by Marina Adair
With his dark wavy hair, the perfect amount of scruff, and a smile that was all swagger and charm, the man didn’t need brute strength.
She cleared here throat. “I mean it. One wrong move and I shoot.”
“Don’t shoot, I’m just trying to figure out what the right moves are, so you wouldn’t be so offended by the idea of my hands on your pies.” He said it with a grin that was all eye candy and sexy swagger.
It was one of those Sorry, babe, couldn’t help myself movements that her mom’s boyfriends used every time they got caught with someone else’s lipstick on their collar. The same flash of white that Philip gave when he’d come home too tired to tango in the sheets. Only this man knew how to do it right, knew how to do it so that a girl went weak in the knees.
Not that her weak knees had anything to do with him. Or that grin. Nope, they were tingling because he had broken into her shop and touched her pies.
Kennedy jabbed him harder with the rolling pin, distracted when it bounced off his muscles. “The right move would be to set my pies on the counter and put your hands in the air.”
“Or what?” He turned around, slowly, until her “gun” was pressing into his chest. His eyes dropped to take in her not-so-lethal rolling pin, and when they made their way back up, he didn’t look scared at all. He looked amused. “You going to flour me, sweetness?”
“No.” She held up her phone, snapped his picture, and waited for his amusement to turn to fear. It didn’t. “I’m going to call the cops and report a break-in in process,” she said, channeling her inner NYPD Blue. “And if you try to run, I will just show them your picture.”
“No need,” he said, stepping back, not to flee the scene, but to rest a hip against the counter. He casually set her pie boxes down—right beside him. “The nearest cops are in Tacoma.” He threw up air quotes. “A good couple hours away. Around here, we have a sheriff, and his name is Dudley. He carries a badge and a gun made of metal that shoots bullets, not flour.”
“I know Dudley,” she said, still holding the rolling pin out, just in case he got any ideas, while she looked for the sheriff’s contact info. “He’s a good customer. I even have his cell number.”
“How about that,” Tank said but didn’t sound impressed. He reached for the pie boxes again, and without thinking, Kennedy jumped forward and smacked his hand with the rolling pin.
“Ow!” He jerked his hand back and shook out the sting.
Kennedy had the sudden urge to apologize, but swallowed it quickly. She didn’t ask him to break in and mess with her day. He did that all on his own. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” She waved the pin for emphasis.
“Jesus, I was reaching for the sales slip,” he said, snatching it off the box. “Suspicious much?”
With men? Always.
“I don’t know. Were you about to walk off with the last six pies and not pay?”
He thought about that for a moment and shrugged. “Fi doesn’t charge me.”
“Do I look like Fi to you?”
His lips twitched in a way that had her thighs doing some twitching of their own. “Not that I can see. But a quick inspection of your pies will tell me all I need to know.” He stuck out his hand with the sales slip. “I’m Luke, by the way.”
“I’m not interested.” And her pies were taking a permanent vacation from charming men with knee-melting powers. “And I’m still calling the cops, so you can save those disarming dimples for someone who cares.” She pointed the rolling pin in the general direction of his dimples.
“Wow, sexy and disarming, huh?” he said as if he wasn’t fully aware of their power. “Are you hitting on me, sweetness?”
“You’re confusing hitting-on with plain old hitting.”
He ran a hand over his jaw; the scruff told Kennedy that his five o’clock was a long time past. “Jenny Miller hit me with a pear in the third grade. The next day she sent me a yes-or-no note.” He leaned in and lowered his voice, his breath teasing by her earlobe. “Was all that rolling pin action Southern for flirting? Because up here all you have to do is say, ‘Hey, Luke, I think you’re sexy.’”
“I’m not flirting with you.”
He cocked his head to the side and gave a smile that had her toes curling. “I think you are.”
“I think charm clashes with prison orange.”
“That might be so, but I bet it goes great with pie.”
Warm zings dancing in her chest, Kennedy was too flustered to answer, so she scrolled through her phone to locate Dudley’s number. With a grin of her own, she held up the cell so he could see the sheriff’s name, put it on speaker, and hit Call.
“Be sure when Dudley answers, you tell him I say hi and that he still owes me a beer,” Luke said, crossing one arm over the other. “Then tell him you are interrupting Thursday night poker to report someone touching your pies. I’m sure he’ll get right on that call.”
“I’m reporting someone stealing my pies,” she corrected. “And if you’ll stop talking, I’ll ask him to go easy on you.”
“Pecan, pecan,” Luke said in that tomato, tomah-to tone, and just the word made her fingers ache. “And if you admit you’re hitting me was your way of flirting, I won’t press assault charges.”
“Press charges?” Kennedy said as the phone rang. “You’re the one who broke in, and you’re built like a tank. How could I have possibly assaulted you?”
“You look like you went a few rounds in the ring, you’re swinging a rolling pin with intent, and your apron says NUT BUSTER. Who do you think Dudley will side with?”
That was when Kennedy noticed her burglar was dressed for the boardroom, not a ventilator shaft. His dark slacks, pressed blue button-up, and silk tie were way too GQ for a small town pie shop B and E. Then she looked down at her split knuckles, the smudges of blood on the rolling pin, and saw his point.
The phone stopped ringing and went to voice mail. With a frustrated sigh she dropped her head and silently started counting to ten. She’d made it to three when black dress shoes came into her view. By five, Luke was standing in front of her, his finger gently wrapped around hers—disconnecting the call. And sending one hell of a tingle up her arm. “How about you just admit you like me, and I promise to ask before touching your pies next time, so we can call it a day?”
“I like you almost as much as I like hulling pecans.”
“You just haven’t spent enough time with me yet.” He looked at the cuts on her hands and let out a low, concerned whistle. When he spoke, his voice was soft, full of concern. “Look, I’m sorry about scaring you—”
“You didn’t scare me—”
“That wasn’t very neighborly of me and I apologize. It’s late and you look tired, why don’t we pick this up another time. Over drinks.”
She must have been exhausted because the idea of a drink didn’t seem so crazy. It had been a long week, she was looking at an even longer weekend, and it would be nice to celebrate her small success with someone. Too bad, she still had fifty pounds of pecans to crack, four dozen apple pies to make, and justice to serve. Too many numbers to fit into a single night.
She considered her options. While seeing Luke hauled off in cuffs would make her night, it wasn’t worth falling so far behind schedule. Not when she wasn’t so certain he’d even be arrested. He hadn’t actually stolen anything and he might not look the part of a small town hick, but the way he tossed around the sheriff’s name told her he was the real small town deal.
Destiny Bay wasn’t much bigger than a speck on the map, but it was big on family, apples, and justice. In that order, meaning that having the first sometimes determined follow through on the last. Being a local good ol’ boy was nearly as good as being related to the President in these parts.
Knowing that she was going to regret this come tomorrow, she looked at his big, strong hands and said, “I’ll make you a deal. If you help me shell that bag of pecans and promise to never come back, I won’t press charges.” When he wen
t to open his mouth, she added, “And any funny business happens and I call the cops.”
He closed it. Then with a raised brow, he said, “Define funny business.”
She lifted the rolling pin.
“No funny business,” he said with a chuckle. “Got it.”
“The tools are on the counter, the rolling pin is within reach. Do we have a deal?” He just stared at her a beat as though she were crazy. “Luke?”
“Yeah, we have a deal, but if I shell this whole bag, I want a pie, made special for me. Hand delivered by the baker, which will be you.”
“You hull that entire bag tonight, I’ll name a pie after you and even feed it to you myself.”
“If I hull the entire bag tonight, they won’t be fresh come the weekend,” he said as if he were a baking god. And maybe he was. The man had a certain Adonis appeal about him. “Proper nut care is important.”
Kennedy did her best not to look amused, but then he smiled and damn if she didn’t give in. “Fine, half now.”
“And half this weekend.” He rested his palms flat on the counter and leaned toward her.
His hands were huge. Big and strong and oh so capable. She forced her eyes back to his. “I won’t hold my breath.”
With a laugh, he walked over to the bags, lifting one as though it weighed nothing. He carried it into the back room and, ignoring her orders to set it back down, poured the entire bag into an ancient-looking machine sitting in the back of the kitchen that Kennedy had been using to hang her aprons on.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Dreaming about what you’ll be wearing when you feed me that pie.”
She went to say that wasn’t part of the deal, but he pushed the big red button and the machine sprang to life. Noisy gears ground back and forth as pecans were sucked into the machine and crunched.
“What’s that?”
“Fi’s Nut Buster,” he said, leaning in to stick the sales slip to the front of her apron, his fingers purposefully grazing the T and B in NUT BUSTER. “By the way, I’m L. Callahan, Fi’s nephew.” He pointed to the first name on the slip. “And I think she probably meant the letter L when she called in the order, not E-L-L-E.” He tugged on her ponytail. “See you around, sweetness.”
Maybe it was the boyish smile he added at the end, or the way he smelled the pies as he carried them out the door, but Kennedy did something she hadn’t done in weeks.
She smiled back.
Chapter 3
Pies in hand, Luke Callahan walked toward Main Street and let his gaze drift back to the shop. The sky was fading from pink to orange as the late summer sun dipped behind the Cascades, creating a silhouette of his hometown, but he could still see Shop Girl through the window. All that big city bluster, and a good dose of mistrust, shining though those baby blues.
With his most neighborly grin, Luke lifted his pies in thanks.
Shop Girl’s answer was to lock the deadbolt then disappear back into the shop. A smart move on her part.
She might be as tempting as a sexy fall fling in that flirty yellow dress, strappy little heels, and all those tight curves packed into a pint-sized bombshell of a body, but she reminded him of autumn in the Cascades—challenging, exciting, and unpredictable enough to ward off even the bravest of men. She had a toughness that was impressive, a vibrancy that was exciting, and a warm smile that drew him in. The only thing Luke liked more than a sexy fall fling was a challenge. He thrived under pressure. Had to. If picking up the pieces after his father’s death hadn’t taught him how, then bringing his family’s orchard back from near bankruptcy had.
It took concentration, hard work, and an intense focus that didn’t leave room for complicated cuties.
Not to mention, this particular complicated cutie happened to be his mom’s new baker. A clear reason to keep his distance, since his mom had been trying to pair him up since he grew facial hair. It had only gotten worse after he father passed away, and Luke had officially become the leading force behind Callahan Orchards.
A strangling sense of regret and obligation knotted in his stomach at the reminder that the greatest man he’d ever known was gone, and it was up to Luke to cement his dad’s legacy. To make sure his family was taken care of. Which was why he was ignoring the bright blue eyes and mouthwatering curves in the shop, and heading toward the bar at the end of town.
The Penalty Box was a from-the-tap or straight-up kind of place that was as famous for its handcrafted hard cider as it was for its co-owner, former NHL superstar Bradley Hawk, who had more than one Stanley Cup to his name. Hawk also happened to be Luke’s best friend and business partner.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Luke called out over the crowd as he moved behind the bar to pour himself a cold one.
The place was packed. Not surprising since it was Throw One Back Thursday and the Seahawks were playing football on the big screen. But Luke hadn’t come to throw one back or catch the game.
“Jesus, man, what took you so long?” Hawk asked, coming over. He leaned over the bar and gave Luke a hard smack to the back.
“I just landed a few hours ago.”
Hawk tugged at Luke’s tie. “What’s up with the monkey suit? Looking to get lucky, because I haven’t seen your pants that pressed since my wedding.”
“Funny, since I was the only one that night to get lucky,” Luke said with a grin.
Hawk grimaced. “Yeah, well, I rectified that bad decision, and luck is now shining down.” Hawk’s eyes went the length of the room, focusing on a couple of puck bunnies on the far side. “See that honey sitting over there? She wants to see my championship stick.”
“You mean, the blond one wearing the wedding ring?”
Hawk snorted in disgust. He might be the NHL’s favorite bad boy, and the town’s favorite playboy, but like Luke, he didn’t get messed up in marriages. His own or someone else’s.
“Nope, the redhead wearing double D’s like they’re a weapon.” Hawk lowered his voice and grinned. “Promised me a Russian if I let her touch the handle. I don’t know what the hell a Russian is, but since she has a sweet drawl and is wearing cowgirl boots, I don’t think she was talking about her heritage.”
“Well, don’t get your passport out yet. I said I was stopping by to drop off your pie, not cover the bar.”
Hawk’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious, bro? A Russian. How many guys get a shot at a redhead pulling a Russian?”
Luke patted Hawk’s shoulder in solitude. “A guy who isn’t working tonight.”
Pouting like a girl, Hawk grabbed a towel and started wiping down the bar. “What kind of wingman are you?”
“The kind who has to get the rest of these pies to the Book Nook before seven.” He set the pies on the counter. “My aunt is hosting the Destiny Bay Book Club meeting this month.”
Hawk rolled his eyes. “Book club, my ass. There’s more illegal gambling going on there than in this bar during the Stanley Cup.”
“Even the sheriff is afraid to intervene, which tells you something.” When Hawk eventually nodded, Luke added, “Plus, I wanted to drop these by for you to look at.” Luke pulled a packet of legal papers from his suit pocket and handed it to Hawk. “Matt Rogers expects our answer by Monday.”
Hawk’s interest went from the honey at the end of the bar to the packet of papers—and he gave an impressed shake of the head, the weight of the moment not lost. With a single signature, they were both going to take their families’ businesses to the next level.
“Matt Rogers wants to offer us an exclusive contract.” Just saying the words brought a giddy smile to his face. “If we agree, Two Bad Apples Hard Cider will be served in all of his locations.”
“No shit,” Hawk said and let out a chuckle. It was gravelly and deep, and full of relief. Luke could relate. This kind of opportunity had been a long time coming. He only wished his dad were still around to see it happen.
Matt Rogers was one of the top restaurateurs in the country. A few mo
nths ago, he approached Luke about making a high-end, hand-crafted hard cider for his chain of upscale sports bars.
Hawk was the sports legend. Luke had the apples. And Rogers had the capital to pay in advance. With his dad’s secret cider recipe, it was a perfect fit.
“Only, he isn’t just looking at Washington and Oregon,” Luke said. “He wants to do a complete West Coast rollout before the end of the year.”
Hawk met Luke’s eyes over the top of the contract. “The entire West Coast would mean supplying thirty-plus bars, in addition to our existing customer base.”
“Which was the ultimate plan.”
“You mean our five-year plan?” Hawk wasn’t the kind of guy to show fear, mainly because he had skin as thick as steel, and after a lifetime of facing down the biggest bully in town, then in the NHL, nothing much got to him. But he was as rattled at the proposition as he was excited. Luke could see the sweat beading on his forehead. “We don’t have enough apples to fill that kind of order.”
They both had a lot tied up in this deal. A lot of money, a lot of time—and a lot of dreams. They were running short on the first two, and Luke refused to give up on the last one.
There were too many people counting on him to even consider passing on this opportunity.
“We don’t have five years,” Luke said with quiet intensity. “If we tell him we need more time to build to that level of output, he is going to go with another company.”
“Problem there is, we need more time to grow to that level of output.”
There was that. Even with his dad’s winning recipe, it had taken Two Bad Apples a long while to get to where they were. And now they needed to double their business by the end of the year.
Would it be difficult? Sure.
Impossible? Nah, Luke had done the impossible and survived. This would be nothing.
“I think I can convince him to roll out Washington and Oregon in November, and save California for December.” Luke pulled a spreadsheet from the packet, one he’d spent the past few days, and plane ride home, working and reworking until it was right.
