by Ava Miles
“Sure thing.”
She fought a huge smile. “Great. Follow me.”
Back in the kitchen, she bumped the bowl she reached for, spilling a little cream on the counter. “This is the sauce,” she said, reaching for a paper towel to swipe up the mess. She stirred the mixture until the cream was fully blended with the corn syrup and cinnamon.
“Sometimes, Grandma Kemstead adds some melted butter to this if she has any left over,” she told him as she poured the uncooked mixture evenly over the top of the rolls.
The mixture started to seep into the layers of bread, collecting at the edges. She walked over to the preheated oven and slid the pan inside. After setting the timer, she turned to him. “Now, you just let the heat do its thing. In about twenty-five to thirty minutes, we’ll have fresh cinnamon rolls right out of the oven.”
“Incredible. Everyone is going to love them.” He wasn’t meeting her eyes now either, she noticed. Had he realized they were walking a dangerous line?
The clock showed her guests were due to arrive in fifteen minutes. “Would you like to have some more wine?”
He tugged on his Rebel T-shirt, which he’d laundered with the rest of his clothes last night. “Margie. I…if I wasn’t living here and…on this celibate kick, I’d…”
When he didn’t finish the sentence, she gulped and said, “I know. It’s probably best for us to talk about it. It’s been building between us since you first arrived. And you’re going to be here for a few more weeks. We need to be…restrained.” At least until she was in Paris when they weren’t living together. Okay, she’d already decided she was going to see him in Paris. With no constraints between them.
Something dark came and went in his eyes. “It was the Paint Prep Mistress, right? That’s what made you want me.”
Her chest was almost too tight to laugh, but she did anyway. It seemed the only safe emotion in the moment. “Actually, it was seeing you rig up that old adding machine like MacGyver. He was kinda hot back in the day.”
“He was, at that,” Evan agreed, walking to the corner of the kitchen. He paused in the doorway. “I’d like to say it was your cinnamon rolls, but I can’t. From the moment I opened the door and saw you standing there like a sexy pocket Venus fallen from Mount Olympus, I’ve wanted you. But over the past couple of weeks, I’ve seen so much kindness and bravery from you, it’s made me a complete goner.”
“I’m coming to Paris,” she found herself saying out loud.
The intensity in his gaze was magnetic. “I know.”
“I don’t usually…” she found herself saying, picking up the towel she’d covered the bread with so her hands could hold something.
“I know you don’t.” His voice was growing more mesmerizing with each word.
“And I won’t be staying long,” she said in a quiet voice. “I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”
His mouth tipped up. “Then it’s good I’m celibate now, and you don’t date your tenants. We both have time to think about it.”
She nodded her head because she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she agreed.
“Do you need any help setting things up last minute?” he asked.
“No, I have everything covered.”
“Great,” he said. “Call me when they arrive.”
He took a few steps to the door before spinning around and striding toward her. Purpose filled his movements, and she found her mouth going dry at the thought—the hope—that he was going to throw caution to the wind and kiss her senseless like they both wanted.
But he only laid his hand on her bare arm and stared into her soul. “I’m really grateful I’m here with you too,” he said, echoing her earlier words after their toast. Then, he retraced his steps and left the kitchen.
With the scent of cinnamon and bread baking around her, all she could do was lean against the counter with her hand on her heart, wondering what would happen in Paris—and eager to find out.
Chapter 5
Evan had been to the finest wine tastings the world over, but he was more excited about Margie’s cinnamon roll tasting than he’d been about any of them. He’d changed into Evan Murray’s best clothes after their last exchange—jeans and a black T-shirt. As he came down the stairs, he realized why he’d done it. He wanted to look his best for her. Tonight was going to be special.
It was a good thing he’d called out their mutual attraction in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure he could have continued to ignore the growing intensity between them, and after overhearing her sweet toast and sharing it with her, he’d seen the vulnerability lying underneath the surface of her confidence and determination. He remembered those feelings all too well—they were inescapable when you risked everything for your dreams.
His first big invention was the INV-333. He’d known down to his bones that it would change the defense landscape. Still, he’d feared sharing it with the world because it was his baby, his own special creation, and he was afraid someone might not appreciate how special it was. It had happened many times before, after all. Few people saw the world the way he did. In the beginning, it had made him a nerd. With Chase’s backing and friendship, he’d come to believe the way he saw the world made him unique.
And though the successes he’d experienced over the past years had been staggering, he still felt that same vulnerability, particularly in the months prior to this trip to Dare Valley. With success came the fear of future failure.
When he reached the doorway of the kitchen, he halted and allowed Margie’s beauty to steal over him. She was folding the napkins so precisely his chest hurt from watching it. She wanted this so badly. The approval. The confirmation that she’d gotten Kemstead’s age-old recipe right and could make a go of it as a small business owner.
She’d changed out of her casual baking clothes and now wore a simple sleeveless cotton black dress that hugged her curves like the warm caramel sauce hugged the cinnamon rolls cooling on wax paper on the counter. Her sable hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, and somewhere in the midst of prepping, she’d paused to put on some red lipstick and a touch of mascara with some smoky shadow or liner in the corners to make her eyes pop.
“You look wonderful,” he said, both because it was true and because she needed to hear it.
“Oh,” she said, dropping one of the half-creased napkins on the counter. “I didn’t see you. How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long,” he said, stepping into the kitchen and holding out his arms. “I…ah decided to change. I didn’t know what one wore to a cinnamon roll tasting.”
She laughed, long and loud and with such gusto, she threw her head back.
His heart exploded at the sight.
“I’m laughing because I was actually wondering the same thing. I…ran upstairs after you…ah…I put the rolls in the oven to look more presentable.”
Could she be any more adorable in all her nerves?
Then she ran her gaze over him, leaving lust in her path. “I think you look great.”
He pointed to his black T-shirt. “Apparently, you and I got the same memo.” And suddenly it felt intimate that they were both wearing black—as if their minds were so in tune they’d reached for the same frequency. Black: the color that absorbed all the wavelengths of light and transformed it into heat.
Like the heat exploding between them.
“Seems like we did,” she said as the doorbell rang. “Come on. Let’s see who’s here.”
When she opened the door, he rocked on his heels as the most adorable twin girls ran inside. Well, ran was an exaggeration. They wobbled with incredible speed and balance, somehow defying gravity.
“Whee!” one of the girls cried and plowed straight into Margie’s leg, making her laugh.
The other toddler headed straight toward him, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. He’d never spent much time around kids. The people in his circle who had children always left them with their nannies.
Her hair was bright red with small soft curls, and she latched on to his leg and looked up at him with a drooling smile. “Hi.”
He found himself grinning. “Hi.”
A tall redhead snatched her away, making the little girl fuss. “Sorry, we usually introduce ourselves before we start mauling someone and drowning them in drool. I’m Jill Hale McConnell, but I mostly go by Jill Hale since that’s how everyone around here knows me. You must be Evan.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you. Sounds like you’re pretty handy.”
Evan liked her immediately. Especially the saucy innuendo she was firing out like microwaves—the form of electronic radiation, not the appliance. “That’s right. I’ve heard a lot about you from Margie. Sounds like you have skills with coffee beans.”
She planted the toddler on her hip, striking a pose. “Among other things.”
A dark-haired man approached and extended his hand. “I’m Brian McConnell. Please ignore my wife. She flirts with everyone, and by everyone, I’m including Old Man Beviens who’s nearing a hundred and has ear hair.”
Jill socked Brian in the arm. “Oh, yuck. I have higher standards than that.”
The guy leaned in and gave his wife a gentle kiss. “Red, I hope you’ll still want me when I sprout ear hair.”
“Please. I’ll shave it off so I won’t barf. Just like I do with Grandpa’s.”
“What’s this?” an older man said, tapping his cane on the hardwood floor as Margie led him inside, one of the twins still attached to her leg. “Don’t be talking about the perils of getting old. You don’t know shit from Shinola.”
“Grandpa! The girls.”
“That phrase is as old as dirt. Just like me. They’ll live.” The man thrust out his hand. “Arthur Hale. Good to meet you.”
“Evan,” he answered. After introducing himself to a few people around town, he’d decided only to use his alias when he had no choice. He felt much less guilty that way.
The older man peered closer. “Evan what? You look a little familiar to me.”
He hoped not. From his research on the town, he knew Arthur Hale was a celebrated journalist, and the last thing he needed was for the older man to discover who he was. Not when Margie didn’t know yet.
“Murray. I’m not from these parts, so I’m sure we’ve never met.”
His eyes narrowed as he pushed his rimless glasses up his nose. “No, we haven’t met. It will come to me. It always does.”
Evan fought the urge to gulp. Then he did gulp when Rhett Butler Blaylock’s other former poker babe, Elizabeth Saunders, walked in the room on the arm of the famous celebrity Chef T. He’d known Elizabeth lived in Dare Valley. He just hadn’t realized she was coming to Margie’s cinnamon roll tasting. She’d recognize him for sure, but if she and Jane were still as close as they’d once been, maybe she already knew about the side bet.
His breath arrested in his lungs when their eyes met. He didn’t break Elizabeth’s gaze as Margie led the couple over to meet him. Like Jane, she’d forsaken her former poker babe clothes and duties, but she was still Rhett’s publicist and scout. He waited for her to out him.
“Evan, I’d like you to meet Chef T and Elizabeth Saunders,” Margie said.
He shook Chef T’s hand and then turned to Elizabeth, his gut quivering.
“Evan,” Elizabeth said, shaking his hand hard enough to crack a knuckle. “It’s good to meet you.”
So she knew and disapproved, but she wasn’t going to spill the beans. He exhaled the trapped air in his chest.
“Elizabeth,” he forced himself to say. “Would you be willing to help me pour some wine for folks while Margie helps everyone settle into the tasting room?”
“Sure,” she said way too brightly.
“You’re an angel,” Margie said, squeezing his bicep, and if he hadn’t been quaking in his boots—figuratively—he would have enjoyed the ping down his arm.
When he and Elizabeth reached the kitchen, he turned to her. “I’m here because Jane and Rhett—”
“I know. When I told them about the cinnamon roll tasting, they felt they had to tell me why you were here so I wouldn’t spill the beans the minute I saw you.” She crossed her arms, all business.
“I appreciate that.”
Shaking her head, she went over and started pouring out glasses of wine. Margie had decided to go with a light white wine for the guests because it wouldn’t compete with the cinnamon roll.
“I don’t like this, Evan. Not one bit. It doesn’t feel honest.” She picked up three glasses. “Grab the rest.”
“I don’t like it either,” he said, “but Rhett and Jane are the ones who set the terms. I’m holding up my end of the bargain.”
She blew out a breath. “Are you, Mr. Celibate?”
“Never, never, never call me Mr. Celibate again.” His ears grew hot.
Walking to the doorway, she turned. “If you hurt Margie, I’ll make sure celibacy is no longer a choice for you. It’ll be your only option.”
Fighting the urge to put his hands over the front of his jeans, he took a deep breath and then picked up the remaining glasses and joined everyone in the dining room.
The Hale family was sitting on the right side of the table. Elizabeth sat beside Chef T on the left once she finished passing out the drinks. Margie told him to sit at the head of the table across from her. Jill and Brian held the twins on their laps, and he was pretty impressed by their ability to drink the wine without spilling it when the girls reached for the glasses.
Suddenly, one of the girls broke out and said, “Whee!” She had impressive pipes for one so little.
“Oh yeah, Violet!” Jill said, patting her back. “We can show everyone the new song.”
These girls had a special talent? Evan sat on the edge of his seat, eager to listen to their performance.
Brian nestled the other girl against this chest. “Ready, Mia?”
Jill gave an impressive, Mmmm, to signal the start of the overture. Evan waited to be blown away.
“Whee!” Violet squealed out for all she was worth.
Brian picked up a spoon and pointed it at Mia. “Go on, honey.”
She patty-caked her hands together. “Burp!”
Jill pointed to Violet. “Okay, now you.”
The girl gave another, “Whee!”
Followed by her sister yelling, “Burp!”
Jill made figure eights in the air like a conductor. “All together now.”
He met Margie’s gaze, and both of them fought the urge to laugh.
“Whee!”
“Burp!”
“Whee!”
“Burp!”
The Whee-Burp chorus continued. Evan finally gave in to a chuckle since everyone else had started laughing. So, he wasn’t going to be treated to a baby rendition of “Madame Butterfly.” But it was cute.
And so it went, the adults grinning and laughing, and the girls giving their drooling version of a song Evan expected would never be recorded to fame and glory.
When it finished, Arthur Hale had a soft smile on his face. “Well, at least their pitch is perfect. Can’t say much about their lyrics though.”
Jill turned and made a face at him since he was sitting on her right side. “They’re not even two years old, Grandpa. I think they’re doing great.”
“They are pretty sweet,” Arthur said. “Margie, honey, let’s try your rolls. I almost up and died when I walked into your house because it smelled so good.”
Margie stood and stooped to kiss his cheek. “No up and dying on my watch. I’ll grab the room-temperature rolls first, which will be compared to the originals, made by Grandma Kemstead herself. The other rolls might still be too hot. That caramel sauce can burn the roof of your mouth when they come straight out of the oven.”
“I can’t wait to try them,” Chef T said, putting his arm around Elizabeth.
Margie brought out two plates of cinnamon rolls, and the scent alone was enough to make Evan salivate.
When he received his plate with two tasting samples, he took a moment to clear his head before taking the first bite. The caramel sauce coating the pastry hit his tongue like a freight train, but the soft bread cushioned the impact. He moaned as cinnamon and butter danced on his taste buds in pure abandon.
“The right one has a touch more cinnamon than the left.” Chef T chewed each sample thoughtfully as everyone watched and listened. “But honestly, Margie, both of them are delicious. I don’t think it matters who baked which one. And no one but a highly trained chef could detect the extra cinnamon.”
“Well, I’m not a highly trained chef,” Arthur said, holding up the remaining bite of one of his tasting samples, “but this one is Kemstead’s.”
Margie sat at the end of the table and tucked her hands out of sight. “What does everyone else think?” There was a Mona Lisa smile on her face as she asked the question.
Elizabeth shrugged playfully. “I can’t tell the difference. Honestly, Margie. They’re both incredible.”
“Brian?” she asked.
“I feel like the one on the right has a touch more butter, but it’s so slight a difference, I would be hard-pressed to say that it changes the taste for me. I couldn’t guess which one’s which, but my guess would be that the Kemstead’s one has a touch more butter. Either way, they’re fantastic, Margie. I’m so happy you’re continuing the tradition.”
“Jill?” Margie asked the woman, who was feeding thimble-size bites to the two girls as they bounced up and down in glee.
“I can’t tell which one’s which,” Jill said with a laugh. “Honestly. I just want more.”
“What about you, Evan?” she asked softly, so softly that Elizabeth paused in taking another bite of her sample and gave him a pointed glance.
He didn’t care. At the moment, he only had eyes for one person. “I’m no expert on cinnamon rolls, but I live in a country where people revere bread. You could open up your shop in Paris and sell these, and you’d be the hottest bakery in town.”
“Hear, hear!” Brian said, rapping on the table. “Margie, after tasting these, I’m convinced you were meant to do this. I can’t wait for you to come back from your apprenticeship in Paris. Hot Cross Buns is going to be awesome, and my restaurant is going to be supplied with the best baguettes and croissants in town.”
