They really weren’t, but so far Ryan had been entirely unsuccessful at dissuading his father from dragging him to this quaint, down-homey festival. Only the promise of there being a beer tent had finally convinced him to go along. That and the fact that Emily had said she’d be in the pie tent, which gave him a convenient excuse to find her and ask if she’d found out anything about the Bimbo. Even if she hadn’t, well, again. Pie. And Emily.
He’d dreamed about her again last night, and try as he might, there was just no denying— something about Emily Chambers had sunk under his skin. Maybe it was her peaches-and-cream complexion or the way she playfully interacted with her daughter. Maybe it was the way she’d laughed and blushed when telling a story about herself in the cab. Or maybe it was something even less mysterious. Maybe it was simply that Emily Chambers had a great body, and he hadn’t been on a date in a while. He’d been so busy working lately that the only women he encountered were coworkers, and he had a very strict no-fraternizing-with-the-employees rule. So that was probably it. He just had an itch that needed scratching. If that was the case, Emily wasn’t a good choice. One did not mess around with the daughter of the chief of police, nor did one toy with the emotions of somebody’s mother. She was both. Not to mention the fact that they were on a pretty small island, a place where, he gathered, nothing stayed secret for long.
Ryan and his dad rounded the corner at Beaumont and Main and headed into the thick crowd of tourist traffic, which today was human only. The road had been blocked off to wheeled and hoofed transportation. Tables draped with purple fabric were set up in front of many of the stores, displaying their crafts, and lavender banners flew overhead reminding everyone that it was the day of the Lilac Festival, as if anyone could forget that given that the blooms were everywhere and the scent, for once, overwhelmed the aroma of the fudge.
“Where’s that beer tent?” Ryan asked, hoping to park himself there while his dad strolled around looking at homemade glass beads, vases made from gourds, homespun scarves, and a seemingly endless assortment of stuff shaped like an oven mitt. It took him a few minutes to make the connection. Ah, Michigan. He’d never really thought about the fact that the lower half of the state was shaped that way, but there was just no missing it now. He’d never take something hot out of the microwave again without remembering this trip.
“It’s not even noon yet, Ry. Too early for beer, but there’s lemonade over this way.” Tag had that goofy, happy grin on his face again. Maybe the Bimbo was slipping antidepressants into his dad’s coffee. Or . . . maybe it was the sex. Visions of Emily blazed into his mind again. Where was that pie tent? Maybe he should go see her right now. “Lemonade sounds good, Dad, but do you know what sounds even better? Pie.”
Tag smiled in agreement, nodding his silver-haired head. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of it. Let’s go find you some pie.”
A few minutes later they were standing under a bright yellow canopy filled with a couple dozen people, including some guy in a beekeeping hat. Down the center stretched three long tables covered with pies of every sort. Apple, blueberry, banana cream. The temptation was distracting, but then he spotted her. She was standing off to the side, laughing with Chloe and wearing a pale blue sundress covered with big, bold sunflowers, a completely different look than the white business suit he’d seen her in before. Her hair was loose and fell around her bare shoulders in waves, and the sweet, feminine simplicity of her appearance kicked him right in the gut and rolled lower.
Chloe saw him first and waved, and when Emily looked in his direction and her eyes lit up, his knees nearly buckled. What. The. Hell. What was wrong with him? He stood there, paralyzed like a fainting goat just because she smiled at him? The clerk at his hotel had told him that the ancient Ojibwa believed this island had magical properties. Looking at her and the way she glowed, he wondered if they weren’t that far off base.
He cleared his throat and walked over to her, trying to act all nonchalant-ish, as if, you know, he was just there for the flaky crusts and the gooey filling. Tag was on his own. Ryan had some flirting to do.
“Hi, ladies,” he said. “How goes the bake sale?”
“Good so far,” Emily answered. “Do you see anything you like?”
He couldn’t contain the smirk, and his eyes went immediately to Emily, who then offered up a Mona Lisa smile in response. His throat went dry even as his mouth started to water, and it wasn’t from the pastries. He bit back the reply he wanted to give and said instead, “Um, what do you recommend?”
Chloe leaned toward him over the table as if to confide a secret. “Well, I can tell you that I don’t recommend the mincemeat. Apparently it’s really got meat in it, and fruit. Disgusting! Other than that, though, the rest look pretty good. And don’t tell Gigi I said this, but rumor has it the Mahoney sisters make the best strawberry-rhubarb pie.”
He looked to Emily. “How about you? Which one do you recommend?”
She was on the same side of the table as he was, standing a mere two feet away. Close enough that he could see a hint of cleavage above the neckline of that dress and smell her perfume. It smelled even better than pie, and he recognized it from that evening in the cab. It was also quite possible he’d dreamed about it, if dreams could have fragrance.
“I’m a bit of a traditionalist, I guess. I like apple,” she answered.
He pointed at one with some crumbly topping and cocked an eyebrow. “You mean like this one? How about them apples?” Chloe groaned loudly, while Emily’s smile was indulgent, as if she appreciated the gesture but found his skill at humor a bit lacking. He could hardly blame her. He cringed a bit inside at his own lame-assity. It was the sundress. The sundress had made him stupid.
“Just for that, you have to buy an entire pie,” Chloe said, still shaking her head. “But we can have it delivered to your hotel. That way you don’t have to carry it around.”
He didn’t know what he was going to do with an entire pie, but now he’d seem cheap if he didn’t buy something. “That’s a pretty good deal, I guess. I’ll take a whole apple pie, then.” He reached back with one arm to grab his wallet and turned slightly as he did so, catching sight of Tag on the other side of the tent . . . talking to the Bimbo.
“Holy shit, that’s her!” His voice came out in a strangled whisper as he leaned toward Emily and tried to point discreetly.
“What?”
“That’s her. That’s the Gold-Digging Bimbo over there talking to my dad.” His discreet pointing became a little more frenzied as Emily gazed in the direction he was indicating.
“Which one is your dad?” she asked, her whisper matching his, and her neck craning to see around the crowd.
“Right there, in the green golf shirt, talking to the Bimbo in the pink shorts.”