“I don’t really follow these things,” I replied, watching the muted television. Having Googled Matt, I felt stupid for not recognizing him.
“I hear he’s handsome, too. You think maybe he’s the one the spirits told me was going to be appearing in your life?”
I snorted. “Hardly.” I didn’t know what to make of him having a contracted girlfriend. It made no sense to me. Surely there were a thousand girls who would be happy to be his real girlfriend. Why deliberately choose someone he said had a boyfriend?
“You don’t think he’s handsome?” Mrs. Wells asked.
Of course I did. That went without saying. But then, really, how many ugly movie stars were there? “Looks aren’t everything.”
“True, dear, but that initial attraction is a good thing to have.”
I rolled my eyes. She meant well, but I was in a shitty mood and had thought about Matt Easton enough to last me a lifetime.
“I’ve barely seen him. I guess he’s working long hours.” It was only a half-lie.
“Well, it’s nice to be nice. He might be grateful for a warm Worthington welcome. Take him some of that lemon curd you make.”
Was she joking? “I appreciate you trying to set me up and everything, Mrs. Wells, but I’m too busy to worry about making a man lemon curd.” What, was this 1950?
“Oh, my dear, you need to put your priorities in order. One should never be too busy for love.”
“You’re right,” I said to avoid an argument. I’d rather head home and work on my collection. “Thank you, Mrs. Wells. Your groceries are put away. Give me a call if you need anything.” I patted her on the hand and stood to leave.
“You’re a good girl who deserves a good man.”
Even if she was off where Matt Easton was concerned, it was nice to think that Mrs. Wells was rooting for me. “Thank you.”
If Mrs. Wells had been right in her prediction—how this summer would bring turmoil along with a man—and it hadn’t just been a coincidence, then at least it was over now. Getting caught in a sheet by a perfect stranger was as tumultuous as I could stand. I wasn’t waiting for Mrs. Wells’ storm to roll in. It had been and gone. And I’d survived.
My stomach grumbled. Lemon curd sounded like a fabulous distraction from thoughts of Matt Easton.
I shut the gate and headed back into town to pick up some supplies. I had plenty of sugar at home, but I’d need lemons and eggs.
As I came out of the grocery store, my canvas tote heavy with fruit, I looked across the street. Polly Larch and her sister Patricia were accosting my tall, handsome, Hollywood neighbor. He wore a baseball hat, but I could still see that his generous grin had spread to his eyes. Even though they surrounded him like twittering birds, he clearly didn’t see them as a bother.
Mrs. Wells was right about one thing—he was very handsome.
I guess he’d told me he was an actor, even if he hadn’t told me he was the hottest thing in Hollywood. I couldn’t blame him for that. And maybe his arrangement with Audrey Tanner was normal in his world. Perhaps he hadn’t cheated.
He looked over at me and our eyes met. I smiled, tightly. I shouldn’t have lost my temper with him. Maybe I owed him an apology.
His grin grew wider and he gave me a two-fingered salute. My smile softened, and I looked away and started back to my cottage. If only he hadn’t turned out to be a total asshole. I hadn’t trusted anyone for so long, I’d been determined not to be blind to men’s character flaws just because I found them attractive, just because I fell in love. I’d thought a night with Matt would be uncomplicated and maybe even the first step at rebuilding my faith in men. I’d thought that I would escape unscathed—it was meant to be simple. Didn’t the universe realize I deserved to catch a break?
* * *
Five jars of lemon curd later, I screwed on the lid to the last jar and set it down on the counter.
I scooped up four and put them in the refrigerator, then returned and picked up the fifth. I transferred it from one hand to the other. If he hadn’t actually cheated, I did owe him an apology.
Would he think I was a complete lunatic if I turned up at his door with a jar of lemon curd? Probably. Maybe, I’d just leave it on his back doormat as a kind of peace offering, then turn around and disappear.
That sounded like a plan.
I took a deep breath and headed out of the back door.
Barefoot, I crept up onto his deck, not wanting to draw attention to myself. His car was in the driveway, but then again, it normally was, even when I knew he was out all day. As I got to the top of the stairs I heard music—Motown, Marvin Gaye—playing from the open dining room window. I grinned. He had good taste. I was just about to set the jar on the mat when his back door opened and I came face-to-face with his feet.
Damn it, even his feet—large, bronzed and poking out from his faded jeans—were sexy.
“Hi,” he said.
I straightened and tilted my head to find him grinning at me. “I was going to leave this,” I said, taking a step back and offering him the jar.
“Oh.” He frowned, but accepted it. “Thanks.”
“It’s lemon curd,” I explained.
“Oh. Great.” He nodded.
I got the distinct impression he didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. “You know, you can spread it on your toast in the morning.”
As I said it, I realized how ridiculous that sounded. Looking at him, I doubted he’d ever tasted sugar. “You might not like it. I won’t be offended if you don’t—”
“It’s perfect. You made it?” he asked.
I backed away, but he followed me out onto the deck. “Yeah. I had some left over and I wanted to apologize for losing my temper yesterday.”
“So you brought me homemade lemon curd?” He shook his head and grinned. He seemed genuinely happy about it.
I shrugged. “I like to bake. Anyway, I’m sorry. I won’t keep you.”
“Hey, no. Don’t go. I gotta taste this.”
My toes curled over the wooden steps of the porch. “I think it’s better if I leave.”
“Please stay,” he whispered from behind me.
I sighed. I should go back to my drawings, my cottage. I definitely shouldn’t turn around. There were a million reasons why being in a ten-foot radius of the guy was a bad idea. “Do you have any sourdough bread?” I asked over my shoulder.
“Nope. Is that mandatory?”
I turned to face him. “No, any bread will do.”
He held the door open and I ducked under his arm and into the kitchen. Face-to-face with the countertop we’d done God-knows what on the night before last. Flashes of his tongue, his muscles, and his musky smell invaded my brain.
I avoided his stare and rounded the counter, pulling the silverware drawer out to get a teaspoon. “Here. Just taste it on its own. Then if you don’t like it, you haven’t wasted anything.”
He grinned as he took the spoon from my hand and cracked open the lid. His gaze flickered away from mine only for a second when he dipped the spoon into the yellow goop. I leaned back against the counter and watched as he brought the spoon up to his lickable lips.