by Ava Miles
“Margie Lancaster,” she said, giving him a thorough once-over of her own. “You’re prompt. I appreciate that.”
The assessing look in her eyes told him what she was seeing. He’d grown what he thought was a sexy beard to further disguise himself—not that he worried he would be recognized in this small town, but one could never be too careful. His jeans still had crease marks from the packaging since he hated to iron. He hadn’t dealt with cleaning and pressing his own clothes for years. Fortunately his T-shirt had fared better. And since Colorado wasn’t too humid, thank God, his sandy blond hair wasn’t unruly yet.
“I hate to keep…anyone waiting.” Thank God, he’d stopped himself from saying I hate to keep a beautiful lady waiting. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and reminded himself not to flirt with her—something he did without even realizing it these days.
She smiled, and boy was it a winner. “I was glad to hear from you,” she said. “Any acquaintance of Rhett and Jane’s is most welcome. And honestly, since it’s July and most of Emmits Merriam’s students are out for the summer, it’s a little slow on the rental end. I only have one other renter right now. Martin’s finishing his master’s degree in molecular biology. He’s going to summer school and teaching a class, so he’s barely around. Hopefully you’ll be a good fit. Rhett and Jane had great things to say about you.”
He’d mentioned his association with them to put her at ease.
“They’re nice people.” The words weren’t as hard to voice as he’d anticipated. They were nice people. Sure, they’d decided to play with him, but he wasn’t sorry to be here.
“Please come inside.”
The Victorian’s entryway belonged in another era. The wood floors were a gleaming walnut, if he had an eye—and he did—and the stained glass Tiffany-like panel over their heads was designed with intertwining yellow and green flowers. The custom molding was four inches thick with the kind of curly Q pattern that made Evan think of a string of commas. But the real showstopper was the staircase. It spiraled against the wall like a woman reclining on a divan after a tiring day of social engagements. The newel posts were hand-carved in the shape of crowns. A hint of lemon tickled his nose beneath the warm aroma of cinnamon, hinting that the house had been cleaned prior to his arrival.
“It’s a pretty impulsive move, coming here for a month,” Margie said, leading him into the front foyer.
“Rhett and Jane are quite persuasive,” he replied neutrally. “I had to check Dare Valley out.”
Her rosy-red lips twitched. “I’m afraid you may find the scene here a little less…cosmopolitan than in Paris. There’s only one coffee shop, Don’t Soy With Me. I’m the manager, though not for much longer, so I guess I’m partial. We have a French brasserie too, and I can personally attest to it being scrumptious.”
“I read about those places online when I researched the town,” he said. “They sound great. What are you planning to do next career-wise?”
“I just bought Kemstead’s Bakery, which is a local institution. The business has been in the family for a few generations, but the current owner’s children don’t want to take it over.” She grinned. “I think I won them over with my promise to continue to serve their famous cinnamon rolls if they taught me how.”
He sniffed appreciatively. “So, that’s what I smell. Feel free to use me as a taste tester. I have a real passion for anything that’s bread after living in Paris.”
She nodded. “Few people can make bread better than Parisians, which is why I’m heading there in six weeks to study with a master baker. Brian McConnell, my boss’ husband, owns Brasserie Dare, and he’s the one who managed to set up the apprenticeship for me. I’m going to be supplying his bread from now on. That’s the other reason I was so excited about your arrival. I hope I can ask you all about the city. I haven’t been in years.” She paused to look at him, and he could feel her regard. It was like a punch to his solar plexus.
“I’d be happy to tell you what I can,” he said easily, liking this better and better. She was easy on the eyes, had a fire for business, and would be visiting his hometown after he returned from his month-long stint in Dare Valley. And he wouldn’t be celibate then…
“Let me grab you a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll,” she said. “Then you can tell me more about what you do in Paris.”
He followed her into the modest kitchen. While it wasn’t large and the appliances were old, the wood cabinets were stunning. Some were hand-carved while others were set with glass to show off finer dinnerware and glassware. His gaze shot to the steaming hot cinnamon rolls on the counter, which were oozing a caramel cinnamon sauce an inch thick.
“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said, watching her as she tore off a roll and slid it onto a bright blue plate.
“Go ahead and eat it while it’s hot,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee. What’s your pleasure? I’m a trained barista, so I can pretty much make anything.”
“Five hundred dollars for a room with utilities included,” he said, lifting the cinnamon roll off his plate, not bothering to sit down. The dough seemed to cradle his fingers, and the caramel-cinnamon sauce called to him like a baking siren. “Please tell me cinnamon rolls and gourmet coffee are included too. I’ll even pay six hundred.”
He realized what he’d said and wanted to shove the words back into his mouth. Billionaire Evan Michaels could throw around his money. Evan Murray couldn’t. He needed to remember that. “I was only teasing.” He cast her a discreet glance to gauge her expression.
Her shoulders shook. “I know you were. I like your enthusiasm. Now what can I make you?”
“How about a latte? The coffee on the plane could hardly be called a beverage. It was horrible.” And they still served it in Styrofoam cups, which had the double misfortune of being bad for the environment and making the coffee taste like shit.
“I’ll remember not to order coffee when I fly,” she said easily, walking over to a gorgeous espresso machine, probably the most expensive item in the place. The woman clearly had her priorities straight.
“So you were telling me about what you do?” she prompted him as she made his latte.
“In a sec. I’m about to have a date with this beauty.” He bit into the cinnamon roll. The caramel coated his tongue. The cinnamon fired up his blood. But it was the sponginess of the bread layered with cinnamon, butter, and cream that had him groaning. “Holy mother of God. You’re going to make a fortune selling these.”
Her hands worked the coffee machine like a pro. “I hope so. The Kemstead family did fairly well. And with the changes I’m making, I hope to do even better. Dare Valley has changed a lot since they first opened back in the day. I’m planning to give it a new name and look.”
“What are you going to call it?” he asked between bites.
“Hot Cross Buns.” She waggled her brows.
“Cute.” And it was—just like its new owner.
“I thought so. Jill—who owns Don’t Soy With Me—started the cute trend when she named her coffee shop. We also have a cheese shop called Don’t Wedge Me In, and an exercise studio called Sleek Lines. The rest of the business owners try to live up to her standard.”
“And Jill is Brian’s wife? The Brian who got you the baking apprenticeship?” He was trying to follow the Dare Valley six-degrees-of-separation game.
“Good memory.”
If only she knew. It was one of the downsides of being a genius.
She slid his latte across the gold Formica counter. It was in a red pottery mug, and the foam on top was decorated with a little coffee heart. The artistic splash suited her.
“Okay, now you,” she said, making a cup of coffee for herself.
Well, there was no putting it off. “I’m an artist…of sorts. Writing. Painting.” It was true. He did write—or he used to—for technical journals. And he had dabbled with painting after making the move to Paris, hoping he might be an undiscovered Degas
. He wasn’t.
“That’s so cool. I love artists. They have such a fabulous way of seeing the world. Not like other people.”
On that they could agree, even though it sometimes felt isolating. “Rhett and Jane assured me this place would inspire me. Maybe I’ll write about a man who learns how to make the best cup of coffee, like you clearly know how to do. Or maybe he’ll invent the world’s best coffeemaker—one to rival any on the market.”
He could see it now. People would rave about his invention, calling it the singular most impressive addition to the home since the woodburning stove.
“The Italians already invented the best coffee machine,” she said. “I don’t think it can be improved. Don’t tell your French friends.”
Every machine could be improved, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. Instead, he made a cutting motion at his throat. “I wouldn’t dare. They might lop off my head.”
Those gorgeous lips twitched again, and he could feel it settle in his gut. Not only was she downright sexy, but she was likeable. He was attracted to her. Terribly so.
“So Rhett also told me you’re going through a celibate phase right now and that you’d mostly keep to yourself.”
It took effort not to let his jaw go slack. No wonder this had been so easy. Leave it to Rhett to tell a beautiful woman he was celibate. Not that he’d planned on breaking his promise, but he hadn’t exactly wanted to go public with it.
“Yes, I am,” he said, taking a sip of his latte, trying to think up a rational excuse for why any man would ever contemplate celibacy, least of all admit to it. “Ah…it’s a spiritual thing. I thought it might help me focus on the more important things in life for a while. Help my creative fire return.” Okay, that part wasn’t a joke.
She traced the edge of her green cotton dress, making him reconsider his priorities in an instant. With legs like that, she could make him believe sex was the only thing worth pursuing.
“It’s wise of you to take a break,” she said, lifting her blue pottery mug and taking a drink of her coffee. “I did it a few years ago. It was one of the best things I’ve ever done.”
He choked on the cinnamon roll he’d bitten into. “How long did you take a break?”
Her brows shot up as if the question surprised her. “Over a year. I waited until I was sure I could have sex for the right reasons.”
There were wrong reasons? Now he was really interested. “And what would those be?”
The pause she took made him wonder if she was offended. Then she said, “Until I was sure I wanted to have sex with the man I was seeing. Now, I think that’s enough chitchat. How about I show you the two rooms that are available? You can choose your favorite. I’ve already decided I’m going to rent you one. I appreciate Rhett and Jane’s input, of course, but I had to make sure we’d be a good fit.”
His knees turned weak at the phrase “good fit,” so he stuffed his mouth with another bite of cinnamon roll. He followed her to the stairs and watched her hand trail along the wood in a way he found incredibly arousing. Her nails were painted a cherry red that suited her.
“How did you come to own this house?” he asked after he finished chewing. After all, she couldn’t be much older than he was, and managing a local coffee shop wouldn’t translate to wealth. Even though it was old, a house like this would command a special price. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. Was it in your family?”
“I bought it when it foreclosed,” she told him when they reached the second floor. “An old boyfriend helped me restore it. When we split, it was like having the best of him.”
“It must have been pretty serious between the two of you for him to have put his blood, sweat, and tears into this house.”
An old mirror stood at the top of the stairs, and for a moment, he caught a trace of nostalgia on her face.
“It was,” she simply said and walked down the hall, leaving him to follow her with more questions swirling in his mind.
The sway of her behind made him think Hot Cross Buns was the perfect name for her bakery. Thirty days of living with her and being celibate wasn’t going to be easy. Not that she was the type who’d just jump into bed with him. Far from it, based on what she’d said. Unlike most of the women he knew, who threw themselves at him for the clothes, dinners, vacations, and jewelry he could give them, she was exactly who she portrayed herself to be. He could tell she was going to be a breath of fresh air. And maybe, just maybe, flirting would be enough.
“That’s Martin’s room,” she said when they passed a closed door. “He’s such a pig. I make him keep the door shut even though the room could use a good airing out.”
“Maybe Martin is growing things in there for his molecular biology degree,” he told her.
“Haha. I don’t think so. He has full access to the biology lab at Emmits Merriam.” She stopped in front of the next open doorway. “This bedroom may be too feminine for you, but I still wanted you to see it.”
The room was painted a rich gold that reminded him of sandstone under the full noon sun in Provence. A white bedspread covered what looked to be a queen bed. Free of any carvings, the headboard was simple and elegant, and it matched the dresser in the corner of the room. The curtains were also white.
“This room has a window unit in case the heat bothers you,” she told him. “We don’t have a lot of ACs in Dare Valley since it cools off at night. The mountains, you know. My ex hated any kind of heat, which is why there’s one in here.”
So, she’d changed rooms after their split. Curiouser and curiouser. This time he held his tongue and didn’t press her for more information.
“The bathroom is on the other side of this room. You and Martin will share it, since you’re the two males in the house.”
“If Martin really is a pig, that sounds like a raw deal.”
She laughed. “He knows better than to treat the bathroom like that. However, if you ever have a concern, let me know. I hire a cleaning service that comes once a month. The charge is included in the rent. Like the utilities. Some people balk and promise to take turns cleaning and such, but few follow through.”
Personally, he was pleased. He hadn’t cleaned his own place in years, despite how much it upset his mother, who thought it was the only thing she’d ever taught him. He was about to say as much, but he decided not to mention his mom. It felt too personal, and they’d only just met.
“Smart of you to find a solution,” he said, giving the room a final glance. “Let’s see the other room.”
The room she showed him across the hall was much more masculine. It was tan, which bored him to tears after all the bright colors in Paris, and the bedspread was navy. The furniture matched the set in the other room. She must have bought them wholesale.
“I like the gold room better,” he said.
Her head angled back. “Really? You’d be the first of my male tenants to pick it.”
“What can I say? I like color, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
While one in twelve men were colorblind, he wasn’t one of them. His Paris apartment was painted with many of the colors popular during the Belle Époque: cream, plum, gold, emerald, and indigo. Growing up, his mother had never been able to afford to buy paint, and MIT students weren’t allowed to paint their dorm rooms. He’d been starved for color by the time he moved into a place of his own.
They journeyed to the bathroom, which was clean, as she’d promised. There was an old white claw-foot tub that doubled as a shower if the green plastic curtain was any indication.
“Do you ever take a bath in that tub?” he asked, tracing the inviting curves of the porcelain-lined cast iron. He had a similar tub in his penthouse, but he expected his had cost ten times more than this model.
“I have my own bathroom,” she explained. “But no. No one ever takes a bath in here. I’m trying to imagine Martin doing it.” Her laugh was as inviting as a champagne cork that had just popped.
“Martin is pretty manly then?” Evan as
ked, interested in the third member of their household.
“Manly? Ah…I’ll let you decide on that.” She walked into the hallway. “Now that you’ve chosen your room, do you have any other questions?”
“Talk to me about the communal kitchen,” he said, his eyes straying down the hall to the two closed doors at the end. Apparently Martin wasn’t the only one who kept his sanctuary to himself. Evan suspected Margie liked her privacy, and who could blame her? She shared her home with other people.
“Good question. Everyone has a shelf. As a rule, we don’t share things unless we agree. Martin and I share milk, for example, since he only uses a little in his coffee in the morning, and I use a ton of it to practice making cinnamon rolls.”
“I think you have the cinnamon rolls down,” he told her.
“Thanks,” she said. “I do too. But I still want a few more people to try them. Ones who have been eating the Kemstead kind for generations. I’m having a special cinnamon roll tasting next Friday.”
“Please tell me I can come,” he said with a half-cocked grin. “Smelling all those rolls without eating any might kill me. I’d even pay to attend.” There, he’d done it again.
“How about this? You’re invited if you promise to help me set up and clean up,” she said, sticking her hand out to him.
“Done.”
They shook on it. He didn’t let himself hold her hand any longer than was perfunctory.
“Can I pay you for the month now?” he asked.
She nodded. “That would be great. I don’t expect you to skip out, but I’ve made it a policy.”
He dug into his pocket to pull out his simple money clip. All the cash he’d allotted himself for the month was in that clip. As he handed her the five hundred dollar bills, he calculated his remaining largess. After the car, clothes, accessories, and rent, he was down to seven hundred dollars. And it was only the first day of his adventure. Since the town was small he could walk to cut down on gas, but he would have to manage his remaining funds carefully. God, he hoped he didn’t have to go back to eating ramen noodles three times a week.
