Chapter 5
5
“ M aybe I liked it. Maybe I wanted it to happen again.”
Trace couldn’t get Avery’s words out of his head. Nor could he wipe the image of her in that sexy little deep-pink dress as she’d walked away from him. The way the softly flared skirt followed the curve of her ass, the way it ended high on those toned thighs. The way the open back showed all that creamy, smooth skin beneath straps creating an X between her shoulder blades, joined there with a little bow.
“Maybe I didn’t want that promise.”
A flash of Avery’s gorgeous face flushed with want filled Trace’s mind from that night he’d had her slim fingers in his mouth, and his groin swelled with the kind of heat and pressure that demanded attention. The kind of attention he hadn’t had in over two months—since he’d set eyes on Avery Hart.
“Trace, honey.” His grandmother’s voice broke into his delicious memory, and he let thoughts of Avery fade as he glanced toward Pearl in the passenger’s seat of his truck. “It’s green.”
“Hmm?”
“The light, honey. It’s green.”
Trace’s mind snapped into the present, and he stepped on the gas. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Was thinkin’.”
“Did you hear anything I said about your father?”
Trace searched his mind and glanced at his grandmother. “No, Gram, sorry. I hope Zane doesn’t have to pull a double. I’ve really got to get some extra time in on the café, and I don’t want to be worried about Dad when I’m using a nail gun and table saw.”
“No, Zane’s with him tonight,” she said, exasperated. “I was telling you about the music therapy Avery told us about. Have you noticed a change in your dad?”
“Uh...” He thought back over the last few days. “I don’t know. I see him at night, and you know how fast he goes downhill after five or six o’clock. I’ve been focused on the project, on following up with his doctors and Medicare.”
“Between the café and your daddy, you’re burning the candle at both ends. You can’t keep this up.”
“I’m all right, Gram. Have you noticed a difference with Dad?”
“Actually, yes. An amazing change, in fact. I wasn’t sure at first, but each small change builds on the one from the day before. I’ve only had him listening to the music mix Avery made for us for three days, and he’s already happier when I get there in the morning.”
“Avery made you a music mix?” That was news to him. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it. The sweetness of her unselfish act when she had so much to do, so much stress weighing on her, touched him.
“I saw her at Finley’s Market, stocking those amazing blondies of hers, and we got to talking about the article. I told her what he used to love listening to, and she put a small selection of music together so we could try it out. I can’t believe the difference.
“The first day, the changes were small. He was more alert, like on one of his better days. But today, when his irritation kicked in around noon, I turned on the music, and, you’re not going to believe this, but he calmed right down and started singing along.”
“Singing?” Trace looked at his grandmother in disbelief. His father used to sing all the time when Trace had been a kid, but he hadn’t heard one note from him since his mother got sick. “Are you sure you were in the right house?”
Gram laughed. “I know. I could barely believe it.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Lord, it was so wonderful to hear that lovely voice of his again. And his mood stays up for at least two hours. It’s truly miraculous.”
A tiny spark of hope burned in the back of Trace’s mind. Anything that helped his dad feel better was a blessing. Because when Dad was happy, life was easier and happier for all of them. “I’ll say.”
“I’m going to talk to Avery about adding songs or making another mix. Try it out with him tomorrow night. It might make your life easier.”
“I will.”
“But you need a long-term plan, Trace. You and your brother have demanding careers, and you should both be working on building families by now, not juggling your father like a hot potato.”
His lips twitched into a grin as he turned onto one of the many quaint residential streets in Wildwood, but the emotion behind it was dry and dark. A family was the furthest thing from Trace’s mind.
Once upon a time, before his life had gone to shit, yeah, he’d wanted it all—the wife, the kids, the business. Now he just wanted to drag himself out of this hole, stop making ends meet with grunt work for other contractors, and get his own business back on its feet.
“You’ll have better luck getting great grandkids out of Zane.”
“Hardly.”
Trace chuckled.
“I’m serious, Trace. Are you seeing anybody?”
His mind turned to Avery. “Nope.”
“What about Avery? You two get along so well, and she’s the prettiest, sweetest little thing. Phoebe says she’s dated some, but she isn’t seeing anyone seriously. And she can cook.”
Trace groaned, turning into the driveway of his grandmother’s cottage. He didn’t need anyone pushing him toward Avery. Working with her so closely since she’d returned home, he knew exactly who she’d been dating and how often, and he kept hoping one of those guys would stick so he could cut her out of his thoughts.
“She’s also almost a decade younger,” he said.
“Eight years,” Gram countered. “And at your age, that doesn’t matter.”
“She’s also freshly divorced with her freedom at her fingertips. She deserves someone far better than me.”
He reached for the keys to shut down the engine and got a stinging slap on the forearm from his grandmother.
He smirked at her. “That is no way to treat the grandson who drove you home.”
“It’s the way to treat a grandson acting like an idiot.”
“If that were the case, you’d have to be slapping me constantly.”
“That can be arranged.”
He laughed and opened the door.
“Don’t get out,” she said, her voice filled with frustration. “I can still climb from a truck.”
“Not from my truck you can’t. Stay put.”
“That’s no way to talk to your grandmother. And Avery may be freshly divorced, but from the way Phoebe tells it, she hasn’t lived like a married woman in years.”
He so didn’t need to hear that.
“Gram, drop it.” He shut his door and rounded the front to open hers, already imitating her voice with, “Don’t you close the door on me when I’m talkin’ to you, Trace Benjamin. I outta whoop your hide.”
She smacked his arm again. “Smart-ass.”
“You’re going to start leaving marks.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and walked her toward the porch. “Imagine me trying to explain that.”
“You don’t have to walk me in. You make me feel ancient.”
“Wouldn’t matter if you were twenty-seven or seventy-seven, I’d still walk you in.”
At Gram’s door, Trace took her keys and unlocked the house, then stepped aside as Pearl entered and turned on the living room light.
“I’ve been thinking,” she began.
“Oh, man,” he said with dramatic dread. “Thought I told you to stop doing that.”
Trace wandered into the kitchen, where he checked the stove burners and the ovens, things Pearl sometimes left on absentmindedly.
“Why don’t you move George in with me?” She set her purse down on a side table. “I’m not doing anything I couldn’t put aside while you finish the café. Steady work ought to start pouring in once everyone in town sees what you’ve done with that place, which will give you the money to put him in a facility—at least during the day.”
“This move has been hard enough on him. I don’t want to move him again.” At the back door, he turned the dead bolt and closed the blinds, then returned to the living room. “He’s just beginning to settle into a routine and seems to be doing pretty well on his own between the time you leave and either Zane or me get him in the evening. I get by to check on him in the afternoon.”
At the wide picture windows, he drew the drapes, then checked the space heater at his feet, another device Pearl often forgot to turn off.
“Well, then, what if we trade houses?” Gram suggested. “I’ll move into your house, and you move in here. Then you don’t have to move him.”
Trace grinned, hugged Pearl, then kissed her forehead and pulled back to look at her. “I really appreciate the offer, Gram, but Dad and I live in a dump, and I wouldn’t let you live there if you paid me. Besides, you already raised him once, and you’re doing a lot as it is. Let Zane and me pick up some slack now.”
“You’ve already given up too much of your life for him?—”
“Ah-ah,” he cut her off. “We’re not talking about that, remember? Lock the door after me.” He turned and opened the door to the night, but the thought of where he was headed and what he still needed to do tonight made him feel heavy. Hopefully he’d get lost in his work and Avery would slip from his mind for a while, giving him some relief.
“How’s the café coming?” Gram asked.
He turned and met his grandmother’s gaze. “It’s getting there. Still have the roof and the appliances, lots of finish work.”
“Are you going to have it done for Avery’s grand opening? It’s getting close.”
“Hell, yes. I won’t miss that deadline.” If he did, he may as well kiss future work and all the recommendations he’d cultivated from this job good-bye. To say nothing of disappointing Avery, which would kill him.
“Did you hear that Shiloh is pregnant?”
Trace shook his head. “I don’t even know who that is.”
“A friend of Delaney’s.”
“For a girl who left town under a cloud of suspicion and returned kicking and screaming, she sure has developed a lot of friends around this place.”
“Sort of like her aunt.”
“Sure thing.” Phoebe Hart not only knew everyone in town, she knew everyone’s entire family tree.
“Well, Shiloh and her husband are trying to get financing for a room addition on their little house on Picket Street before the baby comes. Delaney recommended you for the job.”
Trace lifted a brow. “And you know this how?”
“Phoebe.”
He grinned. “Of course.”
“She also told me that Finley’s Market is planning to expand. You might want to stop in and talk to Caleb.”
Caleb Finley and his wife had inherited the business in the last year, and the changes they’d made had increased business tenfold. The market had been bursting at the seams for months. Caleb also happened to be best friends with Delaney’s boyfriend, Ethan. A great string of connections for recommendations around town. A lousy string of connections to screw up by letting his attraction to Avery get out of control.
“Yeah, I will. Thanks for the heads-up.”
She squeezed his arm. “I’m always thinking about you. Have you gotten any new bites?”
“Just a roof for Gabe Snyder.” Not something he was thrilled about, but a job he’d take because he needed it.
“Hang in there, Trace. Good things are coming.”
“We’ll see. One step at a time.” Future success in Wildwood, or anywhere else for that matter, depended entirely on how well he followed through on Wild Harts. Which was a reminder to get his ass in gear. He kissed Pearl’s forehead and stepped onto the porch.
She moved into the doorway. “Any more trouble from Austin?”
An immediate squeeze tightened Trace’s chest.
“He’s not a problem,” he told his grandmother, hoping he sounded confident. Realistically, Trace knew Austin would be trouble until Trace left town. “Zane’s got him under control.”
His grandmother’s watery blue eyes narrowed. “No one truly has any of the Hayeses well controlled.”
Trace forced the raw fear associated with prison away and grinned for his grandmother. “Not true. Delaney’s got Ethan hog-tied and lovin’ every minute of it.”
“An exception to the rule.” Pearl’s smile put a fresh glint in her eyes. “Don’t ever underestimate the love of a good woman, son. It can move mountains.”
Trace wouldn’t know anything about that. “Go on. Get inside, and let me hear that door lock behind you.”
“Get some sleep, Trace.” Pearl closed the door and tripped the dead bolt. “Happy?”
Happy? No. Trace didn’t know how to be happy. Couldn’t remember the last time he’d been truly happy. Of course the question brought Avery to mind because, hell, why not, everything else did. And when he thought of Avery, Trace could almost imagine happiness—with his body buried deep inside hers, their limbs tangled, mouths fused, those clear blue eyes of hers heavy-lidded and sparkling with lust, and those perfectly plump, pink lips forming his name as she rose to orgasm.
Yeah, he was pretty damn sure that was the one thing that could make him happy.
But that would never happen.
So, no. He wasn’t happy.
“Yep,” he said, patting the door with a flat hand. “Love you, Gram.”
“Love you, too.”
The drive from Gram’s to Wild Harts took fifteen minutes, but only because he meandered. He really didn’t want to work tonight, but he was behind again, thanks to his father’s bizarre tirade that afternoon, something that was becoming entirely too common. He wasn’t seeing the calm in George that Gram had described.
Trace’s mind drifted to the bathroom mirror he’d come home to earlier that evening. The one his father had broken but didn’t know how. Then to the time and money it would cost to fix it—neither of which Trace had.
With his elbow on the open window frame, he scraped a hand through his hair. He really didn’t know what he was going to do if his father didn’t adjust to this move soon. No one in the family could afford an in-home caretaker, to say nothing of the cost of putting him into a facility. Hopefully they’d hear from Medicare soon.
For now, all Trace could do was take things day by day. With his father. With this renovation. With Avery. And tonight his father was safely sedated into a tranquil sleep, and locked inside their small cottage, freeing Trace up to get some extra work done on the café. As far as Avery went...
He rubbed his forehead. “Fuck if I know.”
His wild attraction to her was so wrong on so many levels. He’d admit to preferring hookups with younger women, but Avery was way too young—and not just in chronological age. Not only was she eight years his junior, but even more troubling, she was decades younger in sexual experience.
From the information he’d gathered between Avery herself, Avery’s family, and now Gram, Trace knew she’d run off with David at seventeen and stayed faithful even while David had been deployed for the majority of their marriage. A marriage that, by all accounts, had headed downhill after the first year, becoming far more of a long-term emotional jail and far less of an actual marriage.
If that was true, Trace estimated Avery was about as sexually experienced now as he’d been at fifteen. And he was beginning to believe there was something seriously twisted in his head, because the more he thought about it, the more her inexperience and abstinence turned him the fuck on.
All that beautiful skin to touch and tease in ways she’d never been touched and teased before. All the wild variations of sex to explore that she’d never explored, some she probably didn’t even know existed. Owning all that gorgeous, uncharted territory for his very own. Watching her experience pleasure she’d never known—at his hands, his mouth, his cock. Introducing her to the amazing world of sex awaiting her now that she was single and in her prime.
“Fuck that’s hot. Why is that so hot ?” He shifted in his seat and adjusted the bulge of his cock against his jeans with a groan of frustration. “And why am I such a goddamned idiot ?”
She’d probably had plenty of sex with her husband. They’d probably gone at each other like animals as soon as he returned from a tour and never left the bed until he deployed again.
And why was Trace so ready to believe the stories of her faithfulness during their eight years of marriage? He’d been with enough women to know few remained faithful when they weren’t getting what they wanted at home—sexual or otherwise. He didn’t do married or committed women, but he’d discovered long ago that women lied like demons when they wanted what they wanted.
Then again, he didn’t exactly hang out with a normal cross section of the female population. He, admittedly, liked his women young, easy, energetic, knowledgeable, and ready to move on in the morning. Preferably sooner. In short: slutty. Which only made this semi-virginal fantasy playing in his head even more bizarre.
A headache throbbed at the center of his brain by the time he turned onto the drive of the bar-turned-café. With fatigue stinging his eyes, Trace didn’t notice the Jeep parked near the kitchen door on the far side of the building until he’d pulled to a stop and shut off his engine.
With his hand still on the keys in the ignition, his mind pinged from one thought to another, in no order, making no sense. “What the hell is she doing here now?”
She should be at Phoebe’s with her nose to a sketch pad, planning out Tiffany’s wedding cake. Or researching recipes for her opening lineup at the café.
“Dammit.” He’d come to get his mind off her, and now...“God, I hope she changed out of that dress.”
He sat back and stared at the café, illuminated in the exterior lighting and situated on a private corner of the property’s five acres. His eyes took in the smoky-green siding of the two-story, turn-of-the-century building, the crisp white trim around windows and doors, and the gingerbread at the roofline, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.
“Maybe I liked it. Maybe I wanted it to happen again.” If she’d developed a crush on him over the last month, he hadn’t noticed. She had probably been drunk. One glass of champagne was all it took with her.
But whatever was happening, he had to deal with it. He had to get it out from between them. He needed this job. He needed her recommendation. But even more, he missed her easy friendship. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before his restraint had slipped and he’d sucked icing off her fingers.
A shiver of lust traveled down his spine, and his mind veered toward other places on her sweet little body he’d like to lick . . . and suck . . . and bite . . .
“ Stop , dumbass.”
Trace stood from the truck, took a deep breath of the cool fall night air, and let the driver’s door close quietly. Lights from the kitchen area glowed through the double front glass doors.
After Delaney had realized their father’s ramshackle bar was the perfect location for Avery’s bakery and café, she’d abandoned her plan to restore and sell the building as a bar. Instead, she’d used her experience as a historical renovation specialist to redesign the interior to accommodate Avery’s every need, setting her sister up to grow Wild Harts into any size café or bakery Avery wanted.
Looking through the doors now, past the dining counter and the open plastic drapes, into an open baking area beyond, Trace didn’t see Avery. What he did see was one colossal mess. Baking supplies littered the stainless steel countertops, mutilated fruit lay abandoned on the cutting block, bowls and measuring cups and utensils lay haphazardly on every surface or resting in dirty bowls.
“What the hell?”
Something was very wrong. Avery was an absolute perfectionist when it came to her profession. An utter clean freak in her kitchen—even if her kitchen was still only half-finished. Not only did Avery never cook like that, but she would never, ever, not in a million years, leave her kitchen like that.
His stomach knotted with apprehension. He jerked the door open, stepped in, and scanned the space, calling a worried, “Avery?”
“Go away.” The irritated return bark came from the other side of the eat-in counter.
Relief rolled through him first, instantly followed by confusion. Trace strode to the counter, squeezed between two barstools, and planted his palms on the shiny surface to lean over.
He found Avery sitting on the floor.
Sitting on the floor.
She’d thrown her hair up into a messy bun, and her back rested against the center island, facing the wall to Trace’s right. She was still wearing that sex kitten dress that sent Trace’s mind in a million inappropriate directions, and those sparkling heels that turned her legs into a curvy, toned, mouthwatering display of perfection. She had the leg closest to Trace bent at the knee, her sparkling heel planted firmly on the floor, causing her skirt to slide all the way to her hip. Her other leg was bent underneath the first and lying against the floor, half cross-legged.
One arm curved protectively around a pie pan with a baseball-size hole missing from the center of the pie; the other hand held a fork mounded with some kind of creamy, whipped-cream goodness. And a bottle of open red wine sat at her hip.
Trace couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. “What in the hell are you doing?”