Let it Show (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies Book 2)

by Tawna Fenske

  For fuck’s sake. “I mean why did you bring it into a cupcake shop?”

  I’m no longer worried he’s here to lop my head off, but still.

  He stares at me for a few beats, not answering, not blinking, not even smiling. Not that I could tell, what with the thick beard masking any sort of expression. But I can see his lips, which are full and soft and—

  “Sharp.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “The axe,” he says. “Had to get it sharpened.”

  “So you brought it to a cupcake shop?”

  The corners of his mouth twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “No, I brought it to the shop down the street. Didn’t want to leave it in the truck because the doors don’t lock. Safety hazard.”

  “Oh.” That actually makes sense.

  Sort of. If this is really Bree Bracelyn’s brother, he’s a freakin’ gazillionaire. Not that any of the siblings in that family act like it, but it’s common knowledge the Bracelyn kids inherited a lot more than their dad’s ranch when he died.

  Suffice it to say, Hottie Lumberjack could afford a truck that locks.

  “Chelsea Singer,” I tell him, wiping a hand on my pink and green striped apron before offering it to him. “I own Dew Drop Cupcakes.” As an afterthought, I add, “And I’m not an axe murderer.”

  His mouth definitely twitches this time. “Mark Bracelyn. Ponderosa Resort. Also not an axe murderer.”

  “Good. That’s good.” And interesting. He didn’t volunteer his job title, but I know it’s something like Vice President of Grounds Management, which Bree told me he hates. He might be part-owner of a luxury resort for rich people, but he’d rather be regarded as the handyman. That’s what Bree says, anyway.

  And don’t think I haven’t noticed Bree filling my head with Mark-related tidbits.

  Mark built me a new woodshed this weekend.

  Mark has a major sweet tooth.

  Mark rescued a family of orphaned bunnies yesterday.

  I’m not sure whether she wants me to date him or just think twice about macing him if we meet in a dark alley, but it’s odd this is the first time we’re meeting.

  “So Mark,” I say, leaning against the counter. “What can I get for you?”

  “Cupcakes.” He frowns. “Two dozen.”

  “Right, but any particular flavor? Strawberry, peanut butter, kiwi, red velvet, double-fudge—” I stop when I see the dazed look in his eyes and nudge a laminated menu across the counter at him. “We have more than fifty cake flavors and three dozen frosting varieties, plus fondant and icing. There’s an infinite variety of combinations.”

  Those brown eyes take on the ultimate “kid in a candy shop” glow, so I give him a private moment while I turn and wash my hands at the sink. His eyes become saucers as I turn back and reach into the display case to pull out a tray of mini cupcakes. I wouldn’t do this for every customer, but Ponderosa Resort is one of my biggest clients.

  “This is one of our seasonal favorites right now,” I explain as I pluck a soft baby cupcake off the tray. “It’s Guinness chocolate, and it’s great with the Irish cream frosting. Would you like to try it?”

  “Yes.” His throat moves as he swallows. “Yes, please.”

  The gruff eagerness in his voice makes my girl parts clench, which is ridiculous. And a sign of how long it’s been since I had sex, which….um, yeah. Let’s just say dating’s not easy for single moms.

  I whip out a pastry bag and do a quick swirl of frosting on top of the cupcake. “Here you go.”

  Our fingers touch as I hand it across the counter, and I suppress an involuntary shiver. The good kind of shiver, like the one I do every time I bite into a perfect snickerdoodle. Good Lord, this guy has massive hands. He makes my mini cupcake look like a chocolate chip. “See what you think of that.”

  I have to look away from the expression of rapture on his face. There’s something raw and intimate about it, and my belly’s doing silly somersaults under my apron. I survey my tray, trying to come up with another good flavor combo.

  “Let’s see, this is one of Bree’s favorites.” I steal a look at his face, but if he’s surprised I connected the dots to his sister, he doesn’t show it. He’s too fixated on his cupcake, savoring every little mini-bite like it’s an act of worship.

  This shouldn’t be getting me hot, right?

  I clear my throat and swirl some lime zest frosting onto a lemon cupcake. “Bree likes the citrus combo,” I tell him. “Is it a family thing?”

  Something odd flashes in his eyes, but he takes the mini cupcake and nods. “Thank you.”

  He eats this one more gingerly, still savoring every crumb. I glance down at the sample tray and try to think of what other flavors to offer. What would a guy like Mark Bracelyn enjoy? I don’t make manly-man confections like sawdust cupcakes with drizzles of pine sap or mini-cakes infused with hints of leather and charcoal briquette. But maybe something on the other end of the spectrum.

  “These tend to be too sweet for some people, but—”

  “Yes.” He nods. “Yes, please, I’d like to try it.”

  I smile and pluck a gooey-looking confection off the edge of the tray. “You’re in luck, I had some left over from a kids’ birthday party order. This is my coconut caramel chocolate delight cupcake. It’s like those Girl Scout cookies—Samoas?—but in cupcake form.”

  The sheer joy in this man’s eyes is enough to make my hand shake as I place it in the center of his massive palm. He lifts it to his mouth, and I swear on my KitchenAid mixer, I have a mini-orgasm. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way into my pants is through a man’s sweet tooth.

  What? No, I didn’t just think that.

  Holy shit, Chelsea, get it together.

  I smooth out my apron as Mr. Tall, Gruff, and Silent polishes off his cupcake. I consider offering him more—cupcakes, not sexual favors—but what’s that expression about free milk and cow buying and—

  Great, now I’m thinking about Mark Bracelyn’s hands on a pair of udders, which sooooo shouldn’t be hot, but it is.

  Stop it.

  I clear my throat. “So what’ll it be?” I ask. “You didn’t mention when you need the order, but I have several of these in stock. Most will take a couple days, though.”

  Mark wipes his beard with a sleeve, and I realize I should have offered a napkin. He doesn’t seem to need one, though, and his beard is remarkably crumb-free. What’s it like to kiss a guy with facial hair? I’ve only experienced five-o-clock shadow, the sort of sandpaper scruff that leaves your cheeks raw and red. But Mark’s beard looks soft, with hints of cinnamon and nutmeg.

  Stop thinking of this man as edible.

  “I’ll take four dozen, please,” he says.

  I bite my lip, not positive I’ve got that much stock. “I thought Bree only needed two dozen.”

  “She does,” he says. “The extras are for me. A dozen of whatever you’ve got in stock now, and the rest can wait ‘til Friday.”

  I smile and jot the order on a notepad. “Got it. You want anything specific, or a mixed batch?”

  He doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. “Surprise me.”

  Oh, baby.

  “How about any pupcakes?” I offer.

  Mark frowns. “Pupcakes?”

  “Cupcakes for dogs,” I say. For some reason I just assumed he has a dog. He looks like the sort of guy who’d have a Rottweiler or maybe a blue ox named Babe. “Bree buys them all the time for Virginia Woof.”

  “I should get a dog.” He says this with an earnestness that makes my heart go gooey.

  “You totally should.” Good Lord, why am I advising this man on his life choices? “The Humane Society has tons of great ones. My daughter and I volunteer there every Saturday.”

  This is where most guys check out. Or check my ring finger. Or ask some not-so-subtle question about the baby-daddy, even though everyone pretends not to care. Plenty of folks have heard rumors.<
br />
  But Mark doesn’t blink. Just looks me in the eye, calm and steady. “Good idea.”

  “Which? Volunteering at the Humane Society, or you getting a dog.”

  “Yes.”

  I wait for more, but there doesn’t seem to be any. His attention shifts to something over my shoulder, and he points one enormous finger. “How long’s that been like that?”

  I look where he’s pointing and see the banged-up handle on the side door leading to the alley. I left it open a few inches to let the spring breeze waft through, and it’s obvious even from here that someone messed with the doorknob.

  “A couple days.” I turn back to face him. “I came in the other morning and found it like that. Probably kids messing around. I haven’t had time to call the repair guy.”

  Mark frowns. “May I?”

  I’m not sure what he’s asking, but I nod like an idiot. “Sure.”

  He lumbers around the counter, leaving his axe behind. After a few seconds of fiddling with the lock and muttering, he marches back around the counter. “Wait here.”

  “I—”

  The front door swings shut behind him before I can point out that I’ve got no place to go, owning the shop and everything. He’s not gone more than a minute, and when he strides back through the door, he’s carrying a battered red toolbox.

  He doesn’t ask this time. Just rounds the corner and goes to the door again. There’s some hammering and rattling, a few curse words that make me glad it’s a slow weekday and there are no other customers around. I busy myself filling a bakery box with cupcakes, slipping in two extras and one of my cupcake-shaped business cards with a few words scrawled on the back.

  Then I wander toward the door, watching his shoulders bunch as he works. He’s rolled up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, revealing forearms thick and ropey with muscle. The man is huge, even kneeling on my floor.

  I don’t realize how close I’ve crept until he turns his head and—

  “Um,” he says.

  He’s face-to-boob with me, and we’re frozen in the moment. I could step forward and feel the tickle of his beard against my breasts through the front of my T-shirt. He could lean in and whisper warm breath against my nipples, making them pucker through the lace of my bra.

  But neither of us does that.

  He’s first to lift his gaze, meeting my eyes through a haze that looks like the same thing buzzing through my brain. “You’re good.”

  “What?”

  “The door.” He gestures with a screwdriver but doesn’t break eye contact. “That should hold now. No need to call a repairman.”

  I drag my eyes from his and see he’s fixed my damn door. How about that?

  “Wow.” I step back at last, aware of the dizzy hum pulsing through my core. “That’s—wow. What do I owe you?”

  Mark stands and hoists his toolbox, wiping a hand on his jeans. “You gave me cupcake samples.”

  “Maybe a dollar’s worth of samples,” I point out. “A repairman would charge at least a hundred.”

  “You can give me a pupcake,” he says. “When I get my dog.”

  He gives me a small smile, but I don’t think he’s kidding. I do think he’s considering kissing me. I want him to, Jesus God, I want him to, and it’s the craziest thing ever.

  But he turns and lumbers back around the counter. Setting down the toolbox, he fishes into his pocket and comes up with a battered leather wallet. “For the four-dozen cupcakes,” he says, laying four hundred-dollar bills on the counter as my jaw falls open.

  How much does this man think I charge for butter and sugar and—

  “It was good meeting you.” He gathers his axe and toolbox and the pink bakery box, then lumbers toward the door before I can muster any words like “wait” or “your receipt” or “please bend me over the counter.”

  The door swings shut behind him, and seconds later, a truck engine growls to life. I realize my mouth is still hanging open, so I close it and watch a faded blue and white pickup rumble down the street.

  What the hell just happened?

  ***

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  Hottie Lumberjack

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  And since I promised a glimpse of Show Down, it’s time to deliver. While it’s still a work in progress, here’s an exclusive, unedited glimpse at the opening chapter of Lauren and Nick’s story coming later this year…

  Your exclusive sneak peek at Show Down

  CONFESSIONAL 753

  Judson, Lauren (Producer: Juniper Ridge)

  You want me to share one of my worst memories? Nice, Gabe. How about you punch me in the tits while you’re at it? Oh, stop looking like that. I’m a woman. I have tits, okay? Being your sister doesn’t negate that biological fact. If you want to get technical, you’ve got three sisters who all happen to have—

  Stalling?

  I don’t know what you mean.

  Prologue

  TWO YEARS AGO

  I sip from a flute of Veuve Clicquot, careful not to smudge my lipstick. It’s Friday night at Evolution, the most exclusive club in West Hollywood, and tonight we’ve got a VIP suite.

  “Hey, gorgeous.”

  My hot-as-hell boyfriend nuzzles the words against my neck, and I lean in to soak up his heat. Then I draw back to watch those electric cocoa eyes skim my body. I bought this strapless Oscar de la Renta in lush velvet knowing he’d love it. The heat in his gaze tells me I wasn’t wrong.

  I seldom am. If tonight goes how I’m thinking, Nick’s about to swap the boyfriend title for fiancé.

  “Hey, stranger.” God, he looks good. I skim my fingertips over his clean-shaven jaw. “Having fun?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He dips his palm into the curve of my waist, and I fight the urge to drag him into the nearest coat closet. “I love you in red,” he murmurs.

  “Is that so?” I know this, of course. I know most things about Nick, since tonight marks one year since our first date. “Glad you like it.”

  “Mmm.” He kisses my neck again and I let my palms take a lovely trip from his shoulders to his forearms, tracing muscles built by years of slinging tools on job sites. These days, he spends more time bossing other people with tools, but the fact remains—Nick Armbrust knows his way around a tool chest.

  And my chest, but I’m getting distracted.

  “Alexis is looking for you,” he says, and it takes me a sec to go from fuck-me-against-the-wall, to let’s-talk-about-your-sister.

  “She caught me in the ladies’ room a minute ago.” I love Nick’s sister, so shifting gears is easy. “She looks amazing.”

  Nick grins. “Mama’s pestered her for years to leave her hair natural. She wasn’t so sure about going full afro.”

  “It looks great.”

  “She said she had something for you?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I don’t tell him that something was a pair of Farrah Rochon paperbacks. Alexis and I agree it’s best to let her brother think we’ve spent the past year swapping stock tips or shoes instead of romance novels. “Is she pregnant again?”

  “What?” Nick squints at the corner table where Alexis is feeding a bite of crostini to her hottie husband. “Why would you think that?”

  “Watch.” On cue, Abe touches his wife’s belly beneath the table. The two share a private smile that makes my ovaries ache. “See?”

  “Huh.” Nick dots a kiss behind my ear. “We should put in our order for another niece.”

  “Or nephew.” Delight ripples through me at his slip of the tongue. We. A good indication I’m right about tonight’s plans.

  “I love seeing our families together.” His gaze moves past his sister to the tight knot of Judson offspring in the corner. Dean, Cooper, Lana—all five of my brothers and sisters are here somewhere.

  A few feet away, my parents huddle in conversation with Nick’s mom and dad. My soon-to-be-in-laws? I hate to be presumptuous, but all signs are there. “I can’t
believe you managed to get everyone in one place.”

  Nick laughs warm and low. “There’s something to be said for just asking for what you want.”

  I shiver, recognizing the quote he gave Business Week last month about the success of his construction firm. Tonight, I hear it with fresh ears.

  If Nick’s about to ask me something, the answer is an unequivocal yes.

  His dad says something that makes my mom laugh, and I catch myself smiling. Our parents met before we did, since Angela and Darius Armbrust are prominent entertainment lawyers, and my parents are—well, Laurence and Shirleen Judson. Enough said.

  Though not enough has been said about why Nick summoned us here this evening. I’ve asked him for weeks, but all he’ll say is that it’s a surprise. That he had some things to line up before sharing his plans with anyone.

  I sip from my champagne flute and order myself to keep my voice casual. “You went all out for this soiree.”

  “It’s a big occasion.” He winks and there go the damn butterflies in my stomach.

  I know I should play it cool. That’s what I’m known for, after all. Entertainment Weekly dubbed me the “She Shark,” a reference to my cool poise on set. What the hell does that mean, anyway? They’d never write that about a male producer.

  But it’s true I’m cool under pressure. Always have been, though maybe not where Nick’s concerned. One look at him and my kneecaps melt like butter.

  “I heard what you did for Lana.” Nick brushes my hair back from my face. “Pretty badass.”

  I frown. “What did you hear?”

  “That you kneed that actor in the balls for grabbing her ass at a fundraiser.”

  Goddammit. Hollywood is getting too small.

  “Repeat that to anyone, and you’ll get the same.” I keep enough sweetness in my voice so he knows I’m teasing, but he must see steel in my eyes because he inches back a little. “Seriously, Nick—don’t repeat that.”

  “It’s true, though.”

  He didn’t put a question mark at the end, so I don’t bother answering. “No one fucks with my family.”

  Nick’s chest rumbles as he chuckles. “And I dig that about you, girl.”