impressive.” She followed the trajectory of the lofted limb with one hand framing her forehead to block out the sunlight. “High school quarterback, right? College, too, probably?”

  “Nope. Too scrawny. Track and field. Decathalon.” He smiled as he watched the limb sail. “Didn’t know I still had it.”

  Quinn thought she might have muttered something under her breath after that last comment, but he didn’t quite catch it. His attention was still on the beast.

  Brutus remained seated next to him and calmly tracked the branch’s entire trajectory along with them, not overly excited about the pitch or the game as far as Quinn could tell. Only after it hit the ground, stirring up a little cloud of pine needles and dried palm fronds, did the monster-truck-sized dog set off in a deliberate but unhurried trot down the tiled walkway.

  “I guess I can see why he doesn’t really feel the pressure to exert himself,” Quinn commented. “Even if he’s not first to the prize, who’s going to keep it from him, right?”

  “He’s really a big, gooey sweetheart.” Riley walked over to stand beside Quinn. “Wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

  “Not unless the flea was trying to take away his big stick.” Quinn waggled the shorter end of the limb he still held in one hand, before tossing it in the hedgerow that edged the deck.

  “He only cracked the stick because he thought you were playing tug-of-war. He loves tug-of-war.”

  “I’ll bet. It’s always fun to play games you never lose.”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t know much about that.” She turned to watch her pet beast trotting back, tree limb clenched in his mighty jaws, but Quinn hadn’t missed the brief wince when she’d laughed, or the way she’d reached up to put her hand over the worst of the scratches on her face.

  She’d gamely applied her sense of humor to the whole ordeal, taking her bad spill with a great deal of grace. It was pretty much the only thing graceful about her, at least that he’d witnessed thus far. Perhaps his reaction simply came from long-evolved instinct. Having spent most of his formative years as a fast-growing young man with an awkward command of his gangly body, he understood what it was like to wish gawky long limbs would behave in a more coordinated fashion. Though she was obviously well past her formative years—as was he—just because he’d outgrown gawky didn’t mean he wasn’t empathetic to those who never did.

  While she’d appeared to be a bit of an uncoordinated klutz, ditzy she definitely was not. Despite the bountiful blond curls and farm girl freckles framing that intriguingly deluxe set of lips, those big brown eyes of hers didn’t miss much, he guessed.

  Brutus trotted up and plopped himself on his butt right in front of Riley, dropping the branch on her toes, then looking up at her with what could only be termed pride and a great deal of self-satisfaction. “You’re such a good boy.” She rubbed his massive head, which leveled out above her hips, as if he were nothing more than a wriggling pup, needing approval. “Scoot,” she told the dog, then bent down and picked up the stick.

  Brutus instantly shifted his stance and faced Quinn, eyes alert, jaw tense.

  “What?” Quinn said, holding up his empty hands, palms out. “I don’t have the stick, she does.”

  Riley laughed. “Yes, but he knows I can’t throw. He also knows, now, that you can.”

  “Ah.”

  She shadowed her eyes again when she turned and looked up at him. She didn’t have to look up as far as most people, and he discovered he rather liked that about her. Perhaps still a bit gawky as a woman grown, her body was anything but. Lush was the word he’d use to describe the abundant curves that wrapped around her sturdy frame. Combine all that with the greater than average height, the equally lush mouth, and all those blond curls, and, klutzy or not, she was a definite attention getter. Actually, it was the klutzy part, and those farm girl freckles, that made the otherwise bombshell body all the more interesting. She’d gotten his attention anyway.

  “Not much of a dog person, huh?” she said.

  “I love dogs. Had them all growing up. It’s just ... been a while. Also, the dogs I had as a boy were a mite smaller than a half-ton pickup truck.”

  She smile-winced again, then looked away. “It’s okay. Most folks don’t look past the size to the heart.”

  She was talking about the dog, but something in her tone made him believe she meant something else entirely. Herself maybe? He felt like he’d been judged, and found lacking. Or, worse, predictable. He wasn’t sure why that stung—but it did—or why he cared what she thought, but apparently, he did.

  Before he could decide how he wanted to respond, she dug into the side pocket of her bleached white khaki trousers and came out with the world’s largest dog biscuit, then slapped her leg.

  “Come on, Brutus, let’s get you out in the Jeep.” She started off toward a gate in the fence that framed the sides of the backyard. “I’ll be back in. I’ve got to finish setting u
p the breakfast nook area with the food. Lois should be here momentarily, and he needs to not be here when that happens.” She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the gate for Brutus. “I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d really appreciate it if we could keep my catastrophe in there our little secret.”

  “Given it was my fault, I don’t see how that’s a favor.”

  Her lips curved briefly. “You’re being very kind. It was going to have a bad end, no matter what. I just—well, thanks. I owe you one.” She let herself out the gate and trotted after Brutus, who was already out of sight before Quinn could reply.

  She really was the damndest thing. And despite her attention-getting frame, not at all his type. That thought annoyed him. He liked to think he didn’t have a type, that he took everyone he met as he found them. Maybe it was just that he’d never met anyone quite like her. He didn’t know what to think about that.

  Not that it mattered. He wasn’t there to socialize. He was there to focus, to get a firm handle on his next book. The last thing he needed was Claire making her politely professional but pointed phone calls as the publisher started pressuring her for a due date, or worse, for his agent, Lenore, to start in. If they only knew the depth of the concern they should already be having.

  The real reason he’d come back to Sugarberry Island was in hopes it would remind him of the handful of summers he’d spent there as a teenager with his grandfather, and, more important, the wisdom his grandfather had passed down to him. Quinn had to figure out what direction to take, not only with the manuscript in question, but with his career. He wished his grandfather were still alive, but hoped just being back would give him the balance and perspective he needed to think things through and make the best decision possible.

  And to get on with the damn book. One way or the other.

  Did he take the path he always took, the one he knew his readers wanted him to take? Or did he risk everything, and continue down the new, tantalizing trail that was calling to him, the one he had no idea if anyone would take along with him? He smiled at that and shook his head. “Being predictable. Good or bad? Right or wrong?”

  He went inside and found Riley in the breakfast nook, putting the final touches on the crystal display stand filled with amazing looking, heavily topped cupcakes. He didn’t have a huge sweet tooth, but looking at them made his mouth water and his stomach grumble a little with the reminder that he’d only fed it toast and coffee thus far that day. “Those look incredible.”

  She squealed and dropped the cupcake she’d been carefully sliding onto the top tier, which in turn, hit the cupcake on the tier just below it ... and, of course, both plopped down to wipe out the entire side of the bottom tier.

  “Oh, no. I’m so—”

  “Sorry,” she finished for him, sighing as she stared at the cupcake catastrophe. “Now I know why you write mystery novels. You’re naturally stealthy.”

  “I like to think it’s more about being observant, but I suppose if I truly was, I’d have noted your focused concentration and done something to announce myself before I spoke. The cupcakes just got my attention.” He entered the nook area and stepped over to the display. “I am sorry, though.”

  Reaching out, he scraped a dollop of frosting from where it had been clinging to the side of the middle tier and licked it off his finger. “Wow”—he groaned a little as he swallowed—“if the cake part tastes half as good, you can leave them all right there in a pile. I’ll just get a fork.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t leave them looking like that. The open house officially opens in”—she glanced at the clock and blanched—“fifteen minutes. I’ve got more of these stashed in the fridge, but I’ll have to clean off—” She stopped talking and started moving.

  He was savoring another scraped-off dollop of the rich, creamy frosting, so he stopped her the only way he knew how. He reached for her arm, turning her back to face him, belatedly realizing as she looked in surprise to where he held her, that he’d reached for her with his frosting-fingered hand. “Oops,” he said, when she lifted her disbelieving gaze to his. He tried out his best disarming grin. “I don’t suppose you have any ice-cold milk to go with these?”

  Her mouth dropped open, and suddenly he forgot all about the cupcakes, distracted once again by her mouth. It matched her body, but was so incongruous with the splashy freckles and big, brown doe eyes.

  At the moment, all he could think was how incredibly decadent those lips would be with frosting tipping the bowed curves in the middle and ...

  Still holding on to her arm, he impulsively reached out and snagged another cupcake—a perfectly intact one—and held it up to her mouth. “Have you tried one?”

  “Mr. Brannigan—”

  “Quinn. Please. And I’m not kidding. Try this.” He nudged the cupcake closer to her mouth. “I’ll replace the shirt. And the ruined cupcakes. Did you make these?”

  “No, my friend Leilani Dunne made them. She owns the Cakes by the Cup bakery, in town. Now I really”—she tugged at her arm, gently but firmly—“need to get this display finished before—”

  “What you really need is to try this.” He drew her and the cupcake he’d proffered closer. He had no idea, less than zero, actually, why he was doing it, but couldn’t seem to stop. The more annoyed she became, the more determined he grew. “After the day you’ve had, you’ve earned it.” He nudged the frosting to her lips, leaving a chocolate smudge.

  He’d been teasing, telling himself he’d wanted to make her smile again. He hadn’t meant to smear frosting on her lips, but tell that to his body, which jerked instantly to attention. When his gaze shifted to that sweet little dab of chocolate fascination clinging to her lips, he was gripped by an almost overwhelming urge to take another little lick of frosting. A very specific little lick.

  Her tongue darted out to remove the temptation, increasing his discomfort ... and his impulsive urges.

  “Why are you—”

  “I honestly don’t know. But you’ve got frosting on you now.” He nudged the cupcake toward her again, careful not to leave any traces. He smiled as she narrowed her gaze. “Might as well, right? It’s incredible, I promise.”

  “Mr.—Quinn—I really have to—” She broke off, and looked back at the wrecked display. “Lois is due any second, and I don’t want her to find me standing here in the midst of cupcake carnage, sampling the wares, so to speak.”

  His body jerked to renewed attention, needlessly reminding him of just whose wares he’d really rather she sample. “She won’t. I mean Scary Lois won’t. Be coming. Not today.”

  “But, how is that possible? I can’t run the open house, it’s not my function. Besides, she has all the—is she okay? Has something happened?“

  “She’s fine, and yes, something has happened. While you were setting up the piano, I called my manager and had him make an offer on the place. A very nice offer.”

  “You—did what?”

  “Leased the place. I believe there is a flurry of faxes going on between Scary Lois and even scarier David as I speak. I’m sure I’ll have to sign something at some point, but the deal is done.”

  “So ... no open house.”

  “No open house.”

  “But ... it’s been advertised. People will show up.”

  “Then they’ll be disappointed to find a sign on the front door telling them the property is no longer available. I suppose I should go take care of that.”

  “Right, but—”

  “But first ... honestly, try this.”

  She stared at him over the top of the cupcake. “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?” He grinned. “Unpredictable?”

  He watched as her gaze darted from his eyes, to his mouth, and back to his eyes again. Her pupils expanded, her brown eyes growing darker and deeper as her throat worked and the muscles in her arms tensed—quivered, actually. He wrote, in great detail, about all those little, telltale signs that took place when someone was aroused. Though,
admittedly, it had been a while, a good long while, since he’d had an opportunity to personally observe them.

  “That’s not entirely a bad thing, is it?” he asked.

  “Uh, no,” she managed, still all hung up in his very direct gaze. “No, I guess it’s not.”

  “Good. Now... lick.”

  She did—which surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d expected an eye roll. Or a cupcake shoved into his face. Either of which he’d have deserved. Having brought her up earlier, he absently wondered what Grams would say about his rather ... assertive behavior. But those fleeting thoughts vanished when Riley immediately closed her eyes and made a sound in the back of her throat as the rich chocolate coated her tongue, in that instinctive way a person did who was naturally, even viscerally connected to the sensuality of experience. Smell ... taste ... touch ... Watching her, he felt a very distinct, deep-in-the-gut quiver of his own.

  “Lani,” she murmured. “Once again, you rule.”

  “Possibly the patron saint of baking,” Quinn agreed, almost reverently, as he continued to watch, fixated, as she finished enjoying every last creamy bite.

  She opened her eyes, and caught him watching—staring, really—and her cheeks bloomed once again. “I—” She tugged her arm free and took a short step back. “You—just, uh, let me know when you’ll be moving your stuff in and I’ll make sure to have all the staging furnishings and decor out of here. I, uh, it will take at least two days, but I could easily have everything ready for move-in by the weekend.”

  She jerked her gaze to his hand, which still held the cupcake, then back to his face again. He couldn’t tell what was behind the hunger clearly written on her face, but it didn’t seem to matter to every inch of his anatomy. Some inches more newly invigorated than others.

  “I just have to make a few calls.”

  “I offered for it as is,” he said, not any more in control than she appeared to be. Perhaps for entirely different reasons, but still proving that while unpredictability might be exciting, it wasn’t exactly without risks. A point to remember.