CHAPTER TWENTY #3
He didn’t seem convinced, but he dropped it and turned on the ignition. “So these Sewing Mamas, how many are there of them?” We turned onto the road from the driveway, with rows of grapes on either side of us.
“Sewing Circle,” I said, grinning over at him.
Was he messing up their name on purpose?
Something told me he was. “And I think there are eight or nine. Not everyone goes every time. But the core ones are Hattie Granger, Kitty Barrington—she owns the apiary—Jolene Dandy, Keturah Katz, Gertie Redman, and Sunflower Patrick. They’re the founders, and many of them are on the Council.
The rest come when they can, I think. Like Sakura Reilly.
She’s also the island librarian, so she can’t always come if she has to work. ”
He nodded. “And you think they will listen?”
“They’re not monsters. They want what is best for the island. And by the sounds of it, Vincent is not what is best for the island.”
“No. He is not. On that we can agree.”
As we drove down the road, closer to Let it Rise, he kept sliding me sideways glances, then smiling and turning back to the road.
By the fifth time, I was grinning like a fool, and my body temperature had increased a few degrees.
The way this man could turn me into a hot puddle of goo was alarming. But I didn’t want it to stop.
Let it Rise was a very funky place to stop on the tourist circuit.
What had once been a shake-sided one-story house on a big plot of land, was now a bustling bakery situated among over a dozen weeping willows and other leafy trees along a bubbling stream from the island’s only lake.
An old, red tractor with rust spots sat outside, perfect for photos, and if that wasn’t your jam, there were always the six or eight cats wandering around and rubbing up against your leg that were more than willing to pose for a picture.
The bakery was never without at least a few cars parked in the gravel parking lot, and today was no different.
Tom parked us in the stall furthest away from the rest, but in the shade of a willow, with the bright-green buds of new leaves glowing along the yellow branches that hung nearly to the ground.
He met me at the tailgate, and together, we headed into the bakery, lured by the scent of cinnamon and yeast. My belly rumbled the moment we stepped over the threshold, our presence causing a small digital bell to chime.
A few heads lifted, and the owner, Kari Cousins—as well as two of her employees—smiled at us.
“Hi, Danica,” Kari greeted, just as the customer at the till stepped away with a giant cinnamon bun slathered in icing and headed outside to the garden. “What can I get you?”
“Hey, Kari.” I stepped up to the counter, zeroing in on the mouthwatering pastries in the display case. I tapped my lip with my finger. “I can never decide. You guys make it so hard.”
Kari beamed, then her eyes found Tom. “Hi, I’m Kari.” She extended her hand over the till.
“Tommaso Barone,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a quick shake.
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, you’re the man with the animal rescue farm or something, right?”
Wariness flitted across Tom’s face. “Si. How do you know of me?”
“Oh, you’re the new hot topic of gossip on the island, I’m afraid. All good though.” Kari’s cornflower-blue eyes met mine. “Well, mostly.”
Uh-oh.
Kari waved her hand in the air. “Oh, don’t worry.
We know the source of the negative comments so we’re not taking it seriously.
” Her short, gray-streaked blonde hair glittered like gold and silver under the warm pot lights in the ceiling as she lifted her chin and smiled at the fresh batch of customers who made the door chime again.
“Brenda? Jolene?” I asked, my voice low.
Kari frowned and nodded, but didn’t say anything.
Tom didn’t seem too put out by it either, which was good. “What do you recommend, Signora Cousins?”
Kari’s already perpetually rosy cheeks grew even pinker when he called her signora and she batted her lashes.
Kari was recently divorced, in her mid-fifties, and doing her best to continue the legacy her parents built with the bakery on the island.
I didn’t feel any jealousy if she fancied Tom, and I knew he was just being kind.
“Well, the cinnamon buns are a favorite. But so are the raspberry and cream cheese tarts.”
“One of each, please,” Tom said, pulling out his wallet and simply shaking his head at me when I started to protest that I could pay.
Kari’s eyes sparkled when she handed us our pastries. “Enjoy, you two. It was nice to officially meet you, Tom; and it’s so good to see you, Danica.”
“Always nice to see you, Kari.”
She shot me a wink before turning her attention to the next customers.
“The Swinging Circle is outside?” Tom asked, stopping at the console table along one wall to grab some napkins.
“Sewing Circle,” I corrected, giggling. “And yes. Can’t miss them.”
With a nod, he headed through the open, white French doors onto the patio with its burbling water feature, wandering cats, and endless potted plants and flowers.
The Sewing Circle held court right in the middle of the patio, but there was an empty two-top table near the cobbled path to the vegetable garden.
Not just a few, but all eyes from the Sewing Circle table followed Tom and me across the patio until we sat down. They didn’t bother hiding their curiosity.
Heat crept up my chest into my face, and I thanked the moon and stars that I was facing away from them, and Tom faced them. I wouldn’t be able to handle the stares, whispers, and smiles.
“That’s them,” I said matter-of-factly. “The one and only—at least on the island.”
His head bobbed. “We will eat first. Sugar for courage. Then we will speak with them.”
His “sugar for courage” statement made me smile as I picked up the raspberry and cream cheese tart and took a bite. The moan that escaped me was completely involuntary and actually caused the people at the table closest to us to glance at me.
Tom grinned as he chewed his cinnamon bun bite. “Better than my tiramisu?”
I gave him a pleading look. “Don’t make me answer that.”
His chuckle made goosebumps break out along my arms. “This cinnamon bun is very good as well.”
“Switch?” I asked.
“Si.” Then he took a bite of the tart and echoed my moan from a moment ago. “This is better than the tiramisu. I will accept that. This is wonderful.”
“Your tiramisu was very good too. But this is like …”
Orgasmic.
I could say that now, because I’d had five orgasms—in my lifetime and in less than twenty-four hours.
“You have a bit of …” His brown eyes crinkled at the corner as he picked up a napkin, leaned across the table, and wiped the corner of my mouth. “Frosting,” he exhaled.
I sucked in a sharp breath through my nose, our gazes locked. “Thanks.”
Nodding, he sat back in his seat and took another bite. “These things are very big. Why is everything in America supersized?”
Snorting, I took a third bite of my cinnamon bun, then swapped with him again when he prompted it. “I dunno. It’s a bit of a problem.”
“I will have diabetes after this. You can bet all the bread in Italy on that.” He gasped. “What is that?” Pushing his seat back abruptly, he glanced down under the table in shock, only to smile a second later and hinge forward. “Oh, Buongiorno.” He glanced up at me. “It is a cat.”
A meow from under the table proved he wasn’t lying—not that I thought he was—and I glanced under as well to find a creamy, orange ball of fluff rubbing up against Tom’s leg as he ran his hand down its back. He scanned the patio, and his gaze lit up. “There are many cats.”
“Yeah. It’s kind of the bakery’s thing. Like a cat café—sort of.
They’re not allowed inside though. They live in that little barn thing over there when the weather is bad.
” I pointed to something that resembled a fancy, white-with-turquoise-trim chicken coop across the property.
“But they’re all spayed and neutered, and given flea and parasite medication. Their collars should say their names.”
He spun the olive-green collar around the cat’s neck. “Jim.” Then he snorted. “Hello, Jim.”
Jim ignored the greeting, but soaked up the attention until he grew bored with us and wandered over to someone else.
We swapped pastries one more time, then finished them, each of us sitting back in our seats, hands on our bellies as the sugar kicked in.
“I think I have diabetes too,” I said, grimacing. “Worth it though.”
He reached for my hand, and together we hauled the other person up to stand.
“Thank you for being here with me, bella. You give me strength.” He gave my hand a small squeeze before releasing and approaching the table of Sewing Circle women, who were eyeing him up like the biggest cinnamon bun in the bakery.
Which wasn’t entirely wrong. Tom was a cinnamon bun of a human.
However, I’d only had a brief nibble, and I was craving a proper bite.
I was craving the whole damn thing, sugar coma be damned.