Honey Pie (Cupcake Club)

chapter 10


That was pretty much the last thing she’d have ever expected him to say. “My . . . what? I already told you my farm hasn’t sold, so I don’t have the money for a lease.”

“What about the lease payments on your aunt’s place? That’s rightfully your income now, isn’t it? Wouldn’t that cover all this?”

“Yes, well, that’s the other thing I looked into today. Turns out Lani and Baxter paid the full five years up front with some cookbook advance they got. They didn’t even do anything with the place for the first year, but Lani knew she wanted to expand when the time came, so when Bea put it up for rent, she jumped on it.” Honey waved a dismissive hand. “Anyway, it’s all moot. The lease payment went to the management company Bea had hired, as it should have, who deposited it into the account they’d set up for her, as they were supposed to do. That money, along with her savings, took care of her senior care living expenses and medical bills. Anything left over and her life insurance paid for her funeral and any outstanding bills. I am just thankful the Dunnes paid what they did, when they did, because if not, I’d be responsible for that debt, too.”

“At least everything was handled properly. But wouldn’t your aunt have known then that her property wasn’t available for occupancy when she left it to you?”

Honey sighed. “To be honest, I’m not sure what her thoughts were or how sound. That she kept so much from me, which was really uncharacteristic of her, has me wondering just what her state of mind was. I think the stroke did more damage than she knew. It was certainly more than she allowed me to know.”

“You were in contact with her?”

“Oh, all the time. I wanted to come out here, spend time with her, help after the stroke, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She knew that flying would have been a nightmare for me, putting myself on a plane with so many people.” Honey still shivered a little just imagining the horror show that would have been. “She led me to believe she was doing really well, that with physical therapy she’d recovered most of her abilities, and was doing far better than expected. I should have known when she wouldn’t Skype with me that something more was up.”

“Wouldn’t . . . what?”

Honey laughed. “We used to chat via our computer monitors so we could see each other while we talked. It was as close to being together as we could get. Only she stopped doing that after her stroke. She told me it was because it had left her face droopy from muscle loss on one side, and she didn’t want to worry me. Normally, she’d have just made a joke about it and we’d have dealt with it, but . . . I was trying to be sensitive and, given how scary the whole thing was, who knew, maybe it did really bother her.”

Honey lifted a shoulder, then sighed. “That’s how she got away with moving to the senior care facility without me knowing, and putting her shop up for lease. Of course, when she wrote her will, I’m sure she didn’t think she’d be gone so soon. I spoke with the care facility today, too. They said she’d been doing much, much better and was in good health, just limited by the recovery far more than she’d let on to me, but needed continued assistance. The aneurysm . . .” Honey trailed off, closed her eyes for a moment, willed the threat of tears back, then continued. “She probably hadn’t thought that far ahead about the shop. She should have lived for a much longer time, so maybe she just hadn’t finished putting her plans into place.”

“You knew she wanted the shop for you?”

Honey nodded. “She left me a letter with her will, but it was written before the stroke. She hadn’t updated her will, either.”

“So, it was written assuming she’d be living there and operating the business up until the time she passed it on to you?”

“Yes—which is exactly what I thought had happened. Her lawyers didn’t advise me differently because they didn’t know, either. Bea never planned on retiring. She loved her work, loved her customers, who were also her friends. Her business was what gave her purpose and kept her engaged with life. I had no doubts that she’d gotten back to it so quickly after her stroke. That was exactly what would have motivated her to get better.”

“You weren’t surprised she left the business to you, then? Even though she discouraged you from coming to see her?”

“Oh, she’d urged me to move here over the years, but I wouldn’t even consider it. I told myself I was happy, successful—which I was, as much as I could be—so why mess with that? It was a lot more than some people had. It was only after I read her letter that I”—she paused again and swallowed hard—“really took stock and allowed myself to admit what I’d buried for so long, which was that I wanted a chance at a more normal life. I simply hadn’t had the courage to reach for it. Bea leaving me her shop space and her apartment was . . . I don’t know, like a sign. Or certainly a tantalizing prospect. One, in the end, I couldn’t ignore.”

“Just because it’s not panning out as you’d thought it would doesn’t mean it can’t work.”

“When the lease is up and they renew—and I’m assuming they will, given the popularity of the cupcake shop and Lani and Baxter—then it will be income for me, but that’s years off. As it is now, technically, it’s just an additional burden. As the landlord, I’m responsible if anything goes wrong with the place. I mean, the management company is still on the lease agreement, so that’s who Lani would call to come fix whatever . . . but then they’ll call me for payment.”

“There are ways around that, but that’s not the main thing at the moment.”

She looked at him. “Ways around it how?”

“Your aunt was infirm and had no choice but to sign on with a management company. You’re not in the same position—that’s all I’m saying.”

“I don’t know the first thing about doing building repair or whatnot.”

“True, but you’re on a small island where if you ask pretty much anybody how to fix something, they will tell you who to call. I think if you handled whatever came up on a case by case basis, you could cut out the middleman.”

“Because the management company will charge a fee on top of the repair fee.”

“Exactly. When you lived out in that barn of yours, surely things came up that you had to deal with.”

“True, but—” She blew out a breath. “Actually, there are no buts. I didn’t always fix the things that needed fixing, but when I had to, I did. So, you’re right. One less thing to worry about. Maybe.”

He grinned over at her. “Don’t borrow trouble.”

She couldn’t help it—when he grinned like that, she grinned, too. “Yeah, I have enough actual trouble already.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She laughed. “You didn’t have to.”

It surprised her that she wasn’t more spun up at the moment, given the avalanche of crap she had to figure out and the healthy dose of terror that went along with the idea she was going to try to open a shop, anyway. In fact, though there were a hundred different thoughts fighting for first place on the worry list, she was a lot more relaxed than she’d imagined was possible. And she knew she owed that to the man sitting beside her.

She scrunched up her nose. That was funny, because the very last thing he made her feel was relaxed. Maybe it was just having someone to talk things through with again. It helped. A lot. She knew she’d missed her aunt a great deal, but she was realizing the loss ran even deeper than she’d known.

She turned toward him. “Thank you.”

He glanced at her as he took the turn toward the causeway, a lifted brow his only response.

“For . . . well, for all of it, but mostly for the ear. And the shoulder.”

“Everyone needs one now and again.”

“I’m thinking you don’t.”

“Just because I don’t bend someone’s ear or cry on their shoulder doesn’t mean I don’t have my fair share of frustrations. Just ask Lolly. Good thing she’s a dog and not a kid, because she’s heard some very naughty words.”

Honey snickered.

He slid a glance her way again, accompanied by that slow, sexy grin that did shivery, tingling things to her insides. Now that she knew she hadn’t imagined how good that mouth of his tasted, it also made everything that could ache . . . ache that much harder.

She pressed her thighs together and tried like hell to keep her thoughts on the more important business at hand. And tried not to remember the look on his face when he’d lifted his head from that last kiss. Like maybe she wasn’t the only one who’d been completely and utterly poleaxed by it. There’d be time for endless analysis later. And probably one or two very heated dreams as well.

“For the record,” she said, “I might have whined a little, but I didn’t cry.”

“Oh, those eyes of yours were swimmin’ yesterday. How soon you forget.”

“That doesn’t count. I can’t help things like that when I’m . . . seeing stuff. It’s . . . emotional.”

Dylan slowed the truck as he bumped over the grids at the island end of the causeway and looked at her. “How does that work, anyway? Do you just see things, like you’re watching a movie, or—”

Honey shook her head. “I see things like I’m actually there. Sometimes I’m an observer and I want to rush in and help. It’s very frustrating, because it’s like I’m running through mud and what I see is always out in front of me. I can never catch up, never change what’s going to happen. Other times, it’s like I’m the person it’s happening to. Or I’m in their head, seeing what they see. It’s not linear. Images flash, then shift, then other information comes in. It can be a swirl. Sometimes it’s clear and easy to understand; other times it’s like operating in a jumbled up fog. It doesn’t always make sense to me, but if I tell whoever I’m seeing, it almost always makes sense to them.”

“Sounds frustrating and exhausting.”

“You have no idea.”

He idled the truck at the stop sign at the end of the ramp leading onto the island. “You said you see bad things more than good things. Is it because the more dramatic stuff sends out stronger signals? Have you ever wondered if maybe it’s because you attract it?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He grinned. “Now, don’t go getting all offended, sugar. I just meant that maybe you’re more emotional yourself, more worried about folks, about things, so you, I don’t know, draw that stuff to you. Bea was less . . . deep than you are, and I don’t mean that unkindly. Maybe she only got the more superficial stuff. Or maybe you just get what you can handle.”

“I couldn’t handle any of it.” She snorted. “That’s how I ended up living in the barn.”

He made the turn toward the town square, but didn’t comment, leaving her to her thoughts.

No one had ever just come out and asked about her second sight so directly and matter-of-factly. Her parents had known how uncomfortable it made her, how stigmatized she felt by it, so they went out of their way to pretend it was no big deal and dealt with it only if she brought it up—usually because something bad had happened at school and she was being picked on. Her mother would focus on the bullying itself to help Honey find ways to deal with it, but largely left alone the reasons behind it, not wanting to make her daughter feel more like the freak she was.

Of course, her parents were hardly mainstream themselves, so they were used to being a bit ostracized or looked at a little funny. They’d laugh about it, try to get her to see it from their perspective—that being just like everyone else wasn’t the be all and end all. But then, they’d never dealt with the things she had.

Bea had talked to her about it, of course. But the real irony was that because they both had the ability, they didn’t have to talk about it. It freed Honey up to talk about any- and everything else like a normal person, without feeling self-conscious, worrying about being ridiculed, or, later, when she was away at school, that her secret would get out. She’d hoped she’d grow out of it, that if she ignored it and didn’t engage with it, her powers would diminish like muscles not being used.

Her time at college had proven that assumption very wrong. So she’d pretty much shut everything else down when she’d left school and gone back home.

Her father, bless his heart, had gotten a few local shops to sell her work, saying it was his, so they wouldn’t think the freak girl was putting her weird magic into the pieces. It had been enough to give her something of an income, which had been her father’s hope, and a direction to follow. Honey had been so blown away by the idea that folks liked and wanted her work, she’d begun looking for other outlets to sell it, where she could build something in her own name. The internet seemed the obvious direction, and once she’d really started selling her pieces, the business more or less grew itself from there. Since then, with her folks both gone, other than Bea . . . there hadn’t been anyone to ask simple questions, nor anyone who was curious about her.

She wasn’t sure how it made her feel, that Dylan was asking questions and was curious. She did know . . . she was more intrigued by it than nervous. After all, her secret was out already with him. And he was still asking questions—sincerely, it seemed—and wanting to know more.

“I can almost hear the wheels grindin’, darlin’. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t.” She looked over at him again and smiled. “That’s why the wheels are grinding. I can’t remember the last time anyone just came out and asked me about . . . those things. Made it seem almost . . . normal. Or at least, not like the freak show folks used to treat it as.”

“Did you ever consider that you were a lot younger the last time you outed yourself, so to speak? So maybe your perspective was a little young then, too.”

“Immature, you mean? Yes. Maybe it was because I got grief from people of all ages that I felt age wasn’t the issue.”

“I’m not sayin’ that folks here will just shrug it off. It’s some pretty unusual stuff you got going on.” He grinned when her mouth dropped open. “I’m just sayin’ that you might not be so quick to assume how we’ll react, until we do. Stand up a bit for yourself.”

She closed her mouth, then laughed at herself. “Own it, you mean? Like Bea did?”

“Might not be the worst thing. Could be a good thing.”

Honey looked back out the window, a furrow between her brows as she realized they were heading toward the town square. “Where, exactly, are we going?”

He glanced briefly her way, then back to the road. “Have a little faith, sugar. You’re killing me with the schoolmarm thing, again. So serious.”

She felt the heat bloom, only it wasn’t embarrassment so much as it was a kick of heightened awareness. Like she needed to be any more aware of him. “You realize you’re fixing things, again.”

“Well, I may not be able to fix your second sight, or whatever you call it, but I might be able to help with the other parts of your Honey Gets a Life program.”

She laughed at that, not at all offended by the label, mostly because that was exactly what she’d come here to try to do. “You’re not even denying it.”

He shot her a fast grin that made her heart skip all over the place. “Sugar, fixing things is what I do. It’s the one thing I’ve always known how to do. Humor me.”

She lifted her hands, palm out, in a motion of surrender. “Lead on.”

She glanced at Dylan again as they turned off the square, then went past the alley that led behind his garage and the cupcakery, and turned on the old channel road, stopping the truck in front of the empty building next to the garage. Actually, except for his garage, all the commercial space on this road appeared to be empty and looked like it had been that way for a very long time. She hadn’t paid much attention when she’d first brought her car in, more worried about her problems and thankful she’d seen the sign advertising the repair shop.

“Do you need something from the garage?” she asked.

He didn’t answer as he turned off the engine and dug a set of keys out of the console wedged on the floorboard between the seat and the dashboard. Then he looked at her. “You took a big chance, coming all this way, sight unseen, hauling your life with you.”

She still had no idea where he was going with this. “Well, technically, most of my life is still packed up in crates and boxes back in Oregon, waiting to be shipped here. I only hauled the part of my life that could be crammed into a Volkswagen Beetle.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “My point is, you took a big risk, which proves you can. They might not get easier to take, but at least you know you can take them. So . . . keep an open mind.”

Oh, he’s opened my mind all right. She had to force herself not to let her gaze drift down to his mouth. Much less think about, even for a second, kissing that mouth—which she’d done repeatedly. And that that mouth had kissed her back.

“Sugar, you keep looking at me like that and we’re going to end up finding out about what happens when I put my hands on you right out here on the street in broad daylight.” His voice was a deep, drawling promise.

And oh, for just a moment, she was tempted to collect on it. She cleared her own throat to dispel the sudden dryness there. “Right. So . . . risks. Open mind. I get it. But that doesn’t explain what we’re doing here.”

He clicked off his seatbelt, then hers, shot her a wink, and climbed out of the truck. Before he could play Southern gentleman and come around to offer assistance in helping her down, she scrambled out her side and closed the door behind her.

Dylan let Lolly out of the truck bed so she could trot across the road to use the grass on the far side. The grassy strip ran down a short incline and stopped in front of the fence between the road and the wide stretch of the Timucua River and the Wassaw Channel that separated island from mainland. As there were no other active businesses along this short stretch of road, there was no traffic, but Honey walked over after Lolly anyway, watching out for her and taking a much needed moment or two to gather her thoughts.

“You comin’?”

Honey looked up and saw Dylan standing in front of the door to the empty space next to the garage. Her heart sank. Not that she’d held any realistic hope that Dylan actually had a workable solution for her, but he clearly didn’t understand that when she said she didn’t have the money to lease a space, she really meant it. Not even some rundown place.

Honey and Lolly crossed the road together to the narrow sidewalk that ran along the street in front of the closed up shops. “I know you’re trying to help, and I appreciate it more than you know, but unless they’re giving away leases, this isn’t going to fix anything.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Oh, I’m not being picky about location. My previous work space was a barn, remember? I’m saying that I imagine the owners want actual money for the space, which would be a problem for me.”

Dylan gave her a hint of a smile, then used the keys he’d snagged in the truck to unlock the door to the place. “Take a look anyway.”

He pulled the door open and gestured for her to go inside first. She wondered why he had keys to the place, but the question was forgotten as she stepped inside. The air was thick and still from the heat, and dank from being closed up for so long. The front windows had been covered by white paper, long since yellowed and torn around the edges, but still allowing in enough light to see the space fairly clearly. It was narrow, but deep, and bigger than it had appeared from the outside. The center area opened up all the way to the peaked roof, with a second level balcony that ran around all four sides of the building, narrow on the sides and front, then deeper across the back.

“Oh, how beautiful is that?” She walked over to the wrought iron circular stairs set into one corner, which led up to the balcony. She put her foot on the bottom stair, grabbed the hand rail, and gave it a sturdy shake. Not so much as a groan or squeak.

“I still don’t know if I’d trust that,” Dylan said. “Or the flooring up there.”

She paused, then stepped back a few feet to look up at the second level, trying to see into the shadows up there. “Are those shelves?” She turned around, standing in the same spot, gazing upward. “Oh, they go around all three sides. Wow.”

“Used to be a bookstore,” Dylan said, his voice coming from right behind her.

She started slightly, still not used to having people suddenly in her space when caught unawares.

He didn’t move closer, but nor did he move away. She glanced at him, but his gaze was on the second level. “Came here a few times as a kid. There’s not much room up there. On the two sides it’s pretty narrow, just the walkway and shelves built right into the walls. Across the front, there are windows up there, bench seating built in. Used to be more chairs in the alcove.”

“Like a recessed reading area,” Honey said, charmed, easily picturing how it must have looked. “What’s in the back section?”

“More shelves. On the left side, in the corner, is a small office space.”

Honey looked back at him. “Really? A little office up there?”

“If I recall. Mr. Beaumont owned the shop back then, and he used to keep the door open so he could keep an eye on the kids. The kids’ section was down here and he didn’t approve of us coming to the upper level.” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “Come to think of it, he didn’t really approve of us at all.”

“A bookseller who doesn’t like kids? Where does he think his customer base originates from?”

“Children who look and don’t touch and mind their parents. Not heathens with no supervision runnin’ wild through the place.” Smiling, Dylan looked at her. “I’d imagine you’d feel the same if the business was yours. I didn’t take it personally.” He glanced back up again, and the smile might have curved more fully. “I took it as a challenge.”

Honey smiled then, too. “Yes, perhaps you have a point. Good thing you’re a responsible adult now.”

He slid a gaze to hers that curled her toes. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that, sugar.”

Just as her breath caught and held in her throat, and she braced herself for him to make a move . . . he did, but it was only to walk off toward the back of the building.

She didn’t realize until she let the breath go that her sigh was in disappointment, not relief.

“There’s a storage space back through here, another office, I think, or more storage. Bathroom. Small kitchen, it looks like,” he said, opening doors and poking his head in. “Gutted, but that’s what it once was, anyway, going by the wiring and cabinets. Maybe it was a break room or lounge.” He turned around and looked back at her. “What do you think? Would it work?”

It’s perfect, she thought. Charming, different, if a good bit bigger than she’d imagined when thinking about her own shop. Of course, she’d always thought small because Bea’s shop wasn’t very big, but this . . . this was more like her work space—open, open, with the soaring ceiling in the middle. It felt right to her, creatively. Her mind was already buzzing with ideas of how to turn this into her own magical little forest workshop. Well, her forest-meets-island workshop. She smiled, just picturing the possibilities.

She could envision making use of those built in shelves on the balcony level, renovating them to display her garden and forest creatures, creating little scenic tableaus inside the deeper, recessed shelving areas. If the storage room in the back of the building was big enough, she could make that her private studio. The other space a small classroom, maybe. Office upstairs for business purposes. She could even have a big work table right out here in the retail space, so customers could watch as she did finishing work on pieces, or started a new one. It was . . . truly . . . perfect.

“Maybe” was what she said out loud, though, already trying to temper her soaring heart. No point in letting herself dream, even for a moment. “It would take a lot of work to clean it out, get it up to code, I imagine. Among a laundry list of other things. It looks like it’s been empty a long time.”

“Twelve years. Give or take.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Twelve years?”

“Island economy, especially one that doesn’t have a tourist draw, is shaky at best. Beaumont Senior opened the place back in the fifties, then Junior took it over before I was born and ran it another twenty or so years, but the island dynamic changed over the years. Skewed older and older, not so many children as before, though that’s changing again. The recession in the eighties put most businesses here in serious hardship. This place made it through, but never fully recovered. Beaumont shuttered the place just after the turn of the century. It was the last business on the block to close up shop. The town square had taken a pretty big hit as well, so when things finally turned around, it was those spaces that folks snapped up first. Had to if they had any hope of getting the kind of traffic they needed to stay afloat. The docks brought in the fishing trade, so the warehouses down there did okay, which is where our garage was, but the shops back here along the channel road fell further and further into neglect until no one really even came around here, anymore. Too much work to turn it around, I guess.”

“Until you took over the building next door.”

He nodded. “Back in the fifties and sixties, that place was run by two guys who’d gone to school together and built a business restoring old cars and fixing up old wrecks. They did some pretty amazing paint and body work. It was the only other auto shop on the island.”

“Competition for your family garage?”

Dylan shook his head. “No, different services. In fact, having both shops here helped. Folks could get their repairs at Ross & Sons and body work done over here at Shellings & Rack. Worked out pretty well—till Bart Shelling got himself killed in Vietnam. Jimmy Rack held on another fifteen, eighteen years or so, till the early nineties, anyway. Heard he moved west somewhere. Not entirely sure. He turned it over to some cousin or other who ran it right into the ground, didn’t have half the talent of either Bart or Jimmy, much less the business sense. Then the recession hit and he took off, and it’s stood empty since then.”

“Wow,” Honey breathed. “Well, at least you had a garage type space to move to, which had to be easier in terms of getting up and running again, but the location can’t have helped any.”

“Hasn’t been bad at all, as it’s turned out. It was more industrial down by the docks, which allowed us to have a much bigger space than this, almost twice the size. But being right off the town square has been a boost, actually. Folks just pull in the alley and park out back, so it’s convenient. Besides, it’s a small island and Ross & Sons has been part of it for longer than most here remember.”

“And I’m sure they’re loyal. I guess it didn’t really matter where you relocated then.”

He shrugged. “Unless I wanted to move over the causeway for a bigger space, this was pretty much it. But yes, I do have a steady local customer base.”

“Has that worked out okay? Since the space is so much smaller?” Suddenly she remembered some of the things Barbara Hughes had been saying about Dylan’s family, and turned her back to him, pretending to look at the interior again. She was afraid he’d see something in her expression and didn’t want to shift the mood. Not that she could name the mood, exactly, but it was . . . comfortable. And conversational. The most he’d ever been, in fact. She liked the sound of his voice, deep and with that rich, sexy twang. She liked listening to him talk, and could picture how things might have been back in the day as he’d described them.

“Well enough,” he replied. “It’s a one man show now, more or less, so the size suits me. Economic recovery has been slow this time around, but the cupcake shop has brought some pretty good national exposure with that feature on Chef Dunne’s television show. Having a celebrity chef living on the island hasn’t hurt things any, either. Stays steady enough for me, anyway.”

“Plus, you’re probably a bit more economy-proof than some businesses. When somebody needs work done on their car, they kind of need to get it done.” She smiled over her shoulder at him. “She says from personal experience.”

He flickered a smile in return, but his eyes were a bit more hooded and she regretted bringing his family into it. She was curious to know more of his story directly from him, but she’d made it a lifetime habit not to be curious about anyone, so the fact that she was curious about this man was enough to keep her quiet. Recalling Barbara’s comments merely sealed the decision. If Dylan ever wanted to talk about his past, it would be up to him.

Easing away from that line of conversation and wanting to return to the more comfortable vibe between them, she went back to looking around the space. She wanted to give at least the appearance of taking his offer seriously. She didn’t want to insult him, so she poked around a bit more, but stopped short of poking her head in the back rooms. The more she saw, the harder it would be to walk away. In fact, she was turning around with the intent of telling him that she sincerely appreciated the thought, but it wasn’t possible, only to find him directly behind her.

She startled briefly, but fought her automatic instinct to move back, create space, and avoid contact. She held her ground and glanced up at him. “Thanks for trying to help. I mean that. But even if I had some wiggle room in the budget for a lease, I couldn’t afford a space this size.”

“I watched you while you were looking around. You talk a good game about codes and cleaning the place up . . . but let’s pretend none of that is an issue.”

“Even if it wasn’t, that doesn’t change—”

“Shh,” he said, then lifted a finger and very deliberately placed it across her lips.

She froze, didn’t even speak his name in warning for fear the added movement of her lips against his fingertip could trigger something.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze probing hers.

She knew what he meant, and what signs he was looking for. She nodded . . . and was perversely disappointed when he let his hand drop back to his side.

“Good. Before, when I mentioned about folks giving folks a hand up? There were some folks here on Sugarberry who did that for me, tried to do even more in some cases, but I was too proud to accept most of it. Some went ahead and helped anyway. It took a while for embarrassment to turn to gratitude, longer than it should have, but I do understand now, that if you can offer to help, you do. The person being helped gains something . . . but so does the person who does the helping. Consider it giving back. Or building a community. It’s what people do for one another. Or should.”

“I thought you’d prefer folks to leave you alone.” She didn’t say it accusingly, but more because she was trying to understand him.

“I’m not one to sit around, shoot the bull, talk about other people’s personal business. Never will be. And I prefer folks to keep their noses out of mine. For too many years, my family’s personal business spent far too much time burning up the grapevine. But I wouldn’t turn my back on a single one of them in need, if I could help them out. They stood by me. End of the day, that’s what matters.”

Again, his comments about his family made Barbara Hughes’s comments echo through Honey’s mind, but she, better than anyone, understood the desire for privacy. “I respect that.”

“Good.” His expression shifted then, from sober and serious to something a shade or two lighter, and an expression she hadn’t seen before entered his gray eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly. “So . . . let me stand by you.”

She’d been on the verge of smiling herself, seduced by the almost playful look on his face. He’d teased her before, but this was something else altogether. Then his words sunk in. “Stand by . . . me? How? For that matter, why? I just got here. I’m not a part of anything, yet.”

“Everybody has to start building a foundation somehow, make contacts, new friends if they’re of a mind to, whatever it takes to weave themselves into the fabric of the community. Ours is close knit, but we have a real penchant for taking in those who come here to find a home. We’re a small town, and folks here think that by taking you in, it gives them license to put their noses in where you might not want them, but we’re also islanders—a different, interesting breed. None of us came here, or stayed here because we wanted a big life, but because we value setting ourselves apart, maybe a bit more than regular folk.”

Honey smiled at that. “You’re saying you’re not regular folk?”

His lips twitched a little. “I’m saying we understand the need to be ourselves. So while we might be all up in each other’s business, we will stand together against anyone who wants to come in and try to change our way of life.”

“Bea always said she fit right in here, that it was a classic small Southern town and island eccentric. I’m beginning to understand that more and more. Of course, she was here for decades and was still considered the newcomer.”

“Didn’t stop folks from considering her one of our own.”

“True. I know Bea said people pitched in right after the stroke. And Lani told me Bea wasn’t alone when she was forced to move to senior care, even though it took her off the island.” Honey paused, trying to tamp down, once again, the guilt at not being there and not knowing something she felt she should have known. “I’ll always be grateful she had that.”

“She wanted you to have that here, too.”

Honey nodded. “I know. So . . . what did you mean? Stand by me? I figure, of anyone, you’d be the one wanting to run as far away as possible.”

“That thought might have gone through my mind a few times.” His grin unfolded slowly. “Maybe more than a few.”

Her lips parted on a little huff at his blunt honesty, even as laughter rose in her throat.

“Careful, sugar, you might catch flies.” He shifted just a hair closer. “Or something else entirely.”

She closed her mouth, but felt the heat of his meaning seep into every pore of her body. Made her knees a bit wobbly, just thinking about what it would be like to catch what Dylan Ross was pitching.

“Bottom line is . . . you want to stay,” he said, keeping that intensity right in his gaze, seemingly quite at home in her personal space, even though he was well aware of the risks. “And I know a way to help you do that.”

“So . . . this is just about you fixing something you can fix?”

“Partly. If I can, then I want to, yes.”

“Not about me, then. Personally, I mean.”

“Shouldn’t be.”

She looked up into his eyes. “Shouldn’t?”

He reached up and gently pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. His smile reached his eyes, and she was so caught up in it, she didn’t realize he was trailing his finger down the side of her cheek until it was too late to worry about it.

“Shouldn’t,” he said again. “But I can’t deny you’ve worked your way in, Honey Pie.” His voice got softer, deeper, his drawl vibrating along the surface of her skin as he leaned down so his lips were next to her ear. “Reached right in and grabbed hold.” The warmth of his breath feathered across her cheeks as he moved his mouth close to hers, still not touching her. “And I’m not sure why, but I’m not wantin’ you to let go. Not just yet.”

His words made her heart pound so hard she could barely hear her own thoughts, and her knees went from kind of wobbly to downright woozy. “I’m not trying to complicate your life.”

He lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes. And his grin devastated any hope she had of reclaiming control. “Sugar, it was too late for that the minute I saw you sitting on that bench out back, looking across the alley like you wanted the world, if only it would want you back.”

She felt . . . exposed. For the first time, she had an inkling of what others felt like when she tried to tell them what she saw, what she knew. How exposed they must have felt, how vulnerable. It was terrifying to think he could look at her, and know . . . know what was in her heart, what she’d barely admitted to herself. “I-I just wanted my car fixed.”

His grin did that lazy slide into something deeper, more intimate, bringing out a devilish twinkle in his eyes. “Yes, well . . . sometimes you get more than you bargain for.”

He took a step forward and she automatically shifted back, bringing her up against the door that led to the storage space.

“I’m giving you fair warning that I’m about to put my hands on you because it seems the right thing to do, but I’ll admit, I’m not givin’ you any time to think on it.” He framed her face with the palms of his hands, so broad and strong, warm, and a little rough. Before she could even begin to process all the delicious signals that sent out, his mouth came down on hers.

She had no time to brace herself, no time to think, and then she was lost in the scents, the tastes, the feelings coursing through her. There was nothing tentative in this kiss; he took, and simply expected to be given to in return.

Give she did. Willingly, helplessly . . . and to her shock, happily. The edges of her consciousness wavered, but with the demands of lust and want and desire. Every part of her was alert, in the moment, and quite wonderfully present.

“You good, sugar?” he queried in a deep murmur against her lips.

“Very,” she answered breathlessly, touched and turned on by the fact that, even in the throes of it, he was still taking care of her.

He chuckled at that. When she brought her hands up to his chest, he took hold of her wrists and pinned them gently, but firmly to the door on either side of her head. “My turn. Next time, we’ll see what happens when you do the touching.”

He slowly slid her hands up the door, bringing their bodies closer, making hers vibrate with the need to feel him pressed up against her. She was past worrying about what might happen. Every thought she had was on one thing, and one thing only . . . feeling him pressed up against her.

He found her mouth again and slowed things down, taking his time, taking her mouth with patient, but devastating thoroughness until she was completely focused on that and only that. Then he eased his body against hers. He was hard, muscular, warm, the heavy air making his T-shirt a bit damp, his skin a bit slick.

She moaned as he slid his tongue into her mouth, moved his body against hers . . . and everything blissfully slipped away except the blinding need to feel more, taste more, have more.

He left her mouth, and she made a brief sound of protest. The whimper turned into a groan of pleasure as his lips found the soft spot under her jaw, then traveled along the side of her neck. She moaned and let her head shift to the side to allow him greater access, reveling in the experience of discovery, of learning what it felt like to be utterly seduced . . . and the thrill of how her body responded to it. Learning where her sensitive spots were, how easily he could elicit a gasp, a moan, when he discovered and exploited them . . . much to her delight.

She had the fleeting thought that pinned against the door, all but helpless, she should have felt trapped . . . panicked, at the very least, at not having any control over how her space was being invaded. Instead, she realized she felt protected, safe. She trusted Dylan. He knew what could happen and wanted her anyway . . . and at the same time, he wasn’t being cavalier or selfish about it. There was no doubt she wanted this as much as he . . . and she could certainly say no if she didn’t want this to happen, which meant he trusted her, too. So, there was sort of an inner sense of calm, knowing that, no matter what happened, even if the curse was triggered again, he’d stand by her.

It was tantalizing, even a little thrilling, despite the fear, to know he’d probably keep pushing her to reach for what she wanted. He wouldn’t let her run and hide.

He pressed her wrists to the wall, then slowly drew his hands along her arms to her shoulders, and she arched against him, all of her thoughts riveted on one thing, wanting his hands to keep moving, to find more of those spots that drove her wild. Two in particular would kill to have his fingertips on them.

“Sugar, you have no idea how hard it is to keep my hands off you,” he murmured, his lips pressed to the base of the throat.

“I’m not . . . stopping you,” she managed between short breaths. Having an episode had never been so far from her thoughts. Trying to keep her knees from going completely to Jell-O while biting her lip to keep from begging him to cup her breasts, to please, dear God, play with her nipples . . . was taking up every bit of her concentration.

“If I start, no tellin’ where it’ll stop,” he said. “And a dusty, dank old building isn’t what I had in mind.”

She wanted to scream, she ached so bad. “You’ve . . . had this in mind?” She was trying to stay focused on the words and not the feel of his wide palms, bracketing her waist.

He lifted his head at that and grinned. “It might have occurred to me once or twice,” he said, echoing his words from earlier. “Okay, maybe a few times.” He lifted his hands from her waist and carefully, without so much as brushing against her almost painfully erect nipples, he plucked open one button of her blouse. “Not to say I couldn’t be persuaded . . .” He plucked open another one, and that devilish twinkle was back in his eyes again.

Good Lord, she thought, I’ve won the sexual lottery. She sent up every prayer of thanks she knew and a few she improvised right on the spot. She smiled, too, despite being shaky with need. “Well, my vote would be—”

“Yoo-hoo!” A wavery, high pitched voice cut through the dank humidity and the thick fog of lust like a pickax into a block of ice. “I saw your truck out front, I hope you don’t—oh my!”

Honey instinctively started to jerk away, but Dylan’s hands went right back to her waist, pinning her in place. “Blouse,” he whispered, then let her go and turned to face their visitor, mercifully blocking Honey from view.

“Well, hey there,” he said, all relaxed Southern drawl as if they hadn’t been one breath away from mating like wild animals. “Can I help you with somethin’ there, Miss Alva?”