He told her how he’d felt when his brother had finally landed in prison and how, even then, he’d hoped Mickey’s hitting rock bottom would change things. His father had passed by then, leaving Dylan conflicted—deeply—about his feelings on family and what it should mean. When his brother had been killed, he’d felt a flood of relief, knowing Mickey could never victimize him or anyone else again . . . and shame for feeling that relief.
He talked about the islanders thinking, for a long time, that it was his father who was abusive, and later on, when it became known what the situation really was, how he’d hated the pity they’d shown him, and how long it had taken him to realize their attempts to help him were motivated not by pity, but by honest concern. He told her how he wished he’d come to that realization sooner because he hadn’t always been kind about how he’d pushed folks away, and was shamed and humbled further when they forgave him for that, too.
She understood now, the fierce loyalty he felt for his island and its people, who were, essentially, his extended family. Certainly the closest to a real one, a healthy one, he’d ever had. He’d shown her his home, which, from the front, looked like every other little beachside cottage—painted, weathered clapboard and pitched, cedar shingled roof. The dunes rising up behind it, and the waves crashing just beyond made it all the more rustic.
Behind his house, he’d developed the expanse of property that ran back to the dunes, building a U-shaped structure with short wings extending off either side of the back of the house. All one story, and almost all made of glass, it was a calm, serene oasis.
His kitchen filled one wing and was surprisingly state of the art. The man liked to cook. He’d explained that he’d had to learn to feed himself at a very young age, and when he was finally old enough to afford more than bare scraps, he’d decided there wasn’t any reason not to make things he’d actually enjoy eating. So he’d taught himself, discovering a certain rhythm to preparing and cooking food that fed his soul, much as sailing and the water and fixing things did.
Two walls of his bedroom were entirely glass. Louvered vertical blinds ran floor to ceiling and could be closed against the sun or opened fully, creating the appearance that the bed he’d built was almost sitting in the dunes. He’d bartered for the custom mattress in exchange for providing service for the local manufacturer’s small fleet of trucks until they were even. He still serviced the trucks, only now under contract.
She hadn’t been wrong about his being far shrewder and far more successful than he gave the appearance of being. But then, he honestly didn’t care what anyone thought. He lived decently and conducted himself the same way . . . and that was all that was important for anyone to know.
His home was minimally furnished with pieces that were inviting, warm, and comfortable. What little decorating he’d done had been with items that meant something to him personally. A photo of him standing next to the first car he’d ever fixed, his grandfather standing behind him. A piece of a carburetor from his first successful salvage. Nautical bits and bobs she couldn’t name were from his many searches for sailboat parts. He’d found things he couldn’t use on his boat, but couldn’t pass up for their artistry or history. The collection was odd, eclectic, and decidedly masculine . . . and yet it all lent to the atmosphere, to the world he’d created for himself.
She understood why serenity meant so much to him. And wondered why he wanted to tangle himself up with someone who would very likely bring drama, vibrancy, and unpredictability—at the very least—to his carefully constructed world.
She’d told him about her own childhood, about her parents and their eccentric lifestyle and equally eccentric circle of friends. She talked about what dealing with what she called her curse was like, and how, even though her parents loved her unconditionally, and meant well, they never really understood the kind of alienation she felt every time she had to leave their farm and go somewhere. She told him about her aborted college attempt, and more wonderful, happy stories about learning her love of carving from her father, falling in love with sculpting, and with creating her own world of happiness. She told him about her special relationship with Bea, and her guilt and sorrow for not being with her, for not pressing her for more information about her situation, for just not knowing what had been going on.
She’d even told him about her dreams—about wanting to teach others to find their inner artist, and how she saw her shop not just as a place for folks to come and buy cute and eclectic yard and garden art pieces, but as a place where the islanders could gather and explore their own creativity. She wanted life, and noise, and people, and all the colorful things that went along with being entrenched in a community.
She smiled as she recalled the look of... well, not exactly horror . . . on Dylan’s face . . . but certainly disconcertment. He was perfectly happy hiding under a car or on his boat, and that wasn’t going to change. Nor did she want it to. He did understand her passions and why they mattered to her, just as she understood his desires. As long as they supported each other’s dreams . . . she couldn’t imagine a better, more fulfilling, and well-balanced partnership. It was certainly far, far beyond the scope of anything she could have ever imagined having.
Dylan mumbled something drowsily in his sleep, and shifted, reaching for her, pulling her close. But instead of seducing her—which she was more than willing to go along with—he drifted back to sleep . . . but not before sliding his hand down to find hers and linking his fingers through hers.
For all they’d come to know each other as intimately as two people could, emotionally and physically, during the past ten or eleven hours, it was that single, instinctive action, subconsciously made, that need to connect with her, palm to palm . . . that tipped her heart over the edge into the last free fall.
Smiling, she traced her fingertips over his knuckles, liking the heat and warmth of his palm against hers . . . and was unprepared for the edges of consciousness to begin shimmering, and suddenly tug and jerk her sideways. Her first instinct was still to recoil, by sheer force of will to try to prevent the vision from manifesting itself. Of course, she couldn’t. Never had.
She squeezed Dylan’s hand, reaching instinctively for him to help her fight it or at least to see her through it. Even as she tumbled headlong into the vision, she recognized how wild it was that in such a short period of time, after never relying on anyone, much less turning to someone, how instinctively and earnestly she turned to him.
Then she was in it, and everything else faded to the background. Her heart was pounding and she braced herself for God knew what. She wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair. She’d finally found someone and the last thing she wanted was to see some sad or horrifying thing that was going to happen to him. They’d spent a significant amount of time being as physical as two people could get, without another trigger, and she’d begun to believe the feelings she had for him, the emotional connection she’d made, was going to keep her from ever having another vision about him. Like with her parents. At least, that’s what she’d hoped.
So having another vision was doubly crushing. She tried to settle herself, calm herself, get in the mindset that if something was going to happen to him, then at least she could give him a fighting chance. It took a lot of focus and a lot of concentration because her heart was beating wildly and she was so afraid of what she might see.
The mists began to part . . . and she realized where she was. She was rocking again on the sailboat! Her relief was so profound she felt dizzy with it. Her racing heart began to calm, and other elements began to surface, faster and more clearly. The pitch and roll . . . the heat of the sun . . . the salty brine in the air . . . the breeze . . . a child’s laughter.
The sound brought her head around, and there was Dylan at the wheel, again. She had a fleeting thought that this idyllic scene was merely the beginning of something bad happening . . . but there was not so much as a ripple of that kind of sensation teasing at the fringes of her awareness.
A cascade of infectious
giggles filled the air and was joined by Dylan’s deeper, resonant chuckle. Honey could feel the sun seeping into her skin, making her feel relaxed, drowsy almost, but she tried to keep her attention on the happy sounds. They did make her happy. In fact, was that . . .? That was her laughter!
In that odd purgatory of being in the moment, and observing it, she watched Dylan steer the boat, taking in his strong stance and how easy he made it look. Wait, his hands were on the wheel, but they were covering other hands. Smaller hands. Tiny hands.
Her face split wide in an exuberant grin as she realized the child she’d heard was standing in front of Dylan, his small feet propped on top of Dylan’s much larger ones as they steered the boat together. She hadn’t seen him before, because Dylan’s body blocked her view.
She opened her mouth to call to them, the child’s name right on the edge of her awareness. But then the sun was fading, the pitch and roll smoothed . . . and a moment later, she was opening her eyes back in Dylan’s bed in his bedroom. She shifted her head to find him lying next to her, his head propped on a folded pillow, watching her with a steady, sober gray gaze.
He was stroking her arm and squeezed her hand still joined with his. “You okay?” His voice was gravel and grit . . . so deep.
She loved the sound of it, still sleepy from the night they’d spent together, except she didn’t like the worry she heard in it. “Very okay.”
“You want to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “It wasn’t anything bad. I was on your sailboat again.”
She debated telling him about the child. Last time, she’d thought it was an existential version of Dylan reliving his childhood. But she realized it was an actual child. Someone he knew or was going to know. They’d been happy, though, so it wasn’t something she needed to get involved in. “It was more like a nice dream. A really, really wonderful dream.”
He shifted his hand and stroked her cheek, then tucked her hair behind her ear. “Guess I’d better get a little more motivated to finally make her seaworthy then. Take you for a sail.”
“You will,” she said, then smiled. “And we will.”
He tugged her close and shifted to his back so she rolled against his chest. “I like these kinds of visions, sugar.”
She loved the deep rumble of his voice, the stubble on his chin, the way he couldn’t go a minute without touching her hair, stroking her skin, staying in contact with her. She felt . . . tended to, desirable . . . maybe even loved, or at least deeply cared for.
“I do, too. You know, I’d thought maybe I wouldn’t have them anymore . . . with you, I mean . . . now that we’ve gotten closer. I never did with my folks or with Bea.”
“You had your guard up pretty tight all those years, though. Maybe relaxing a little, not being so worried about them, is allowing them through.” He smiled and pushed her glasses up. “Maybe it’s also why you’re having good, positive visions along with the occasional more alarming ones.”
She thought about that. “Maybe you were right about it being my own state of mind, or how I felt about them, that was attracting certain kinds of vibes from folks. Bea tried to explain that to me. Hers were almost always more positive and often minor, little things that didn’t matter so much, but always made someone feel better to know.
“She had a few troublesome ones when the vibes were just too strong to ignore. Someone with an accident or a bad fight looming, a divorce maybe, or getting fired . . . and a few times when a person was going to lose someone close. But mine were never like that, never gentle, and rarely about trivial things. I know my second senses are stronger than hers were, but . . . I don’t know. I’m beginning to think—hope—that being older, being more open to them, more at ease about having them . . . is changing the type of vibes I’m picking up.” She leaned in and kissed him, reveling in the knowledge that she could just do that because she wanted to. And oh, she wanted to.
“I hope so, sugar.” He rolled her to her back. “Maybe your spidey senses are contagious . . . because I am experiencing some vibes right now myself.”
She giggled. “Are you now?”
“I’m sensing that someone might want a nice, big, stamina building breakfast before we get up and head in to work.”
She pouted just a little, before she caught herself and smiled. “That would be great.”
He hooted out a laugh and rolled her so she was under him. “Darlin’, if you could have seen the expression on your face just now. Word of advice. Never play poker.”
“I do think breakfast sounds wonderful.”
“Maybe so, but you were hoping I was sensing something else entirely? Just maybe?”
“Just maybe,” she admitted.
“How do you feel about water conservation?”
She frowned in confusion. “Water conservation?”
“I have this nice, big walk-in shower and oversized drenching showerhead. Seems a shame to waste all that water on just one person at a time.”
“Well, now that you mention it, that does seem rather wasteful.”
“Good. Come on.” He rolled off the bed and tugged her with him.
“And here I thought you weren’t a morning person.”
“Only when I have reason to be.” He reached in and turned on the showerheads. Seconds later, steam started to rise inside the glass enclosed walls. “Go ahead on in. I’m going to put coffee on. Forgot to set it last night.” He grinned. “Something distracted me.” He padded out into the hall, completely unself-conscious about being naked—which was when she realized he’d pulled her straight out of bed buck naked and looking like God only knew what.
The mirror was already too fogged, and she was too preoccupied poking her head out of the door to the hallway and watching him stroll to the kitchen. Honestly, no one’s butt should look that incredible. She grinned to herself. But if anyone had to have one . . . she was happy it was him.
She heard him let Lolly in and what sounded like dog food being dumped in a bowl. Then he was coming back down the hall. That sexy, teasing grin slid across his face, looking all the more devilish with the five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. “You peekin’ at my bare ass, sugar?”
She managed a nonchalant shrug. “Might have been.”
He lifted one brow. “And?”
“My, my, give a girl a string of soul shattering orgasms and you suddenly think you’re hot stuff, huh?”
He moved in a sudden flash and scooped her up against his chest, making her squeal and laugh at the same time. “Soul shattering, huh?”
“You’re going to be completely insufferable now, aren’t you?”
He carried her straight into the shower, making her splutter as the warm water splashed over their heads and darted off their shoulders and backs. “I was already insufferable, sugar. Weren’t you payin’ attention?”
He closed the shower door behind him with a flick of his foot and grabbed the bottle of scented body wash from the silver wire rack hanging over her head behind her. “Here,” he said, squeezing out a pool of the creamy soap into the palm of his hands. “Let me show you some of the benefits of paying attention.” He rubbed his palms together and reached for her. “Very close attention.”
Chapter 17
“He cooks?”
“He designed a walk-in shower?”
Honey should be ashamed of herself, she knew that. But for the first time in her life, she had honest-to-God girlfriends. Well, girlfriends and Franco, who was like a bonus girlfriend, only better. She also had herself an honest-to-God man. Could she really be blamed if she gushed about her man to her girlfriends, just a little? Just this once? It wasn’t like she’d told them anything personal or intimate. That was just for her and Dylan.
“It’s heavenly,” she admitted. “I didn’t even know they made those kind of showerhead things. It was as big as a dinner plate. It was like standing in a rainstorm.”
“I saw in a magazine where you can have different nature scenes illuminate the glass en
closure like a screen, sort of like those digital picture frames,” Lani said. “And speakers that play matching nature sounds.”
“I already feel self-conscious in the shower,” Charlotte responded. “The last thing I need is to feel like I’m standing naked in the middle of the jungle.”
“I bet Carlo might think otherwise,” Lani teased.
Charlotte smiled, but said nothing.
“I wonder if you could get any sort of photos to show up on the glass,” Alva mused. “I wouldn’t mind taking a shower with Captain Jack Sparrow.”
Honey choked on a snort of laughter. “I don’t know which would make me more uncomfortable, feeling like I was showering naked in the jungle, or showering naked in front of Johnny Depp.”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” Franco commented, “as long as Johnny was naked, too.”
Everyone was still laughing when Dre came in, balancing her sugar work tool kit and several large paper bags with handles. Honey was closest to the door, so she helped her by taking the bags off her arm and closing the door.
“You can keep the white bag,” Dre told her as she made her way to her regular worktable. “It’s for you.”
Honey followed her and set the bags on her table, then slid the white one to the edge so she could look inside. Something was folded neatly in a plastic bag.
“I thought since you liked Kit’s apron, and you seemed to like some of my marketing ideas”—she shrugged—“anyway, you didn’t have an apron. You could just use it here, or at your own place. It’s more shop apron than baking apron.”
Honey was so surprised and touched she didn’t know what to say. “Dre, that’s, wow . . . that’s so nice of you! You didn’t have to do that.”
Dre continued setting out her tools and prepping her station. “Hope you like it.”
“I know I will.” Honey slid out the plastic bag and everyone pretty much stopped what they were doing to come closer so they could all see. She opened the bag and slid out the apron. It was of heavy cream canvas material and constructed like a shop apron with deep pockets, sturdy ties. She shook it out, then turned it around so she could see the front.
Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie Page 25
