“Wanna go up?”
Her heartbeat sped up, and she felt her cheeks burn. With Bella and the girls? Sure. But with Kurt? Even the idea of looking at adult toys with him made her a little dizzy.
“Um…How about…?”
He laughed a little under his breath and kissed her forehead. “Don’t sweat it. I only know what you’re into by asking.” He led her safely back through the shop to the racks of women’s clothes. “Show me what you like.”
Oh geez. You think I’m a prude. “I don’t mind…that stuff.”
“The dress?” he asked, holding up a dress.
She rolled her eyes. “No.” She pointed at the ceiling.
“Babe, I was teasing. You’re enough for me. I was just giving you the option.” He pressed his cheek to hers and whispered, “I didn’t want to stifle your pleasure.”
Her stomach fluttered, and she felt herself getting aroused.
He touched her cheek and grinned. “Better change the look on your pretty little face, or I’m going to have to make love to you right here.”
My good boy is a naughty boy. I love that. For a second she considered his words. No, no, no. She took a deep breath and focused her attention on the dresses. He held up a dozen, and she loved all of them, but there was one particular aqua tank dress that was just her style. It was cotton, short, had a scoop neckline and a zillion tiny buttons down the front.
“The last thing I need is another summer dress. The summer’s almost over.”
“You sure? You’d look beautiful in it.”
She wanted the dress, but she was being careful with her money until she knew where she was headed after the summer. “Nah. I have enough.”
He took one last look at the dress before they left the store.
They stopped for gelato at the Purple Feather—and bought Pepper a doggy dish of gelato, too—and sat outside on the brick patio while they ate.
“Do you have a gift in mind for Jack and Savannah? What are they like?”
“Savannah is strong and confident. She’s an entertainment attorney in New York City. She’s funny, she adores Jack, and she challenges everyone. Him, her brothers. She’s a lot like my sister, Siena, in that way, and Jack’s a strange combination of big, bad, and sensitive.” Kurt ran his hand through his hair and smiled a little, as if he were thinking of his brother.
“Are all the Remington men like that?” She watched a group of men dressed as women, heavily applied makeup on their faces, hand out cards, and knew they were part of a show taking place at one of the bars. She’d give anything to have killer legs like the dark-haired man had.
“Well, considering I’m a Remington man, I’d have to say no.”
“Why?” She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “You’re big and bad, and you can’t even tell me you’re not sensitive.”
“I might be big size-wise, but I’m not bad. Jack would rip apart anyone who bothered Savannah. He’s ex Special Forces, and he also runs a survivalist program. I’m a writer, not a fighter, and I’m not sure I’d ever want to live in a tent in the woods. I like my creature comforts.”
She leaned back. “Hmm.”
“Hmm, what?” He picked up Pepper’s empty dish and set it on the table.
“I think you’re wrong. I think if someone hurt me, you’d be all over them, and I would bet you my van, which I love, that if I asked you to go camping with me, you would go.”
Kurt got up and threw away the empty ice cream dishes. When he came back to the table, he held a hand out to her. “It’s scary that you might know me better than I know myself.”
Chapter Sixteen
KURT DROVE LEANNA home Thursday morning to prepare for her meeting with Mama’s Market. She’d gathered samples of each jam in a pretty basket and, dressed in a sundress and sandals, wore her hair loose. Traffic was light on the way to Yarmouth, and she arrived early. She hadn’t been nervous on the way, but now, as she entered the one-story office building, her stomach coiled tight. She felt Al’s presence, as if he were right there with her, and she drew confidence from the feeling. She had envisioned a sweet old couple sitting on a couch in a house set off the beaten path, with a garden out front and cats romancing the property. After all, the Mama’s Market in Wellfleet was run out of a small house at the end of the parking lot behind an old white church off of Main Street. The produce and breads were sold out of baskets perched on long wooden tables with tablecloth coverings. They didn’t even use a cash register. The staff calculated customer totals with paper and pencil.
Simple. Efficient. Friendly.
That was one of the reasons Leanna had decided to try to meet with them first. She figured that they’d be an easy sell. She was simple, efficient, and friendly. It seemed like a good match.
She walked through the glass door and into their office. A red and white hand-painted sign that read MAMA’S MARKET hung above a reception desk. The pretty blonde behind the desk smiled as she greeted Leanna.
“Welcome to Mama’s Market.” She glanced briefly at her computer. “You must be with Luscious Leanna’s Sweet Treats.”
“Yes. I’m Leanna Bray. I have a meeting with Leslie Strobe.”
The blonde nodded. “I’ll get him for you. You can have a seat if you’d like.” She picked up the phone and notified someone of Leanna’s arrival.
Him? Leanna had pictured Leslie as Mama, the elderly wife of the couple she’d envisioned.
A man about Kurt’s age, wearing dress slacks and a white button-down, short-sleeved shirt, appeared in a doorway behind the reception desk. He had closely shorn dark hair and squinty dark eyes.
“Leanna?”
And a voice as soft as butter. The muscles in her neck tightened as his eyes slid to the basket she carried. She felt underdressed and underprepared. “Yes. Hi.”
“Leslie Strobe. Nice to meet you. Come on back, and we’ll get started.”
She followed him through a hallway lined with photographs of Mama’s Markets—several of them, not just the one in Wellfleet. She swallowed hard. Breathe. Oh please, breathe. I can do this. She remembered a story Al had told her about the first time he brought his jams to the flea market, and she drew on the memory. They were good, Leanna. That’s all I had to remember. It wouldn’t matter what I said, as long as I could get customers to taste them.
He led her into a conference room where two men and a woman, all dressed in business attire—starched collars, dark suits—sat around a large conference table. The woman wore high heels and lipstick. Lipstick? No one wore lipstick on the Cape. No one wore business suits, either, at least not that she’d ever witnessed in Wellfleet and the surrounding small towns. I’m so out of my league. She ran her hand down her dress, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in an effort to calm her nerves.