The Sweetest Thing (3 page)

Bloodthirsty wench, he thought fondly, and walked across the wraparound porch. There were seedlings laid out to be planted
along the new railings. Someone had
a green thumb. Not Chloe, he’d bet. The youngest sister didn’t have the patience.

Not Maddie either, since she was currently spending every spare second in Jax’s bed, the lucky bastard.

Tara then?

Ford tried to picture her pretty hands in the dirt… and then his mind went to other places, like her being dirty with him.

Shaking his head at himself, he stepped inside. Before the devastating fire, the interior decorating had been
Little House on the Prairie
meets the Roseanne Conner household. Things had changed once Tara had gotten hold of the place. Gone were the chicken, rooster,
and cow motifs; replaced by a softer, warmer beachy look of soothing earth tones mixed with pale blues and greens.

Not a cow in sight.

As Ford walked inside on the brand-new wood floors, he could hear female laughter coming from the deck off the living room.
Heading down the hall, he opened the slider door and found the party.

Seated around a table were four women of varying ages, shapes, and sizes. At the head of the table stood Tara. She had eyes
the color of perfectly aged whiskey, outlined by long black lashes. Her mouth could be soft and warm—when she was feeling
soft and warm, that is. Today it was glossed and giving off one of her professional smiles. She’d let her short, brunette
layers grow out a little these past months so that the silky strands just brushed her shoulders, framing the face that haunted
his dreams. As always, she was dressed as if she was speeding down the road to success. Today she wore an elegant
fitted dress with a row of buttons running down her deliciously long, willowy body.

Ford fantasized about undoing those buttons—one at a time.

With his teeth.

She held a tray, and on that tray—be still his heart—was a huge pitcher of iced tea, complete with a bucket of ice and lemon
wedges, and condensation on the pitcher itself, assuring him it would quench his thirst. He must have made a sound because
all eyes swiveled in his direction. Including Tara’s. In fact, hers dropped down over his body, and then jerked back up to
his eyes. Her gaze was gratifyingly wide.

There were a couple of gasps from the others, and several “
oh my’s
” mixed in with a single, heartfelt “
good Lord
,” prompting him to look down at himself.

Nope, he wasn’t having the naked-in-public dream again. He was awake and wearing his favorite basketball shorts—admittedly
slung a little low on the hips but covering the essentials—and running shoes, no socks.

No shirt, either. He’d forgotten to replace the one he’d stripped off. “Hey,” he said in greeting.

“What are you doing?” Tara asked, her voice soft and Southern and dialed to Not Happy to See Him.

And yet interestingly enough, she was looking at him like maybe he was a twelve-course meal and she hadn’t eaten in a week.

He’d take that, Ford decided, and he’d especially take the way her breathing had quickened. “I have a gift for you from Lucille.”

At the sight of the small wood box, Tara went still, then came around the table to take it.

“It looks just like the one we lost,” she murmured, opening it. When she looked inside, a flash of disappointment came and
went in her eyes, so fast Ford nearly missed it.

“What?” he asked, ignoring everyone else on the deck as he took a step toward her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Tara clutched the box to her chest and shook her head. “It’s just that we lost the original in the fire. It was
filled with Phoebe-isms.”

“Phoebe-isms?”

“My mom. She’d written these little… tidbits of advice, I guess you’d call them, for me and my sisters over the years. Things
like ‘A glass of wine is always the solution, even if you aren’t sure of the problem.’ ”

The four women at the table, each of whom had known and loved Phoebe, laughed softly, fondly.

Ford had a soft spot for Phoebe as well. She’d been in Lucille’s “gang” and one of Ford’s best customers at the bar. As he
smiled at the memory, Tara did that pretend-not-to-look-at-his-bare-chest thing again, then quickly turned away.

Interesting reaction for someone who’d exerted a lot of energy and time over the past months
not
noticing him.

“Get him a chair, honey,” one of the women said—Rani, the town librarian.

Tara turned to Ford, panic growing in her eyes at the thought of him hanging around.

Yet another interesting reaction. “Ford can’t stay,” she said, eyes locked on his. “He’s… busy. Very busy. I’m sure he doesn’t
have time to bother with our little meeting.”

“I’m not that busy,” Ford said, looking around the
table. Each woman had an assortment of plates in front of her, filled with what looked like delicious desserts that Tara must
have baked at the diner since the inn’s kitchen wasn’t yet functioning.

They looked good, real good.

There was also wine, mostly gone now, and everyone but Tara was looking pretty darn relaxed for a
meeting
. “Besides,” he said, “this looks more like a party.”

“It’s the Garden Society.” Tara was still blocking his way from moving farther onto the deck. “The ladies here were gracious
enough to come and sample some snacks that I hope to have available for our inn guests upon request.”

His belly stirred, reminding him he’d skipped lunch. “I’m an excellent taster,” he said with his most charming smile.

“But you’re
so
busy,” Tara said, with
her
most charming smile, although her eyes were saying
Don’t You Dare
.

“Aw, but I’m never too busy for you.” Ford had no idea why he was baiting her. Maybe because she’d spent so much time pretending
he didn’t exist, and this was much more fun. Plus there was the added benefit that he knew her Southern manners wouldn’t allow
her to say what she
really
wanted to, not in front of company, anyway.
Heaven forbid we be rude in front of guests
.

Tara was now giving him the look that assured him that she was indeed imagining wrapping her fingers around his neck. He smiled
wider. He couldn’t help it. For the first time in too damn long, he was feeling alive. Very alive.

Admitting defeat with her usual good grace, Tara never let her smile falter as she shifted to the railing, where she
had supplies stacked up. She grabbed a spare plate and loaded it with her goodies before wrapping it in foil.

Ford was getting the to-go version.

“He looks thirsty, too, Tara,” Rani said.

Ford loved Rani.

“Yes, dear,” another of the women said. “Pour the poor, overworked man a glass of tea. You don’t let a man of this caliber
drink from a garden hose.”

“Thank you, Ethel,” Ford murmured, and since he was watching Tara’s arresting face, he saw the flicker of surprise cross her
features. Yes, he knew Ethel, too. She ran the Rec Center. She’d been there when, twenty years ago now, he’d hit a baseball
through her office window, nearly decapitating her. Good times.

“Please stay,” Ethel said to Ford, and patted an empty chair right next to hers.

“But he’s not dressed for this,” Tara said, once again eyeing Ford’s bare chest. Her pupils dilated. “There are health codes,
and—”

“We won’t tell.” This from Sandy, the town clerk and city manager of Lucky Harbor. “Besides, we’re outside. He’s dressed just
perfect
.”

Sandy had gone to school with Ford. She’d been class president, head cheerleader, and a lot of fun. Ford smiled at her.

She returned it with a saucy wink. “My sister’s husband is looking into buying a boat,” she told him. “A fixer-upper. I told
her that I’d ask your opinion.”

“It’s a good time,” Ford told her. “The market’s down so you could get a deal. If he wants my help working on it, have him
call me.”

“A man who can wield a set of tools
and
read the market,” Rani said on a dreamy sigh.

“Yes,” Tara said, grinding her back teeth together as she looked at Ford. “Bless your heart.”

She didn’t mean it, of course, which only made him smile again. Sure, her voice was all gentle and soft, but her real feelings
were visible if you knew her.

And whether she wanted to believe it or not, Ford knew her. He knew she wanted to knock him into next week.

“A moment?” Tara requested sweetly.

“Sure,” he said just as sweetly as he leaned back against the railing and got comfy.

“
Alone
.”

And then, without waiting for an answer, she dropped his foiled to-go goodies into a pretty bag, poured one of the glasses
full of iced tea, and walked right past him, hips swinging with attitude, inside the inn.

Clearly assuming he’d follow.

He watched her go, enjoying the view, but he didn’t move. He wasn’t much into being bossed around, even by an incredibly beautiful
woman who was anal retentive and a bit of a control freak.

Well, unless they were in bed. He didn’t mind then, not as long as he got to return the favor.

But there was something about Tara that drew him in spite of himself, that snagged him by the throat and held tight. Maybe
it was the tough-girl exterior, which he knew barely covered a bruised and tender heart. He’d seen that heart once, and truth
be told he wasn’t all that interested in going back there. But he wouldn’t mind seeing her other parts.

He couldn’t help it. She had really great parts.

And he wanted that cold iced tea, bad. Almost as much as he wanted…

Her, he realized grimly. Against all caution and sanity, he wanted her. So he followed her inside the inn.

T
ara waited in the freshly painted hallway off the inn’s large, open living room with what she felt was admirable calm until
finally
, a half-naked Ford slowly strode inside.

Not hurrying.

Of course not. Ford never hurried when he could saunter. He never rushed a damn thing in his life. The big, sexy lug moved
when and where he wanted.

She knew she was just damn lucky he’d decided to move at all. He was unpredictable.

Spontaneous.

Not to be confused with uncontrolled. Because Ford, for all his sense of humor and smart-ass-ness, was one of the most controlled
people Tara had ever met. It was one of the few things they had in common. She did her best to keep her eyes on his, but she
couldn’t seem to help
herself. She’d seen him without a shirt before, of course. But it’d been a while.

Watching her watch him, he reached out and played with the lace on her collarbone. “Why are you always dressed like you’re
going to a business meeting?”

“I
am
at a business meeting. Sort of.” She paused and admitted the truth. “But mostly I wear dresses or skirts because I don’t
have a good butt in jeans.”

With a laugh, Ford stepped close, so close that she could smell the ocean on him. He was salty and tangy, and so indelibly
male that Tara almost closed the last inch between them simply so that she could lick him like a lollipop. Just one lick,
she told herself, from sternum to the very low waistband of the basketball shorts…

His eyes lit with wickedness, as if he knew her secret longings, but he said nothing as he leaned over her shoulder to view
her backside.

Ford Walker, Resident Butt Inspector.

“Looks fine from here,” he assured her in a low, husky voice that scraped at every single erogenous zone she owned. “Damned
fine.” He paused. “Maybe I should give it a hand test to be sure.” Before she could say a word, he slid a hand down her spine,
heading south with wicked and nefarious intent.

With a shocked laugh, she shoved him away. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“So,” he said, recovering far faster than she. “Still constipated?”

Tara choked. “What?”

Ford lifted a broad shoulder and unsuccessfully bit
back a smile. “After the other day, it got around town that you were having troubles.”

“ ‘Got around town,’ ” she repeated faintly and closed her eyes to count to ten. For peace and Zen.

Neither made an appearance.

“I think Lucille tweeted it, and it ended up on Facebook,” he said, amusement heavy in his voice. “She took the opportunity
to put up a recipe to fix the problem. You take a few plums, pit them, get a blender and—”

“I’m not—” Tara broke off, glancing through the inn to the sliding glass door before purposely lowering her voice. “
Constipated!
”

“You sure?”

“Very!”

He grinned, and she felt conflicting reactions—her brain melting, and steam coming out her ears.

How could this be? How could he drive her so insane and make her want him with equal intensity? She didn’t understand, she
really didn’t. “Here,” she said and thrust the glass of iced tea and the bag of desserts at him. “And you should know, regarding
your
friend
request the other day at the music fest, I’ve thought about it. Us.” Fact was, she’d done nothing
but
think about it. But they’d failed once. More like crashed and burned, spectacularly, and she shook her head. “I can’t go
there again, Ford.” The last time had nearly destroyed her. Only he seemed to have the power to do that, and she wouldn’t,
couldn’t
, let it happen again.