Sweet Stuff Page 8

  “Yes, I’m familiar with the name. That’s where Lani’s from originally. She owns the cupcake shop. And I meant D.C. Her dad was a police detective there, but her mom was from Georgia. They moved down here after he retired. He’s our sheriff now. Leyland Trusdale.”

  “Doesn’t sound all that retired,” Quinn said.

  “You probably don’t really want to know all the details. Anyway, very nice ride. That’s all.”

  “Actually, I love hearing about the people here. I have sentimental ties to this place, but people always interest me. And the car was the first one I ever bought and paid for, which I did right after I signed my first big book deal.”

  “That wasn’t all that long ago, was it? I mean, I’ve read all your books. You were young to publish your first. That was what, ten years ago at the most?”

  “Close, nine. But you’re right, the car is a model from the mid-eighties. Neighbor of ours had one when I was growing up, and I’ve always liked the body style. Plus, to me, it symbolized success. Our neighbor was an attorney, middle-upper class, and well ... we weren’t.”

  She nodded, then smiled. “So, how did it feel, when they handed over the keys? Did it feel like you thought it would?”

  He grinned. “Better. Way better. But that was pretty much all I wanted, or at least the only statement I felt personally compelled to make.”

  “But you kept it. That statement.”

  “I did. Mostly because I really ended up loving that car.”

  She grinned. “You’re such a guy.”

  He lifted one hand. “Guilty as charged.”

  They stood there another drawn-out moment, grinning at each other, then she cleared her throat and said, “Sure I can’t get you that towel? Protect those beloved, statement-making leather seats?”

  He opened his mouth to say no, thank you. Because, pleasant conversation aside, that was the only real option. At least that was the one easy decision he could make. So, no one was more surprised than he when what came out was, “To be honest, I’d really appreciate it, if you don’t mind. I’ll make sure you get it back.”

  It was at that exact same moment he realized just how much trouble he’d already gotten himself into.

  She nodded, then moved past him and motioned him to follow her. He did, fully and utterly mesmerized by every voluptuous inch of her as she strolled ahead of him in what looked like soaking wet men’s long, black basketball shorts. They should have been the definition of anti-sexy, but they so incredibly weren’t. They rode low on her naturally swinging hips, and it was her beautiful heart-shaped backside they were clinging to. If he dragged his gaze off that view, it was only to collide with the equally sodden, mango-colored tee that clung to her waist and rolling hips, which brought him to the mass of wet and wild blond curls tumbling down the center of her back that would easily be the envy of mermaids the world over.

  He found himself clenching his fingers into his palms, but that didn’t keep him from wondering what it would be like to sink his hands into those curls, to wrap them around his fingers and gently tug her head back so he could reach the creamy skin of her neck. That couldn’t happen. She was not his to touch. Or taste. Not now. Not ever. Taken, Brannigan. Why was that so hard to imprint on his suddenly hormone-jacked brain? He’d never, ever, not once, pursued anyone who was otherwise involved. Beauty, body, brains, or any combination thereof, no matter how alluring, didn’t matter. The instant he discovered a woman was otherwise involved, it was like an instant off switch for him.

  The woman he’d been looking for, waiting for, would only have one man on her mind. Him.

  He watched as Riley’s mutant pet trundled easily along beside her, though she kept her hand on his collar anyway.

  Quinn thought he might as well have been the one with the collar around his neck. But she wouldn’t have to tug him along beside her. The way he was feeling right at that moment, he’d have trotted along, panting, right behind her.

  Yep. He was in deep, deep trouble.

  Chapter 5

  “It’s just over there.” Riley walked up the ramp to the fixed pier, and over to the far side of it. “Home sweet home.” She gestured to the forty-five-foot Cruiser Craft.

  “You live on a houseboat? Cool. I didn’t even know they docked pleasure boats here. I thought it was all commercial.”

  “It is, but the place where my friends had this docked, a few islands down the chain, charged a pretty steep monthly fee, so I checked around. Someone mentioned Sugarberry was more rural, less resorty, which suited me, or my finances anyway. It’s quiet and off the beaten track, and, most important, they don’t mind Brutus. We just sort of ... fit in here. I am still close enough to the rest of the Gold Coast properties to make the staging job work out.” She shrugged. “So, I kind of persuaded them to let me lease a spot, temporarily.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  She smiled. “Little over a year.”

  “Nice. Nice friends, too. Portable house loan. Not a bad deal.”

  “Yep,” she agreed, thinking how Greg and Chuck had, for all intents and purposes, saved her life. Or had certainly provided the means to escape her old one. She let go of Brutus’s collar and grabbed the railing that ran along the side of the boat. “You can step onboard here, then walk around to the back.” Brutus led the way, and when she turned back to grab the bags she’d put down earlier when she’d had to go dog chasing, she found that Quinn had already picked them up. “Thanks—you didn’t have to do that.”

  “You didn’t have to offer me dry-cleaning service,” he countered, watching Brutus nimbly maneuver the narrow alley between railing and boat to head straight over to his big water dish for a healthy slurp, before collapsing under the aft deck awning in a boneless heap. “Looks like he’s taken to shipboard living.”

  “That he has. I’m not sure how he’d have done on a different kind of craft, but this isn’t so much different from life in a tiny Chicago apartment. Easier, actually. Certainly a far more direct route to being outside then a twenty-two-story ride down in a small elevator.” She took two of the bags from one of his arms and he reached around her to slide open the back doors. She stepped through and into a tidy little dining area, but walked past it, straight to the small galley tucked just beyond it. She set the bags on the stubby little counter that formed half of the U-shaped space, then turned to get the remaining two bags, only to find Quinn had followed right behind her.

  “Oh.” She stepped back slightly, only there was nowhere to go. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were right behind me. Thanks,” she added, when he set the bags down on the counter.

  “No problem.” He turned and checked out the rest of the main cabin, which formed the entire back half of the boat. In addition to the tiny dining area and galley, there was a small living room space, complete with recliner chair, short couch, small desk, and an entertainment center that held a state-of-the-art flatscreen.

  “Pretty cool use of space,” Quinn said. “And very bright, sunny, with all the windows and the back being all glass.”

  “Thanks. It’s actually surprisingly practical. I thought it would be harder to get used to, not that there wasn’t a learning curve.” Some parts of it more expensive than others, though she was mercifully and finally all caught up with the repairs now, and hoped the curve was complete. “Once you get used to it, it’s kind of nice not having a lot of space you just clutter up anyway. Sort of makes you think more about impulse buys.”

  “I bet. Nice setup,” he said, motioning to the flatscreen.

  “Yes, well, Greg likes his creature comforts. The satellite dish is hooked up top off the fly deck.”

  “Ah, right,” Quinn said, in a slightly smoother, though still friendly tone. “Greg.”

  Since his back was to her, Riley smiled, and briefly debated about letting him think ... what he was thinking. But she was already feeling bad about letting Quinn believe his assumption about her relationship status was true. Subterfuge of any sort wa
s not her thing.

  “Greg and his partner, Chuck, own the boat, though they’ve used it a whopping two times since making the impulse buy almost five years ago. Greg is a self-admitted gadget guy and Chuck indulges him because, well, he can. They both can. They’re the most highly sought after food photographers in the country.”

  “Ah,” was all Quinn said. “Well, these are some nice toys.” He stepped a little bit out of the galley as he continued to look around the cabin.

  Not enough to let her squeak by, but enough so that she had a prayer of getting her equilibrium back. Even her first few nights of bad storms while living aboard hadn’t made her feel as off balance and light-headed as being in close proximity to Quinn Brannigan did ... right in her own galley.

  “I take it you worked with them, back in Chicago?” he asked.

  “I did, yes. In fact, we were assigned to the same project my first time out of the gate. They’re known for being rather ... outlandish, I guess is the best way to put it, and not a little eccentric. But, for whatever reason, they took a liking to me and, well, they became mentors of sorts, certainly helped shepherd me through the earlier trials and tribulations of getting into the frenzied world of print work. I owe a great deal of my success to them.”

  “So ... you worked as a photographer, then?”

  “Oh, no, sorry. I worked with them as a food stylist.”

  “Makes sense. I’m sure you were very good at it.”

  “I did okay for myself.” She braced herself for the inevitable question of why she’d made such a huge geographic and career change.

  Instead, he turned around, neatly boxing her right back in between counter and appliances again. “I don’t know how your friends had the place decorated, but I can already see your influence.”

  Surprised, she momentarily forgot about her sudden need to escape. “You can? I haven’t really done that much.” With her various learning curve catastrophes and the sporadic nature of her job assignments, she couldn’t afford to.

  “The throw pillows on the couch—I’m thinking those are you. You like rich jewel tones. You also have some of the same kind of prints on the wall here that are in the bungalow.” He smiled. “Give me a few more minutes and I could probably list a half dozen other things, but those were the first two I noticed.”

  “I’m sure you could.” Suddenly she didn’t feel so bad about letting him think she was involved. He had away of making her feel so ... tended to. The center of his attention. His interest in her always seemed so ... paramount and honest. Clearly she needed all the help she could get in regaining her perspective where he was concerned. “I, uh ... let me get that towel for you.”

  He shifted slightly, to keep her from passing. “Wait.”

  “What?” She wasn’t sure why he was making her so nervous. She’d already convinced herself that the “moment” she’d sworn they’d had—the whole cupcake thing—had just been her overactive imagination kicking in after the treadmill trauma had lowered her defenses.

  He smiled, and there was a bit of a daring twinkle in his eyes. Just what she did not need him to be ... more devilishly handsome.

  “Was I right?” he asked.

  “About—oh, the pillows, and ... yes. Yes, you were. Apparently you weren’t kidding about having an eye for detail.”

  “No. I wasn’t kidding.”

  She was almost sure there wasn’t some underlying ... tone, in his voice, just then. She had no trauma to blame it on, unless she considered Brutus’s belly flop off the pier a trauma—which she didn’t. So ... “Towels,” she repeated, almost desperately. “If you’ll just—”

  Quinn slid easily to one side and immediately began walking around the cabin as if nothing had happened. Because nothing had happened, her little voice supplied, a tiny bit waspishly.

  She was a complete ninny. An apparently sex-starved, hormonally overloaded, reality-challenged ninny. It confirmed her earlier suspicions that she’d romanticized the rest of their time together as well. And that meant the faster she got him off the boat, the better.

  “I’ll be right back.” She quickly ducked down the narrow passageway to the master stateroom. Another, smaller stateroom with two twin beds was opposite the master. Another space above deck, something called a cuddy, was where people could also sleep, if they lay flat on a floor mattress and didn’t sit upright. Greg and Chuck had never entertained anyone on the boat but her, and she was hardly planning to have sleepover company, so she’d used it as storage.

  Her thoughts went straight from sleepovers to the man presently inhabiting the main cabin. She felt more than a little ridiculous, letting herself get caught up in the nonsense she’d let herself believe, to the point that she’d lied about something—by omission—but that didn’t even matter. Considering the fact that, on her best day, she’d be unlikely to attract a man like Quinn, it was rather pathetically comical she’d ever allowed herself to entertain such an idea.

  She could blame that on the cupcakes, too, but it was time to put the blame where it resided.

  On her, Riley Brown, klutz extraordinaire with the proportions of a sturdy English peasant—which was her heritage. Men like Quinn Brannigan, a studly Southern gentleman with crazy good genetics and a healthy dose of sexy Irish ancestry thrown in, didn’t generally get the hots for peasants.

  She rummaged in one of the roll-out drawers under the queen sized bed anchored into the space, requiring a step up in order to climb under the sheets. The step up provided the storage underneath, which essentially made up what would have been a dresser and a walk-in closet in a regular bedroom. She grabbed the remaining two clean towels and reminded herself—again—she really needed to get to the laundry. One of the things about living aboard she’d learned right off was the constant salty spray in the air was hell on clothes, skin, and hair. She did her best to keep up with at least two out of those three, but was forever behind on the laundry.

  She slung the towels over her shoulder and slid the drawer back until it latched shut, then turned around just as Quinn was ducking down to step inside the stateroom door.

  She squealed in surprise. Okay, yelped might have been a better description.

  He immediately raised his hands, palms out, in front of his chest, “I swear, I don’t make a habit of sneaking up on people. I’m sorry. I was just—” He took the towels from where she was clutching them in both hands, and slid them free. “I thought I could help, so I could leave you to get on with your day. Not to mention I’m sure you’d like to change, too. In fact, let me duck back out and—”

  “No, that’s okay, really,” she assured him. “I’m sure you’d like to get going, too.” The open space in the stateroom not occupied by the bed was narrower than any other space onboard, except maybe the shower. At the moment, it felt about a hundred times smaller. And a million times more intimate.

  “There’s two towels. Use one to dry off if you’d like, and take the other for the car.” He really did fill the space right up, including that space she’d so recently cleared out in her head. “I’ll, uh, just get out of your way and let you clean up.”

  She gestured to the tiny bathroom as she stepped past him. “Sink is through there if you need it.” Greg had kept insisting she call it the head, but she just couldn’t; it sounded like a guy term. She had managed to get the big three—cabin, galley, and stateroom. But don’t ask her about aft and starboard, and all of that. She didn’t see why they just couldn’t say front and back, left side and right.

  His voice halted her just outside the door. “You wouldn’t by any chance have a T-shirt I could borrow, would you? Promise I’ll get it back to you along with the towel.” He smiled. “Polo shirts hold a lot of water, as it turns out.” He was holding the hem edge of the stretched-out wet shirt in a ball in his cupped hands. “I’m dripping on your floor. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s made to get wet,” she said, somewhat absently, briefly transfixed by the way balling up the front of his shirt had managed to
pull tight the fabric over his chest and the sleeves. She couldn’t believe his claims that he was ever too scrawny. His shoulders and arms alone ... made her want to fan herself. “Shirt,” she said, belatedly remembering what he’d just asked her. “Right. Uh ... I don’t know.” She turned back and started pulling out drawers and fishing through one, then another, still seeing the outlines of his broad shoulders and bulgy biceps in her mind’s eye.

  She wasn’t finding anything. It wasn’t like she was some perky little size six, or eight, but none of her T-shirts would fit his bigger-than-life, archway-filling frame. Not to mention he’d look ever-so-cute in melon pink sorbet or sherbet orange. From the corner of her eye, she caught him glancing around the stateroom, much as he had the main cabin, and it struck her that if she were, indeed, in some kind of committed relationship, as she’d allowed him to believe, wouldn’t it stand to reason she’d have at least one or two of her partner’s big ol’ manly-man-sized T-shirts laying around? Left behind after their latest round of rambunctious, three-times-a-day, crazy-hot boat sex?

  Possibly, she was just projecting. Then she remembered. She did own one oversized man’s shirt after all. “I do have one that might work. I just need to get around to the other—” They once again did their do-si-do so she could squeeze past him and his shirt of amazing balled tightness, to get to the foot of the bed, where there was one more, wide drawer in which she stored her off-season clothes. She dug under the top few layers of long-sleeved Henleys and sweaters. “Here,” she said triumphantly as she slid out a clean, but very old and worn, oversized White Sox baseball jersey. She shook it out, then tossed it to him. “That might work.” He didn’t have to know it was one of her sleep shirts. Let him think what he wanted. Not that it mattered, but it was a point of pride that he believe she was actually capable of having a man living onboard who would leave old jerseys strewn about.