Sweet Stuff Page 5

  Riley marveled, as she always did, how a man his size could be so utterly graceful. If she’d tried even a fraction of that move, she’d have taken out half the kitchen and sent at least three of them to the ER. On a good night.

  She wrapped an arm around his waist and leaned in to give him a quick squeeze. “It’s so good to see you like this.”

  “It’s good to be like this, mon cher.” His deep, basso voice, was sweet and ardently sincere.

  So many times, especially right after it had happened, when Franco had been at his lowest, Riley had wanted to meet with him privately, to commiserate. But nothing was private on Sugarberry, and though she knew Franco had a great big wonderful heart, she also knew he couldn’t keep a secret to save his own life. So, she’d done her best to be there for him in every way she could, but had always felt a bit guilty for not being more open with him. God knows they’d all been open about all sorts of things. She was so thankful, so incredibly thankful, for their friendship and the sisterhood that had evolved—Franco included—during the time they’d spent together.

  She’d come to Sugarberry essentially to hide out and lick her wounds, with no real idea of where she’d head from there. She’d only known the one place she didn’t want to be. What she’d found instead, without even looking, was so much greater than anything she could have ever hoped for. Almost thirteen months later, it was no longer a temporary port of call. The island had become home.

  “What on earth?”

  Riley jumped as she suddenly found her chin gently but firmly cupped in Franco’s very broad palm as he turned her face to his.

  “Who did this to you, mon cher?”

  “Who do you think?” she said, through distorted lips.

  He turned her head to one side, then the other, before letting his hand drop away.

  “You know me.” Using her fingers, she made a quick L on her forehead. “I ... kind of fell off a treadmill into a bunch of plants, okay?” She spoke quietly, so as not to alert the rest of the gang.

  So much for that. Eagle ears Alva turned right around. “What’s going on? What were you doing on a treadmill?”

  Dre and Lani looked up then, as well.

  Riley sighed. “You know the Turner house—”

  “Don’t get me started on the Turner house,” Alva said. “Monstrosity. I can’t believe what they did to that place.”

  “Looks pretty awesome if you ask me,” Dre said.

  Everyone looked at her in surprise.

  “What? Just because I dress like a street orphan doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the finer things of life. I happen to appreciate comfort, that’s all. I went by the place back when they completed the exterior. They expanded the rooflines, added the sunroom, but maintained the traditional style ... and the landscaping is stellar. Shows what you can do with a little ingenuity in this scrubby, sea-salted wilderness. Even though it’s upscale, it’s really modestly done, not so gaudy and obvious like the ones in the lower islands. I thought the concept was respectful of the traditional, yet celebrated a unique vision.” She shrugged. “Just my take.”

  Alva harrumphed. “We’ll see how unique you think it is when the other developers start crawling all over the island, trying to get us to sell our properties so they can flop them to some of those country club snoots.”

  “Flip,” Lani said. “Flip the houses.”

  “Flip houses, flop houses, I don’t care what you call it. I think it’ll be the ruination of our little island, and our quiet way of life. We like things peaceful and slow. We don’t need fancy-shmancy. And I’m not afraid to say that I was a bit surprised you took the job.” Alva looked right at Riley.

  “She has to work.” Lani tossed an apologetic look Riley’s way.

  “She’s got a whole slew of islands south of here that love nothing more than to play Out-Jones-the-Joneses. We don’t need to encourage it here.”

  “The house had already been renovated when I was offered the job to stage it,” Riley reminded her mildly. “All I did was help get it back off the market and into the private sector as fast as possible.”

  “And did you?” Lani asked. “Was there a taker today?”

  “Um, yeah, as a matter of fact, there was.” To Alva, Riley added, “You’ll be happy to know they didn’t even end up holding the open house. It was snapped up beforehand.” She made herself busy taking out the ingredients she’d brought along. “No one else traipsed through it, no investors pretending to be buyers. Hopefully this will be a one and done.”

  “Really?” This from Lani. “Wow, that’s kind of unexpected. Who would take a place sight unseen?”

  “I’ll tell you who,” Alva said. “The Jones-busters, that’s who.”

  Dre snickered, but swiftly returned to her so-bored-too-cool expression when Alva spun her sifter in Dre’s direction. Lani and Franco snickered at that. A little. Alva just gave them the eye.

  Lani looked at Riley then. “Do you know who rented it?”

  But it was Franco, standing right next to her, who spoke first. “Ooh, la la, ma chère, is that a blush la rouge I see blooming on those lovely luscious cheeks?”

  Riley smacked away Franco’s hands, but he was still beaming. “Do tell, my sweet. We’ll find out soon enough anyway.” He rested his hips on the edge of the worktable and folded his arms across his expansive chest. When she didn’t immediately comply, he scooted a bit closer, then a bit closer still, until he could bump hips with her—which he did. Repeatedly.

  “Franco.” Riley knew she was doomed. So, after a brief sigh, she turned to face the room, reminding herself again how great it was to have such close friends.

  “Oh, good.” Franco clapped his hands together. “Leave out nothing juicy. And it’s juicy, am I right?” He looked at the assembled group, each one of them having completely abandoned their baking projects. “It’s juicy,” he assured them. “Spill it.”

  “You’re the one with the secret boy toy news,” Riley retorted. “You spill it.”

  “The difference, ma fleur hauteur, is that I want to share my news. Fair to bursting with it I am. But I promised myself I’d go slower next time, moderate my enthusiasm. You, on the other hand, don’t want to tell us a peep—which automatically makes yours far more delicious.” He crossed his ankles and batted his insanely luxurious and enviably naturally thick black eyelashes. “You know me, dog with a bone. I could put Brutus to shame. We’re going to find out anyway.” He warbled the last word.

  “Okay, okay.” Riley nudged him back a little. But she still took another moment to figure out how best to share only the parts she really wanted to share. She wasn’t going to humiliate herself all over again by explaining the whole Jog Master thing. She was taking the rest of the day off from abject mortification. And she certainly wasn’t going to talk about what she’d come to think of as the Cupcake Moment. She still had no idea what to think about all that. But Franco was right about the rest not staying a secret. “It’s Quinn Brannigan.”

  Alva and Dre frowned, but Lani and Franco’s mouths dropped open.

  “Seriously?” This from Lani.

  “As a heart attack,” Riley said. “Which is what I almost had when he came into the house early and startled the daylights out of me.”

  Franco laughed, but then reached out to gently touch her cheek. “Ah, now I understand.” His eyes twinkled affectionately, even as he tsk-tsked.

  She swatted his hand away anyway. “Quinn took one look at the place and called his manager. Done deal.” She shrugged. “End of story.” She turned back to her bag and began unpacking her supplies.

  “ ‘Quinn,’ is it? End of story, my saggy senior patootie,” Alva said.

  Everyone spluttered a laugh at that, even Dre.

  “Honey, you have a very fine senior patootie,” Franco said, slipping into the Bronx borough dialect of his birth, except he sounded like gay Rocky. “Ain’t nuthin’ saggy ’bout that, sister.”

  It made everyone laugh even harder, exce
pt for Alva, who preened a little bit.

  “Why, thank you, Franco, dear.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “What can I say?” She turned to the rest of them, patting her coiffed curls once again. “The French know how to appreciate a real woman.”

  Not a single one of them attempted to correct her. About most things, Alva was one of the sharpest tacks on the board, but there were rare occasions when she was delightfully clueless in the way most would associate with someone her age. Or at least she did a damn good job of pretending to be. Riley was never quite certain.

  “Now, Miss Riley May,” Alva said, “are you going to tell us the rest of the story?”

  Alva added “May” to everyone’s name, except Franco and Baxter, especially when she wanted something from them. Riley had learned it was sort of a Southern endearment, and had never minded it much. In fact, it was rather sweet. If you overlooked the whole underlying manipulation part.

  “There is no rest, Miss Alva. It’s a six-month lease. He’s here, I assume, to get some peace and quiet to work on his next book. There’s really nothing more to add. He’s taking the house as is, so I don’t even have to ship back the staged furnishings. Win-win.”

  Alva merely folded her arms over her My Little Pony apron—the very same one Lani had saved since childhood, and which also happened to be the only one that would fit Alva’s tiny-as-a-bird frame.

  Riley sighed again. “I don’t think he’s going to be throwing any swanky parties with snotty guests, if that’s what you’re worried about. In fact, it’s my guess he’d like nothing more than to be left alone while he’s here.”

  “So, you talked to him.” Lani inched closer. “Tell us, is he as dreamy as he looks on the jackets of his books?”

  Riley gave up. “Dreamier,” she admitted. Every last person in the room sighed.

  “Do tell,” Franco said. “Details. The eyes?”

  “Yes, they are that blue. Bluer, if possible.”

  “I bet he’s shorter in person. Those movie stars always are,” Alva said.

  “He’s a writer, not a movie star, but no,” Riley assured her, “he’s not at all short. Quite the opposite. Quite,” she added, before she could stop herself.

  “And?” Lani begged her to continue.

  “And, that’s pretty much it. He’s tall, tanned, gorgeous, with just a flavoring hint of a Southern accent. And a really deep voice.”

  “My, my.” Alva fanned herself with her recipe card, sending a coating of finely sifted flour all down the front of her apron.

  “Do you read his books?” Lani asked Alva. “I didn’t think you recognized the name when Riley said it. I’m not surprised, though. He writes some pretty gritty stuff.”

  “Some pretty sexy stuff, too,” Dre murmured.

  Lani turned back around, and Riley looked at Dre, as well. But Dre was busily making more roses. A lot more roses. Like it was her damn job.

  “So, you know who he is, too.” Lani said to her.

  “Duh,” Dre said, not looking up. “He’s a household name. Like Grisham, Patterson, and King. Who hasn’t? I was just surprised he’d come to Sugarberry.”

  “How do you know about the sexy stuff?” Lani asked her. Dre looked up, and blinked through the hot-pink-and-black leopard-print cat-eye cheaters she’d put on, the girlishness of which was in complete contrast to the overall goth-darkness of the rest of her ensemble. Riley was fairly certain that was exactly why Dre had chosen them. She was nothing if not a fan of incongruity, two thousand identical paste roses notwithstanding. Perched on the end of her nose, they only partially hid the four rings now piercing her left eyebrow, but left entirely visible the diagonal lines she’d shaved across the other.

  With great patience, Dre tipped her head back so she could look down her nose through her crazy eyeglasses, which, Riley had to admit, did go with her much-favored Johnny Depp Mad Hatter apron. “I realize I have the body of a twelve-year-old boy, and the relative height of said twelve-year-old boy’s ten-year-old brother. But I assure you, at the age of twenty-one, I do know about the sexy stuff. In fact, I know where babies come from and everything.”

  “Come on, we know you date and all,” Riley said, not wanting her to feel awkward. “I simply meant—”

  “No, I do not date,” Dre corrected her, clearly not needing the save. “I’m focused on my studies, and learning all things pastry from the master chefs Dunne and Dunne.” She turned and performed a from-the-waist-up abbreviated version of the “I’m not worthy” bow in Lani’s direction.

  “What about Andrew, from your graphic illustrations class?” Lani said, giving her a quick salute back. “You’ve been to a couple things with him recently, right? Lectures and stuff?”

  “Right. As friends. Colleagues. We share similar interests. We do not share a bed. Much less the clichéd backseat of a car.”

  Lani and Riley might have swallowed a little hard at that.

  Dre rolled her eyes. “What? You can’t have it both ways. You say you’re cool that I’m dating, which implies I’m having sex, but then you seem all weirded out by the idea that I might actually be—never mind. I’m not having this conversation. Or sex. There. Happy now?”

  Lani was too busy coughing—it had been that or choke—so Alva said, “You’re a good girl, Missy Dre. I’m proud of you. Stand up for what you want, and don’t lie down for anybody you don’t.”

  It was Riley’s turn to choke a little, though on laughter. To hide it, she ducked her chin so she could twist her hair up into a knot before she started working.

  “As long as you’re happy, you go girl,” Franco told Dre. Then he turned right back to Riley. “What else?”

  “Nothing else,” she said, exasperated, as she snapped the hot-pink scrunchie into place.

  “Well, I love his books,” Lani said, turning back to her rack of tester cupcakes and picking up the pastry bag she’d filled with a creamy sherbety orange frosting earlier. “How he writes such gritty, horrible crime dramas, but wraps them up in such powerful love stories”—she sighed and fanned herself with the flap end of the pastry bag—“gets me every time.”

  “I bet he’s good in the sack,” Alva said, then turned back to her sifting. “I just read them for the sex. You can skip right past the gory parts if you don’t like them. The sex parts alone are worth the price. I buy them in hardcover.”

  It was pretty much a group choke that time. Riley recovered first and grinned broadly, not caring that it pulled at the tender skin around her scratches. “Power to you, Miss Alva.”

  Franco started humming “Sisters Are Doin’ It for Themselves,” making Riley nudge him in the ribs.

  But she was grinning. She did love this group, nosy busybodies, fake accents, mandatory crazy aprons, and all. They had no idea how much they’d done for her.

  “Okay, everyone, taste test time!” Lani lofted the tray of freshly topped cakes. “I give you Leilani’s Dreamsicle cakes, featuring mandarin orange soaked butter cake with cheesecake filling and sherbet whip frosting.”

  Everyone oohed together, sounding exactly like the little green men in the Toy Story movies.

  As they shuffled over, still replicating the LGMs in the movies, Riley quickly took the butter out of the cold pack she’d stored it in before heading to Lani’s table.

  Franco swung back and cut her off, then leaned down close. “We’re not done talking, you and me, mon amie.”

  She looked up at him. “Franco, I swear, there’s nothing more.”

  Instead of a teasing or pleading look—he could teach master classes in both—his expression was uncharacteristically quite serious. “You’ve been there for me, Riley.” When she started to brush that off, he placed his big hand gently on her arm. “You’ve been there. You don’t have to confirm it, okay? I know. Those of us who’ve been there ... we know. It’s time for me to return the favor and be there for you. So ... we’re going to talk, Mademoiselle Brown.”

  Riley was surprised into momentary silence. She app
reciated that he’d understood her desire to be there for him, and perhaps she really had been more of a help than she’d realized, just by providing a shoulder and words of comfort. It was a little disconcerting, though, that he’d ferreted out just how much she had understood about his pain. “I don’t need a return favor, Franco. Not in this instance. I was glad I could be there for you. That’s what friends are for.”

  “I know. And friends return favors.” He bent down and looked into her eyes, then smiled broadly. “I saw the stardust in your eyes, cherie. And that’s something I know a little about.” He looped an errant curl behind her ear. “Just know, I’m here.”

  Chapter 4

  Quinn stepped from the fixed pier onto the floating dock situated at the very back of the commercial moorings. It was where fisherman, commercial and local—he knew from past experience—could tie up temporarily without having to navigate through the maze of permanent slips, so they could run into Biggers’ Bait and Tackle for supplies or a bag of ice. Old Haney Biggers had run the place back when Quinn’s grandfather had run his trawler out from those very commercial piers. Other than a few fresh coats of paint, and an ATM parked out front, it looked much the same as it had fifteen or sixteen years ago. Quinn doubted Haney, who’d been older than his grandfather, still ran the place. Probably a son, or grandson by now.

  Quinn wobbled a step or two as the dock dipped and swayed in the wake of an incoming slow-chugging trawler. It been a very long time since he’d needed his sea legs, but he was happy to discover, as he gained more consistent balance, that it was apparently much like riding a bike. Something else he hadn’t done in ages, he thought absently, as he made his way down the lightly swaying row of weathered planks. Maybe he’d pick up a bike while he was here and tool around the island. He knew many of the residents did, or had when he was younger.

  He shifted his gaze past the bait shop to the boats tied up to the bigger, sturdier piers. Gavin Brannigan had kept his trawler there. He’d also harbored a little centerboard, single-keel sailboat back on a tiny pier behind the house on the sound that he and Quinn’s grandmother had lived in, on the west side of the island. Not too far from his beach bungalow in actual distance, but a lifetime away now. The house was no longer there; it had surrendered its weathered clapboard planks to a hurricane—what had it been, at least seven, eight years ago? Fortunately it had stood empty, both Gavin and his grandmother long deceased by then. The owner had been using it only as a summer cottage.