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.
“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
Q
uinn 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 up 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.”