Honey Pie (Cupcake Club)

chapter 12


Dammit, dammit, no! No! But it was too late, she was already spinning away. The way he’d looked at her, encouraged her—dared her, almost—to reach out and grab what she wanted had made her feel invincible.

She should have known better.

She could still feel Dylan’s arms around her holding her tightly, and he was murmuring something she couldn’t make out, over and over. Surprisingly, the steadiness of his voice, the constancy of it, along with his hold on her, calmed her, and the panic she always felt at that first existential jerk sideways subsided a little.

Then things began to shift more fully into the vision and other thoughts took over. She braced herself to deal with the acrid smell of smoke, the pounding pulse, and racing heart that would soon follow. But . . . she wasn’t in the burning garage, nor was she watching him race toward one. She wasn’t anywhere around anything like that. She was . . . rocking. Slowly, gently. Swaying. There was a gentle pitch, then a slow dip, then another easy climb again.

A boat!

She was . . . on a boat. Oh no! No, no, no! Was she on the fishing trawler? Did that mean it was going to be Dylan instead of Mr. Hughes taking the gash in the leg? Or worse? Why would he take Frank’s place on the fishing boat? She had to warn him not to go. But . . . wouldn’t the boat be pitching wildly in the storm? She squinted, trying to make the rest of the vision come into focus, but it was just sensory, nothing visual yet. She could smell the salt water, the sting of it in the air. It was warm, humid . . . but there was heat, too. The sun! Not the storm she’d seen earlier. It was sunny, bright, hot. Oh, thank God.

So . . . where was the urgency, she wondered. Why had she been pulled in so abruptly? Usually when she was jerked in like that, it meant something big . . . something bad. Oftentimes, really bad.

She tried to focus, tried, for once, to tap in more deeply to the vision instead of backing away from it. If something was going to happen to Dylan, she wanted to know about it. But she just kept feeling the sway, the dip and roll of the water beneath . . . beneath a sailboat! Dylan’s sailboat! Was something going to happen to his boat? After all his hard work, was he destined to lose it somehow? Seemed unfair for a man who’d suffered so much loss, but Honey knew all about life not being fair.

That kind of ominous vibration wasn’t in the moment. Quite the opposite, actually. If she allowed herself to relax into it, she could be lulled into a very peaceful place. At least, that’s how it felt.

Her breath began to steady now that the initial onslaught was over, and she let herself relax into it more. She could feel the heat on her skin, and enjoyed the motion of the gentle swell and the slow slide down again. It felt . . . good. She tried to keep some part of herself braced for the inevitable, but the longer she stayed in the moment, the more challenging that became.

The vision formed like mists parting. Although she felt the movement of the sailboat, she was sort of watching as the scene came into focus. Out on the open water, a gorgeous, bright, sunny day, his back was to her as he manned the wheel. A beautifully restored, vintage wooden wheel—or whatever they were called. He wore white khaki board shorts that hung low on his hips, showcasing his backside and tanned, muscular calves. His stance was solid, his hips steady as he easily rode the pitch and roll.

He wore a faded, sky blue T-shirt and the breeze had molded the soft fabric to his torso. Strong forearms, with those wide palms she already knew so intimately, gripped the wheel. His hair was longer, sun streaked, the ends dancing in the wind as he kept watch over the waters ahead. Something else was different about him. His shoulders were relaxed, she realized. Everything about him was relaxed. The man she knew had an intensity about him, a sort of banked energy that emanated from him at all times, as if he was always braced for something. But the man on the sailboat had not a care in the world.

Laughter was a bright punctuation to the beautiful day. It was a rich giggle in the way that only . . . it was a child’s laughter! She didn’t see a child, but she definitely heard one. Maybe it was some kind of echo of Dylan’s past, that he was finally able to reach back and recapture the youth he should have had? Except her visions weren’t usually as metaphysical as all that. Dylan’s laughter blended with the child’s rolling giggles. Rich, deep, and completely, utterly free. She’d heard him chuckle, heard him laugh . . . but she’d never heard him sound like that.

He glanced over his shoulder, and there was this deep sense of . . . connectivity. She knew that face so well. Every scar, every line, better than she knew her own. Her fingertips tingled with the urge to trace every one of them, as if they had so many, many times before. Crinkles formed at the corners of his gray eyes made almost blue by the shirt he was wearing as he aimed that sexy, devil-may-care grin straight at . . . her?

“Honey?”

“I’m right here,” she responded, wanting to get up and go to him. Run to him. She knew his arms would open for her.

“Honey!”

She blinked her eyes open, and she was in the dusty, musty bookstore again, still in Dylan’s arms, though her feet were touching the floor now.

“That’s it,” he was saying softly, almost crooning the words. “Come on back, darlin’. I’m right here.”

She blinked again, and the sailboat was gone, the heat of the sun . . . the giggling child, and that knowing smile. So was the sense that she’d been looking into that same face, those same eyes, for a very long time.

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically.

“What for?”

“I shouldn’t have jumped you. I should have . . . I should have known. It was just, we’ve taken so many risks and it hasn’t happened and I was just so excited and—”

He captured her face in his hands, held them there when she tried to pull away, and brought her gaze to his. She braced momentarily, expecting to go right back into the vision again, but nothing wavered, nothing tugged. At least not like that. She was feeling a tug of an entirely different kind as vestiges of feelings from the vision still mingled with the real feelings she was having.

“Sugar, don’t ever apologize for jumping me.”

That surprised a snort of laughter from her, making him smile instantly and shoot her a wink. She felt suddenly shaky, but not in a bad way. For the first time ever, she wanted to go back into the vision, to keep feeling what she’d been feeling. But she was liking where she was right now pretty damn well, too. It was so confusing. Normally visions didn’t involve her so personally, but normally she didn’t have visions about people she cared about, or people who were otherwise involved in her life.

“You okay? Want to talk about it?”

Yes, she thought. I do.

All of it, she realized. So much had happened to her since coming to Sugarberry, after years of nothing ever happening. Being around people was a huge thing, but suddenly she had people chatting with her and asking her to bake cupcakes, and . . . and . . . a man who was holding her, kissing her, seducing her. All completely normal things . . . for anybody but her. It was all happening so fast she should be completely freaking out, except the very speed of the unfolding events didn’t allow time for that. The truth was . . . she didn’t want it to slow down, didn’t want it to stop. It was everything she wanted.

She just wanted to catch up.

“I’m fine,” she said, not entirely truthful, but fine in the way he meant. “It wasn’t bad. In fact . . . it was about you and your sailboat. You had it out on the water. And you were . . . you were really happy.” She didn’t elaborate further. She wanted time to think about what she’d experienced. There was nothing else really to tell him, anyway.

“At first, I thought I was going back to the fishing boat, and that you were taking Frank’s place, but it was all peaceful and good. It was your boat. It was . . . it was good.”

He grinned. “Well, that’s a nice piece of news then. Now we can both celebrate.”

“Celebrate,” she repeated, then jerked her thoughts clean away from the vision and fully back to the moment. “Oh, right! The bookstore!”

He’d steadied her on her feet, and let his hands drop to his sides. “Your store.”

A shiver raced over her. Of excitement or terror or both. “Is it completely crazy to think I can do this? I mean, what if—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Remember rule number one: no what ifs. Only what’s nexts. If things happen, then you’ll figure out what to do about them.”

“So . . . what’s next? I guess we need to figure out what the arrangement will be. When I talk to Morgan about Bea’s place, I’ll let him know we want him to draw up a lease agreement for this place, too.” She took a slow turn and looked at the interior, her mind’s eye already seeing it as she’d want it to be. She turned back to find Dylan watching her. “What?”

He just smiled and shook his head. “You want to get on over to the bakery?”

“Oh. Right.” She took a deep breath. “I guess so.”

“You don’t like to bake?”

“It’s not that. I like Lani.” She smiled wryly. “And Alva. I just . . . it’s been a really wild couple days.” She let out a short laugh. “I thought I was going to take it slowly, pace myself, ease in to things. Not so much, as it turns out.”

“Wading in can be more torture than just jumping in and getting used to the cold water all at once.”

“Maybe.”

“Is it the . . . thing?” he asked, knowing she understood what he meant.

“The vision? No. It was . . . nice. Surprisingly nice . . .” She trailed off, not wanting to think about all the things she’d felt while watching Dylan at the helm of his sailboat. She smiled, and despite the still, heavy air, she rubbed her arms. “It’s just . . . I have so many other things to think about right now.”

“Why don’t you go talk to Lani, get yourself introduced around. No one says you have to stay. Lolly and I’ll go on next door and start matching up the parts I got for your car. Just come back across the alley when you’re ready and I’ll run you back to the B&B—”

“Oh no, I couldn’t impose—”

He stopped her with a quelling look. “Rule number two: if I offer, I don’t mind. Trust me. When I mind, sugar, you’ll know. Besides, I have Frank’s lawnmower part to drop off.”

“Okay. I don’t know how long I’ll be, but I guess I can always come back over here and start making What’s Next lists while you’re working.”

“There you go.” He closed the distance between them and fished the keys out of his jeans pocket. “And here you go.”

Honey looked at the keys, then up at him. “If this doesn’t work—”

“Would you stop?” he said quietly. “Come here.” He bent his head and kissed her while simultaneously pressing the keys into her hand.

Her vision was unfocused and a bit glazed by the time he lifted his head, but it was all hormone induced. She wrapped her hands around the keys, focusing on the real, the solid, the thing she could reach out and touch. For all that she could reach out and touch Dylan Ross—and had—he still felt as intangible as her visions. She couldn’t let herself buy into anything more than that. Much as she might like to.

It took supreme willpower and the sound of Dylan’s rules echoing through her mind to keep from wondering what would happen if or when she was no longer putting her hands on her new landlord. Or, more to the point, when he no longer wanted to put them on her.

He leaned down until he caught her gaze and smiled. “Go bake something, all right?”

She grinned, laughed. “Okay, okay. I’ll uh . . . why don’t I lock the front door behind you, then let myself out the back to head across the alley to Cakes by the Cup. I didn’t look in the back rooms yet, anyway.”

“Okay.” She thought he was going to dip his head and kiss her again. Instead, he reached up, gently bumped her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and sauntered to the front door. “Your lenses are fogged,” he called over his shoulder.

“You seem to have that effect on them.”

He turned and grinned. “You comin’?”

Not yet, she thought. But Lord knows I’d like to.





Honey poked around the storage room a bit on her way out the back and might have stayed longer, but the light was dimming as the late afternoon sun shifted to the front side of the building, casting the back room in shadows, despite the high windows and the door she’d left open to the front. Better to get on over to Lani’s and have that conversation, then come back in the morning, bright and early, and start in on the mountain-sized laundry list of things she’d need to do to get to the point where she could have the rest of her things and her inventory shipped out.

She felt as if her brain was on speed, leaping off on a million different tangents as more and more ideas popped into her head of how to best utilize and lay out the space. She wanted to dive straight in, but first things first. Whether she stayed to bake or not, she did have to talk to Lani, get whatever documentation she’d put together, and, Honey supposed, make it official that she was going to take on the old bookstore space, thereby ending any conflict she and Lani might have had before it even started.

That was a huge relief. Honey needed the support of the islanders, her new neighbors and fellow business owners, if her new enterprise had a chance of succeeding.

She also couldn’t deny that the very idea of making friends with some of the happy, chatty, laughing bakers she’d spied when she’d first arrived was . . . well, icing on the cupcake.

Still, she paused at the back door and looked over her shoulder, through the open storage door into the front room . . . and felt an undeniable thrill rush through her. Truth be told, she was itching to dive in. “Well, Aunt Bea, this might not be exactly what you had in mind . . . but, if it works, I think it’s going to be even better.”

Honey stepped out into the waning sunlight, locked up, then allowed herself five seconds to grin like a loon. “Okay, okay, enough of that. For now.” She smoothed her hair, checked her blouse again to make sure she’d buttoned it up correctly, then strolled resolutely across the alley toward the back door of Cakes by the Cup. “You wanted to be one of the cupcake crew,” she murmured under her breath. “Here’s your chance.”

She lifted her hand to knock, but for the second time in as many attempts, the door was abruptly pushed open in her face, causing her to leap backward. It wasn’t Lani with a tray full of cupcakes, but a very tall, swarthy and suave, dark-haired gentleman, who was looking over his shoulder as he exited the building, still having a chat with someone inside. “Bonsoir, mes belle amies! Rendez-vous demain.”

Tall, good-looking . . . and French? What were the chances? Bea hadn’t mentioned the island was full of eye candy.

Honey was standing well clear when he turned around, spied her, and immediately—and quite dramatically for a guy his size—clutched his chest. “Holy Jesus. Girl, you just about took five years off my life.”

So . . . okay, not French. More like Brooklyn by way of Little Italy.

He paused, smoothed his hair, then struck a pose last seen in Madonna’s Vogue video. “I’ll deny it, of course, but I could use a five year reduction, so perhaps thanks are in order.” He smoothed his shirt, then his hair again, then beamed a megawatt grin her way.

Confused by the French-cum-New York accent and his surprisingly decent runway skills, she simply waved at him and smiled. “My pleasure. I think. I’m—”

“Oh my goodness, you’re Honey Pie D’Amourvell.” He sketched a deep and very gallant bow. “Mon cher, it is my most sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Still in a deep bow, he glanced up at her and winked. “I’d kill for that last name of yours, by the way.”

She couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Well, I’ll warn you, it’s long, no one pronounces it right, the DMV hates me, and it hasn’t really done me too many favors. What’s yours? Maybe we can trade.”

He straightened, chuckling; the deep, rich sound was inviting and utterly endearing. As was the twinkle in his dark eyes. He was a big, gorgeous, charismatic man, but the first word she’d used to describe him was adorable.

“I’m Franco Ricci. And I knew I was going to like you, bellisima.” At her raised brow, he added, “Mais oui, I mix in a little Italian with my French. Blame my dear, departed grandmamma. Speaking of the dearly departed, your aunt, Miz Beavis Chantrell, was a lovely, lovely woman. Also with a last name to die for,” he added with a wink. “I was privileged to know her only for a short time, but she had many wonderful things to say about you. I’m so very sorry for the circumstances leading to your coming here, but welcome to Sugarberry. We’re all very glad you’ve come.”

He was a lot to take—all good—but a lot. Then she remembered Lani mentioning something about Franco, and a French poodle. She understood that now, but not remotely in the way she’d assumed she would. The best she could manage at the moment was to repeat, “All?”

“Oh, you haven’t met the crew? Well, I know you met Lani and Miss Alva as they’ve already filled us all in.”

“All?” she asked again, not brave enough to ask what constituted said “filled us all in.”

“You’re taking over the old bookstore, I hear?”

When her mouth dropped open, he leaned in, the accent disappearing again. “Honey, it’s a small island. No secrets.”

“But Alva said she’d—”

“Oh girl, no. Hmm mmm. You might as well take out a front page ad in the National Enquirer.”

Honey tried not to snort at that. She didn’t want to appear rude, but was only marginally successful. “Right. Well . . . she’s right, I’m considering it. The bookstore building, I mean. I came over to talk to Lani about . . . everything. Alva also invited me to come meet the group; she said you all were baking for charity.” She winced. “Is that also something I should be skeptical about?”

“Oh, not at all, mon amie. You’re totally welcome at Cupcake Club. We could use some new blood. Do you bake?”

“Is it a prerequisite?”

“No, not at all. Do you want to learn?”

She smiled. “Is that a prerequisite?”

He grinned. “Do you like to eat cupcakes?”

“That I can do.”

“Bienvenue en Cupcake Club!” he said, moving in as if to wrap her up in a big bear hug.

Honey about tripped over the long cement block that fronted the nearest parking spot to avoid the contact. “Nothing personal,” she hurried to add as he immediately froze, mid-arm reach. “I’m really sorry.”

Begin as you mean to go on, she reminded herself. “Um . . . how well did you know my aunt?”

Franco straightened, and to his credit, didn’t look offended or like he thought she was completely nuts. “I’ve only been in the area for the past few years. I moved down the same time Charlotte did. Lani’s best friend,” he explained. “We all worked together back in New York. I’m mostly in Savannah—I work with Char and her fiancé Carlo in their catering business, and as a sous chef on Baxter’s television show—but I’m over here all the time. So, I didn’t know your aunt as well as most everyone who lives here, but we spent some quality time together.”

He flashed her that million dollar grin again. “You know, we have some of the best tailors in the world back in my neighborhood at home, but she was a magician with a needle and thread. I’ve never had clothes fit me as well. Woman could tailor a tuxedo for the Hulk if he asked.” He gestured to himself and chuckled. “And I’m a close second. Do you sew?”

“No, I’m sorry. I carve. And sculpt. Did you know about Bea’s . . . other talents?”

“Oh, you mean the—” He broke off and made a feathery motion around his forehead with his hands. “Not until after I’d known her a bit. A shame, too. Lord knows she could have saved me all kinds of heartache with that—well, we don’t need to go into that. Water under the bridge. Bloody, hateful, cheating bastard water, but . . . I’m not bitter.”

“No, not at all. I can see that.” Franco was possibly the oddest hot guy she’d ever met. Not that her personal hot guy—or any guy—list was long, but, still. She liked him already. Maybe it was his very uniqueness that called to the outcast in her. Where she might have been uncomfortable with being different, Franco had clearly long since embraced it. Owned it with flair, one might say. “Can I ask you something? Why the French accent? I mean, are you part French, part—”

“I’m second generation Italian-American from the Bronx.” He said it with an enunciation that would have made the entire cast of Jersey Shore weep with envy. (She knew about the show, so what? It was lonely, living in a barn.)

“And the French?”

He leaned slightly closer, but with clear respect for her personal space. “You ever try picking up cute guys with a Bronx accent? Trust me, French works much better.” He kissed his fingertips with enthusiasm. “Es magnifique!”

She grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He grinned, completely unabashed. “You do that,” he said in a dead-on Rocky Balboa.

She laughed out loud. “I bet Bea gave you a steep discount. She had to love you.”

“She used to tailor clothes for Vegas showgirls and girl had an eye for sequins. It was love at first sparkle.” He sighed. “I really miss her.” He gave Honey a considering look. “But, I’m thinking we’re going to get along just fabulously.”

Honey smiled. She hoped so. “Why is that?”

“Because you have no bullshit in you. And I’m nothing but.” He gave a dramatic sigh, then a wink that could only be described as saucy. “It’s so nice to drop the façade every once in a while.” He gave her a warning look. “Which I’ll deny to my grave if you tell.”

She made a cross sign over her heart. “Your inner Bronx boy is safe with me.”

“Well, then, ma chérie, allow me to introduce you to la dulce de la cupcakes.”

Honey laughed. Clearly he wasn’t kidding about the bullshit. His French was hilariously inaccurate, but he sounded damn sexy saying it. She imagined he got away with far more than mangling an entire foreign language. “Weren’t you just leaving?”

“For you, bella, I’d be honored to make the introductions. Consider it a favor to your aunt.”

Honey grinned, feeling charmed, amused, and maybe even a little flustered—which, given he was also clearly gay, either said a lot about his bullshit skills or even more about the sad state of her only recently reborn libido.

He opened the door with a flourish, then leaned in before she could enter. “So, Bea was always a laying-on-of-the-hands type. I’m guessing you’re more of a—”

“Laying-off type,” she finished, nodding with him. “It’s a little more intense for me than it was for Bea. Direct contact is the trigger.”

“Understood,” he whispered, leaning closer as the noise and music inside the kitchen came thumping out through the open doorway. “You’re safe with me.” He straightened and made an exaggerated doorman flourish. “Now, entrer vous with your bad self.”

Already laughing, Honey met the cupcake ladies. And, much to her delighted surprise, that set the tone for the evening. Alva immediately came over with her official cupcake club apron for the evening. Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow.

“A pirate is a girl’s best friend,” she said with a penciled eyebrow wiggle.

Franco introduced Honey to Charlotte Bhandari, who had known Lani since they were in culinary school. She was striking with her beautiful, long black hair and exotic Indian accent. Honey had thought her more formal than the rest of the crew until she and Lani shared a snicker over the inadvertently phallic results of a roulade gone terribly wrong.

Honey had also been introduced to Dre, who’d been there since the start of the club along with Alva and Charlotte. She learned their get-togethers had begun a few years before when they’d stayed after hours with Lani while she worked off her brand-new bakery—and new relationship—stresses by, what else . . . baking. Dre was in her early twenties, a recent art school grad and dedicated foodie who had met Lani when she’d proposed a shop logo and marketing ideas as part of a school project. She’d been Lani’s first part-time hire, and though she now worked full-time for a graphic art and ad agency in Savannah, she still pitched in when she could and seldom missed a “bitchy bake” as Alva called it. Honey was mostly fascinated by Dre’s midnight blue Mohawk, eyebrow piercing, and what looked like a gorgeous fairy tattoo on the back of her neck.

Honey met Kit, of peanut pie fame and manager of the about-to-open Babycakes, and got a good look at the incredible piece of artwork designed by Dre that was the official Babycakes shop apron. A map of Sugarberry had been turned into the most complex, delightful, fully detailed fairyland Honey had ever seen. “We definitely have to talk,” she blurted out in awe and already in love with Dre’s artistic point of view.

“Coolness,” Dre said in what was her standard, understated demeanor—which didn’t translate at all into an understated passion for what she did. Immediately, she produced a sheaf of drawing paper and slid it across the worktable to Honey. “I checked out your website. Awesome work. I had some ideas for signage, postcards, shop aprons. If you’re interested.”

Honey flipped open the folder, and her jaw had dropped straight to the floor as she glanced through the first few pages. “Oh my God. These are”—she looked up at Dre—“coolness.”

The corner of Dre’s mouth crooked into something that resembled a grin. Or it could have been the lip ring. Either way, she seemed happy, then ducked her head and went back to work on some elaborate chocolate structure Honey couldn’t begin to describe.

Riley was the only one missing from the festivities. She and Quinn Brannigan—the drop-dead gorgeous, famous Southern mystery author—had taken her houseboat down to the Keys to meet up with some foodie friends from her Chicago days. She’d done all the food styling for Baxter and Lani’s latest cookbook, and had done a mouth-watering job. Honey knew that firsthand as Lani had gifted her with an advanced copy, signed by all three of them.

Honey had seen Lani’s hot British hubby on television, and had met Kit’s significant other Morgan briefly in the alley behind the garage when her mind had been on other things, but not so much that she hadn’t noticed he was also quite gorgeous. If aunt Bea hadn’t already dearly departed, she’d have killed her for not mentioning the ridiculousness that was the stunning male population on Sugarberry.

Of course, Bea had spent her formative years in Hollywood and Vegas, so maybe good-looking men had just been a blur of sexy grins and six-pack abs for her. Of course, that made Honey think immediately of Dylan. Thank you for leaving one for me, she thought with a private grin.

“Taste test,” Alva called out above the thumping bass beat of Vicki Sue Robinson singing “Turn the Beat Around.” It was disco night at Cupcake Club.

“I’m game.” Honey gladly put down the pastry bag Lani had trusted her with. She could handle sharp carving tools with ease, could mold a lump of clay into the cutest little garden sprite you’d ever seen . . . but give her a bag filled with rich, creamy Italian mascarpone and hazelnut filling and ask her to shoot it into little carved out cupcake holes and . . . well . . . let’s just say she made a better taste tester.

“Oh, look. They are too cute!” Honey watched as Alva carefully lifted out one of the perfect little miniature apple pies and set it on a tiny plate.

“You don’t have to go to all the trouble,” Honey assured her. “Just give me a fork.”

“Oh no, dear. This pie is meant to be eaten only one way.”

Lani popped up behind Alva with a carton of vanilla ice cream and a big metal scoop. “A la mode! After this early heat wave we’ve been having, we’re all taste testing this one.”

Franco groaned. “I’m so glad you talked me into staying,” he said around a mouthful of ice cream and pie. “But I’m going to hate you in the morning. Fair warning.”

“It’s really wonderful,” Honey agreed. “Like your own individual cupcake.”

“Only it’s pie,” Kit said, her eyes closed in bliss as she licked her spoon. “I’m sorry. I know cupcakes are my future, but Alva, this is a genius tribute to my past.”

“Well, you’re the one who helped figure out the recipe,” Alva said, but it was clear she was loving the adoration and praise.

Lani and Honey ended up at the industrial kitchen sink at the same time with their empty tins and spoons. “I haven’t had the chance to even tell you,” Lani said, “but Morgan put together a folder for you. It has all the documents—copies of the lease agreement, the licenses, and inspections we went through during renovations, including the agreement signatures of the management company—okaying every change.”

“Lani, I didn’t think you did anything wrong—”

“I know, but I still feel like I’ve put you out on the curb. And as my new landlord, you’ll need all of this stuff, anyway.”

“I got copies of most of it this morning from the courthouse and management company, but it’ll be good to have both sets in case I’ve missed anything.”

“So . . . it’s true, about the bookstore space?” Lani clasped a hand to her chest. “I have to tell you, I’m so relieved and excited for you. Is it—are you okay with it?”

“I’m a little overwhelmed, to be honest. It’s bigger and in need of an undetermined amount of work because it’s been empty so long.” Honey couldn’t stop the smile from turning up the corners of her mouth. “But I am excited. It’s really the perfect space. Better than Bea’s would have been, to be honest, if I can get it where I want to. I’ll know more in the next few days after I get it looked over.”

“Oh! I can give you a list of everyone who did work for me, renovating this place and Bea’s—with notes on who to use, and who to run screaming from.”

Honey laughed. “Thank you. That’s a big help.”

“I almost hate to ask this because things seem to be turning out decently, but . . . have you figured out where you’ll be staying?”

“Staying? Oh, I’ll . . .” Honey more or less froze. She’d been so focused on the should she–shouldn’t she question of taking Dylan up on his offer, she hadn’t even thought about that part. She couldn’t afford to keep paying B&B rates for a room, so . . . huh. “I haven’t figured that part out yet,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll camp out at the store space, at least for the time being. It would be convenient, anyway.” Not to mention cost-effective.

Lani frowned. “I haven’t been in any of those buildings, but I know they’ve been closed up for at least a decade or more. I can’t imagine it’s livable, at least not before you do some work to it. Plumbing, lighting, air, I mean. You have no idea—”

“I know,” Honey said. “Don’t remind me.”

“I’m sorry,” Lani said, instantly contrite. “I’m not trying to rain on your parade. When I found this little place empty and made the decision to relocate here permanently to stay close to my dad, and to start something under my own name it was terrifying and thrilling all at the same time. If anyone had told me how hard it was going to be to get it up and running, I’d have hopped the next train back to New York. All I can say is, there will be those days, a lot of them, but hang in there.” A smile creased her face that was nothing short of blissful. “It’s all worth it, trust me. And then some.”

“I hope so,” Honey said, intimidated and bolstered. “Don’t worry about the rest of it. I’ll figure it out. I did want to ask you one thing. No one seems to know where my aunt might have stored her personal things. I found out she took most of her furniture and things like that when she moved to the senior center, but none of her personal effects—the things she gathered over a lifetime, her mementos, photo albums, that sort of thing—are at the center. Neither her attorney nor the management company have them, either. I thought she was still living over her shop, so is it possible she left anything there? Or had it stored somewhere on the island when she moved to Savannah?”

“She did!” Lani put her hand to her forehead. “I’m so sorry. I completely forgot about that. We turned the upstairs into Kit’s office and storage, but yes, yes, there is a big old steamer trunk and some other boxes. I was going to ask the management company what to do with them, but never got around to it. They’re tucked in a back corner and, honestly . . . I sort of forgot about them. I’m so sorry!”

“No, no, that’s okay.” Honey’s heart squeezed and emotion choked her throat, so it took a moment before she could continue. She’d have something of her aunt’s after all, and she hadn’t realized how much that really meant to her. “I’ll . . . I’ll arrange to have it all moved over to the shop space. I’m just—”

She paused, dipped her chin, and pushed at the corners of her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, smiling through the glimmer of tears. “Truly. It’s all been such a shock, but that makes it more bearable, more . . . tangible. I—thank you.”

“You let us know whenever you’re ready and I’ll have it taken over. No hurry. If you want to go up and look through it all before moving stuff, that’s fine, too. Whatever is good for you. I feel so bad. If Kit wasn’t still living in the apartment upstairs over this place, I’d invite you there, but with Morgan having Lilly and all, they’re being a bit more careful about her staying at his place and—”

“Stop. It’s fine,” Honey said, realizing it really was. “Nothing may be going as I’d thought it would, but it’s all going. I’ve got something to work toward and that’s all I really wanted. Meeting you all tonight, having everyone so open, and so . . . understanding has been great. You can’t know how much that means to me. You really can’t.”

“I can’t claim to know what it’s like to be that isolated, no,” Lani said. “My life in pastry kitchens was the exact opposite. I might have wished I had your life then.” She laughed. “And I’ll have you know it’s still killing me not to hug you right now. But I do know something about wanting to start over, wanting something for yourself . . . to be respected for your work, and to build something worth growing. I got so much more than I ever bargained for, coming here. If you talk to Kit or Charlotte or Riley or Franco, they’ll all tell you the same thing. You came to the right place, Honey. None of us are ‘normal,’ you know?” She grinned as she made quotes.

“It’s like the island of misfit toys, only we’re bakers and stylists and . . . well . . . and carvers. I can’t wait to see your work. I can’t even imagine looking at a chunk of wood or a lump of clay and seeing something in it.

“I can’t imagine looking at butter, eggs, flour, and sugar and whipping up the things you do. I’m lucky to scramble an egg and make a decent piece of toast.”

“Well, you come to our bitchy bake nights and we’ll make a baker out of you yet. Or just give you a place to bitch. Trust me . . . you’re going to need it.”

Honey laughed. “Gee, thanks. I mean that. And I might take you up on it. The bitching and the baking. I know I will master the first, but you have your work cut out for you with the second.”

There was a knock on the back door, right next to where they were standing. Honey looked over to spy Dylan on the other side of the screen door. It was pitch black outside. She glanced at the clock on the opposite wall, shocked to discover it was after ten o’clock. She looked back and caught Dylan’s gaze.

He touched two fingers to his forehead in a little salute. “Taxi service, ma’am.”

Lani looked at Dylan, smiled, then looked back at Honey, then back at Dylan . . . and her smile grew wider. She leaned closer to Honey and, out of the corner of her mouth, whispered, “I know I’m totally stepping over all boundaries here and risking the start of a very good friendship, but if a guy who looked like him looked at me the way he’s looking at you . . .”

From the corner of her mouth, Honey said, “You forget, I know what your husband looks like.”

Lani’s grin was broad and devilishly wicked. “Exactly. And I married him.” She looked at Lani and winked. “Just sayin’.”

“Not before he had to all but drag her by the hair into his proverbial man cave,” Charlotte put in. She had come up to stand behind them. “Whereas I, on the other hand, jumped Carlo at the very earliest opportunity. And every chance I got after that. Still do, in fact.

“Yes, but you’re a slut,” Lani said in the way only best friends could.

“Unrepentant-until-I’m-too-tired-to-see-straight slut,” Charlotte responded with that elegant accent of hers that made it much more amusing. She glanced at Honey. “And trust me, we have way more fun. Lani knows this to be true as well. Once you join the unrepentant slut club, you never go back. It’s all about finding the suitable member of the opposite sex for initiation.”

“And I’ve heard he has a very suitable . . . member,” Lani murmured, then snickered, while Charlotte kept a perfect ladylike smile on her face.

Honey’s mouth dropped open.

“You comin’, sugar?” Dylan asked quite innocently.

All three women choked on gales of laughter. The deeper his scowl, the harder they laughed.

Alva came over and pressed a paper bag into Honey’s hands. “Give him some pie and he won’t be so surly. I put a few in there.” She leaned closer. “Bribe as needed.”

Honey took the bag, hung up her apron, and thanked everyone. “I’ll come back by tomorrow to get the folder and talk about . . . everything.”

“Everything?” Lani asked, and Charlotte wiggled her eyebrows.

Honey almost lost it all over again, but managed to leave through the screen door Dylan held open before he abandoned her there for the night, leaving her to walk back to the B&B. It suddenly occurred to her she probably wouldn’t have had to walk back. She could have asked any number of people for a ride. Her people.

“Good night, I take it?” Dylan asked as they crossed the alley.

She looked at him and beamed. “The best. Dylan, I have friends!”