Honey Pie (Cupcake Club)

chapter 7


He’d gone and lost his mind. There was no other explanation. Even without the crazy, she was hardly his type. And yet he’d never felt so compelled to kiss anyone in his life. Maybe she’d done some kind of mind trick on him while she’d been inside his head, inside his past . . . except he was fairly certain she didn’t want to want this any more than he did.

But want it she did. Her eyes were a veritable green sea of want. Her soft sigh when he brushed his lips over hers, and that little moan deep in her throat when he finally took her mouth confirmed it. As did the hammering of his heart . . . and every rigid inch of his body.

He’d planned to take her, hard, fast, and deep with an onslaught of new, current information, obliterating any chance of her going back inside his head or his past and making certain to overwhelm any chance for her mind to trip away to something—or someone—else. He’d wanted to prove to himself that this reaction he was having to her was a bizarre fluke, that it came out of the moment back in the garage. And especially that there was nothing to what he was feeling. This would confirm it, decisively, so there would be no more questions.

Yet, the instant he took her mouth, tasted those lips, felt the warmth and softness of them, and the utter sweetness of them . . . he also felt the fine trembling in them. And he gentled the kiss immediately.

He’d wanted her to feel helpless against the sudden onset of insanity as he did . . . but her raw edge of vulnerability had him pulling back, urging her to respond, rather than simply demanding it. He wanted her to open her mouth under his willingly and willfully.

“Feeling cloudy yet?” he asked between slow, coaxing kisses.

“Dylan, we need—”

“Not yet, then,” he said, smiling against her lips, and took the next kiss even more slowly, inviting her along. His grip on the side of the truck tightened against the urge to put his hands on her, to pull her against him. But . . . one step at a time.

“Honey,” he murmured. “Open up, sugar. Let me in.”

He felt another longer, lower moan vibrate deep in her throat, followed by the sigh as her lips parted under his. He hadn’t believed his body could be any harder, ache more deeply, or want to take anything as badly as he wanted to take her, but at the first tentative touch of her tongue to his, he thought his knees might buckle from the sheer force of want that shot straight through him.

He danced along with her, a teasing, feather-light duel, then finally, slowly, took her fully into his mouth, reveling in the deep groan it earned him. When he withdrew, she stunned him by sliding in and taking his mouth. His groan became a low growl, partly of want, partly of frustration. He was surprised he didn’t leave permanent dents in the side of his truck, he was gripping the metal so tightly.

She had a fragile, raw air about her that had worked its way under his skin from the first time he’d laid eyes on her. But in every other way, she’d had no problem challenging him, facing him head on. She didn’t crumple, she didn’t back down. Not from him. But she’d allowed her own . . . issues to all but cripple her.

Kissing her, he discovered, brought out the exact same confounding, compelling combination. She trembled at the idea of his seducing her, but when presented with the challenge, she rose to it, giving as good as she got. And yet . . . her hands remained at her sides. Even though she wanted this—him—with the same apparent desperation he wanted her, she allowed her gift-curse-whatever to ultimately control the situation.

If he wasn’t as unwilling to have her dive into his head as she was unwilling to go there, he’d push that boundary, just to see what it would take to keep her from spinning away into whatever other place she went.

He left her mouth, trailing kisses along her jaw, thinking he could wean himself away from the want and swamping lust, the underlying concern and care . . . none of which he wanted to be feeling. Then she tipped her head back, allowing him access to the soft sweetness of the side of her neck and the pulse he found there and traced . . . with his tongue. His grip on the truck relaxed, along with his resolve. His hands slid along the rim of the truck bed, closer to her. He found the soft lobe of her ear . . . with his teeth. “Sugar, you’ve got about five seconds to tell me to keep my hands—”

Lolly erupted from the bed of the truck with a loud volley of barks, which had the same effect as a cold bucket of water on Dylan. He jerked his head up to see what had caused the commotion, even as Honey’s eyes flew open and she, too, swiveled around to look.

Instinctively, he kept his arms braced on either side of her, so she essentially turned into the circle of his arms, with the back of her body brushing up against the front of his.

So much for the douse of cold water.

He flexed his renewed grip on the rim of the truck. Intrusion or not, what he wanted to do was wrap her up against him, push her hair to the side, and find out if the nape of her neck tasted as sweet as the rest.

He turned to look at the dog. “Lolly, hush girl. It’s okay.”

The sun had fully set at some point, but he’d been completely unaware of it. Security lights by the rear exits of the shops on either side of the alley put out only a small, focused glow. Clouds had come in and obscured any moonlight, so where they stood had become quite dark.

Dylan squinted into the dusk as he heard footsteps approaching. “Something I can do for you?”

Lolly let out a low whine and came to sit closer to Honey and Dylan. Honey moved forward just enough to reach out and give the dog a reassuring rub between the ears. Dylan noted that she didn’t try to move out of the protective circle of his braced arms. He’d figure out later why the need to protect her was so instant and so strong. From what he’d pieced together so far, she’d been doing a pretty good job of protecting herself for some time, and had no trouble whatsoever telling him where to step off.

Morgan Westlake stepped into the dim yellow glow emanating from the security light behind Dylan. “Sorry, didn’t mean to cause such a ruckus.” If he was at all surprised to find the two of them in what had to look like . . . well, pretty much exactly what it was, his expression didn’t so much as flicker.

Morgan was a new transplant to Sugarberry, only on the island for about seven or eight months. He’d moved so his niece Lilly, who was in his sole custody following the death of her parents, would be closer to her maternal grandmother, who also lived on the island. He was also a lawyer, environmental stuff, as far as Dylan knew, and had hooked up with another new Sugarberry resident, Kit Bellamy, who was set to run the new bakery adjunct.

“What can I do for you?” Dylan asked.

“I was over at Babycakes, talking to Kit. When I left, I saw your truck was still in the alley, so thought I’d—oh.” He’d walked closer, and could clearly see the woman standing in front of Dylan. “Are you—”

“Honey D’Amourvell,” she said, then cleared a little lingering roughness from her throat. “Bea Chantrell’s niece. Yes.”

Dylan didn’t smile at the sound of that telltale roughness . . . but his body did the physical equivalent of one.

“Lani forgot to get your contact information when you spoke to her earlier today, so I was going to ask Mr. Ross here if he wouldn’t mind giving me your number. But as you’re here . . . I—”

“You’re the lawyer,” Honey said. “Kit’s . . .”

“Significant other,” Morgan finished easily, his smile more relaxed. He was a tall man, with dark hair and the kind of polished good looks that spoke of the wealthy family he came from. He was the kind of man women showed off to their girlfriends and took home to their mamas.

Whereas Dylan knew he was the one women came to after dark, when they wanted that walk on the wild side their mamas would never know about.

“I don’t really practice business law, but I’m trying to help them get their i’s dotted and t’s crossed before the opening. Lani tells me you inherited the building she’s leased for Babycakes?”

“Yes,” Honey said, pushing her glasses up. “I’m going over to the county courthouse in the morning to get the rest of the legal paperwork and . . . figure things out.”

Morgan walked around the back of the truck and fished his wallet from the back of his pants. He pulled out a business card, which Dylan reached out to take, so Honey wouldn’t have to come into direct contact.

Morgan’s gaze did take a split second pause between the two, but his smile remained even, smooth. “Why don’t you call me when you get back and we’ll figure out a time to sit down and go over everything. I’m sure we can get it all sorted out.”

Dylan felt Honey stiffen.

“Thank you,” she said. “Lani also said as much. I appreciate that. I’ll—call you tomorrow then.”

“Good, great. You folks have a good night.” Morgan turned and walked back toward Babycakes. He was quickly swallowed up in the dense gloom, but there was the sound of a car door being opened and closed a few moments later, followed by the engine starting. The brake lights sent red strobes across the alley as he backed out, then drove away.

Honey hadn’t moved. Neither had Dylan, but he knew she’d fully retreated, mentally, if not physically. No doubt the result of a douse of real world problems and dealing with yet another new person.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, but steadily.

“For?”

“Sticking by me. You didn’t need to take his card for me. But I appreciate that you thought to. Thank you.”

He dropped his other hand away from the truck, reached past her to ruffle Lolly’s ears, then stepped away, giving Honey back her space.

He’d be certain to play the entire day’s events through his mind a dozen or a hundred times later, trying to figure out how and why he’d gotten himself tangled up in the first place, but, fact of the matter was . . . he was tangled.

“We should get you over to the B&B,” he said, stepping over to open the passenger side door to the truck.

“Yes. I appreciate the help. Sorry I cost you the evening of work on your boat.”

Dylan didn’t respond to that. He was pissed off that they’d somehow gone from sharing kisses that burned a man alive to this quasi-polite, let’s-be-friends bullshit. Admittedly, he’d shifted them to it with his nonresponse to her comments and his let’s-hurry-up-and-go reaction. If he had a rational thought in his head, friends are exactly what they should be. What he wanted them to be, anyway. The rest of it, he wanted to chalk up to momentary insanity, and only because he couldn’t quite get away with blaming her for instigating the whole thing with her voodoo crazy mind meld crap. One thing he knew for certain was that she didn’t want what had happened to have happened, either.

Since she looked relieved and not at all pissed off, he’d evidently made the right move in stepping back. Done the right thing, for once. So why was he so damn angry about it? Because she was being all rational and he felt anything but?

He rolled down the bay door with a jerk and went about locking up, trying to quash his unreasonable temper and get them out of there. A good night’s sleep, another hot day’s work, and he’d put the whole episode behind him. She was officially Lani, Morgan, and Kit’s problem.

He jangled the shop keys from his pocket and locked the back door. “Thank you for sticking by me.” He swore under his breath as her words replayed through his mind. He didn’t want to stick by her. Or anyone else. He was done sticking to people. These days, he stuck to tangible things, dependable things, things he could replace; his business, his home, his boat, and, okay, a damn dog . . . but that was it.

He paused, just for a moment, took a short breath and gathered himself. He was going to climb in the truck, get her to the B&B, go home. Then he was going to fix her car, hand it off . . . and they were done. She was leaving, anyway. Going back, he supposed, to Oregon. Couldn’t say as he blamed her. It’s what he’d have done.

You mean hide? his little voice prodded him.

I’m not hiding, dammit. I’m simply living my life on my own terms. And no one else’s. End of story.

Tired of his own thoughts, he checked the bay door, then turned to his truck. Only to discover she was still standing beside it.

He was tempted to walk past her, bark an order for her to get in, and get the night the hell over with.

But then she went and said, “Why did you kiss me?”

He stopped dead in his tracks—mostly because the parts of his body that had finally calmed down surged right back to life again, hearing her say the word.

“Was it some kind of test?” she asked, her tone sincere rather than defensive, as if she was honestly trying to figure it out.

He walked over to the truck, stopped just beside the open passenger door. “I kissed you for all the reasons a man wants to kiss a woman.”

“You’re not attracted to me,” she said simply, matter-of-factly.

He surprised himself by smiling at that. “Tell that to my body.” He couldn’t quite believe he’d said that out loud. He might not come from a spiffy family tree like Westlake, but he generally was capable of not being crude.

Thankfully, she was lady enough to keep her gaze pinned on his face, though, even in the dull glow of the yellow security bulb, he could see her face flush.

“That’s a physiological response. What I meant was, you’re not attracted to me as a person. You don’t just think I’m crazy, you know I am. At least it’s got to seem that way to you. You strike me as the kind of guy who keeps to himself, and I imagine you like your partners to be colorful, but not . . . you know.”

He stepped closer then, and stopped even trying to rationalize the why of it. She was hardly a flame and he was hardly a moth, and yet . . .

“You put the crazy label on in big bold letters before others can do it for you. Only, the first thing you told me was that you weren’t. Crazy. It bothered you that I thought you might be. Why?”

“I—” She broke off, then surprised him by smiling briefly. “For all the reasons a woman doesn’t want to look like a total freak show in front of an incredibly good-looking guy. Don’t let that go to your head, by the way.”

“See, right there. That’s the thing. You put on this big show of being self-deprecating and casting yourself in the shadows, the poor little misunderstood crazy chick . . . but that’s not who you are at all. You’re no shadow dweller. You’re up front, direct.”

“Maybe I’m both,” she said, but her expression had turned considering. “I don’t want to need your help. But I appreciate that you tried to give it.”

“You thanked me for sticking by you. What did you expect me to do?”

“It’s been so long since I’ve been involved with anyone, I guess I only have very outdated data to use as a guide. Most—no, any guy who might have wanted to get to know me, despite it being common knowledge that I was the crazy, misunderstood chick, would only have done so in private. In public? They’d have pretended they didn’t know me, or worse, that they wouldn’t be caught dead wanting to know me.”

“Small towns can breed small minds.”

“Well, this is a small town, too.”

He grinned at that. “Nice to know I’m not small-minded, then.”

“Mr. Westlake,” she countered. “I don’t know him, but I’m guessing he understood we weren’t just standing here having an evening chat. I’m also guessing he’ll mention as much to Kit or Lani. After which it will be—”

“I’ve never given a flat damn what folks think of me,” Dylan said. “And, trust me, sugar, their opinions of me couldn’t possibly get any worse than they already are.”

Honey surprised him by smiling again. “So . . . maybe I’m the one who should be worried about being seen with you then?” Her smile spread to a grin. “Go, me!”

Dylan couldn’t help it, he grinned along with her. “You are the damndest woman.”

“So I’ve been told. Only with slightly more emphasis on the damned part.”

Dylan shook his head and started to step around her.

She stepped forward, lifted her hand, but stopped just shy of placing it on his arm. “Kidding aside, I meant what I said. About appreciating the help. Not just with Mr. Westlake, but also before.”

Dylan’s grin was slow and lazy. “Sugar, most women don’t thank me for taking advantage of their kindness.”

“Not the kiss,” she said, though that incredibly endearing flush climbed into her cheeks again. “All along, you’ve tried to figure out what my deal is, and you’ve also tried not to make it harder on me, and to . . . I don’t know . . . provide a barrier, or a shield, I guess. It—nothing can do that, but that you tried, that it mattered, that—” She stopped, dipped her chin. “Never mind. I’m babbling, it’s late, and you’ve already been kinder than—”

“See, that’s the part that makes me nuts,” he said quietly. “Don’t do that.”

She looked up, her expression one of honest confusion. “Do what?”

“You get the least bit emotional about something and you duck it, start makin’ excuses. Sugar, what does it matter if the person you’re thanking doesn’t appreciate your gratitude, or why it meant something to you. You felt it enough to want to say it . . . so say it. Then stand by it.”

“You are the damndest man,” she said, and though she wasn’t smiling—in fact, she looked a bit poleaxed—there was the tiniest twinkle glimmering in her eyes.

“So I’ve been told,” he said. “Emphasis on the damned part.”

She smiled up at him then, honest, open, and sincere.

His body leaped once again in response. Even more disturbing, so did that clutch in his chest. His gaze drifted from her eyes to her mouth, and he knew they were standing far closer than was wise. “Sugar, you might want to get in the truck before I kiss you again.”

He lifted his gaze back to hers, and grew harder when he saw her pupils expanding, swallowing up her eyes and him in the process. “I might have been testing you a little before. But now I think I’m testing myself. And it’s a test I’m going to fail.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, and that breathy hint was back, undoing him and his resolve.

“I barely managed to keep my hands off of you last time. You think I’m some kind of protector, but I’m no Superman, Honey.”

“Right,” she said, but her gaze was all caught up in his. “That wouldn’t be a good idea, then.”

“Not even close.” His gaze drifted to her lips, which parted on a soft sigh. “Aw, sugar, you’re killin’ me.”

“I think I have some idea,” she managed.

He inched closer or she did, or both did. She was right inside his personal space, as close as she could be without touching him.

“Get in the truck.” His mouth hovered just above hers.

She tipped her head back to look into his eyes, baring all that lovely soft skin along the side of her neck. “I will” she said, breathless indeed now. “Any second now.”

“This wouldn’t be a good idea for either of us,” he said, hard to the point of pain.

“For you, maybe,” she murmured, her sweet breath warm against his cheek. “Me, I’m feeling a bit . . . cloudy. And, I have to say, it feels pretty damn good.”

For a split second, maybe a few more, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to put his hands on her, mold her mouth to his, and slide his hands down her body . . . to take her home, and . . . take her to bed. Because there was absolutely nothing about that scenario that made him want to move off, he forced his thoughts back to when they were standing beside her car and she was trembling in shock in some altered state of mind. He forced his thoughts even farther back to that first moment he’d laid eyes on her, when she’d looked across the alley with raw, naked yearning at what he now knew was her inheritance.

He took an unsteady step backward, clenching his hands into fists by his sides. The need to touch her hadn’t diminished with his thoughts. It had grown. And not only were his thoughts sexual in nature . . . they’d become personal.

It wasn’t his job to protect her. Not against what might happen to her on Sugarberry, not against her own desires, much less against something or someone triggering her . . . thing. The only thing he would—should—protect her from, was himself.

So, that’s what he did. “We should get going.”

“Okay.” To her credit, she didn’t look away, didn’t look remorseful, or chastised for being bold enough to ask for what she wanted only to be turned down. In fact, she didn’t look . . . anything.

He didn’t know how that made him feel. “Okay.” He stepped back, allowed her to climb in the truck on her own, then closed the door for her. Their eyes met through the window and she smiled briefly, simply, before turning away to deal with the seatbelt.

He stood there a second longer, then turned to walk around the back of the truck, tucking the boxes in more securely. Lolly was up, tail thumping, as he approached the driver’s side. He gave her head a good rub. “Good job there, earlier. Thanks for the warning.”

She butted her head against his hand, then looked toward the rear cab window and Honey. Tail still wagging, Lolly whined.

“Don’t you start,” he told her. “I’m droppin’ her off. Fixin’ that heap of hers, and that’s going to be that.”

Lolly turned those big, liquid eyes of hers on him.

“She’ll be fine,” he assured the dog. But as he climbed in the truck and pulled his own seatbelt on, he wished he could say the same about himself.