by Nora Roberts
She watched her friends, on shore and sea, listened to the sounds of voices, of surf, of music.
“I could get myself back to the beach,” she told him. “Like I could’ve gotten myself in the water in the first place if I’d wanted to.”
“Yeah, but then I couldn’t do this.” He shifted her, took her mouth as the water rocked them.
Once again she was forced to admit he had a point.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SHE WANTED TO BAKE. MAYBE IT WAS THE LIGHT PITTER-PATTER of morning rain outside the windows that turned the beach into a pearly watercolor—or just several days running without doing much more in the kitchen than making coffee or nuking some popcorn.
Laurel supposed it was the same as Parker sneaking off for a couple of hours every day to huddle over her laptop, or Mac with her camera. And hadn’t Emma hunted up a flower shop so she could buy armloads to arrange around the house?
After a few days of sleeping in, lazing around, after the long walks and nightly game fests, she just wanted to get her hands in some dough.
She’d already checked out the pantry, noting that Del knew her well enough to stock the basics, and with some surprise realized he paid enough attention to what she kept in her own pantry to shelve more specifics toward professional baking.
But he didn’t know everything, she thought, because she was in the mood for pies.
She made a mental list, knowing it depended on what she found once she got to the market.
She left a note for Parker.
Gone to market. Borrowed your car.
L.
And grabbing the keys and her purse, set out on what she thought of as a little adventure.
IN THE GYM, PARKER WATCHED THE RAIN AS SHE FINISHED UP HER cardio session. She hadn’t turned on the news as was her habit—a concession to the holiday. Whatever was going on in the world just had to wait until she got back home.
With the exception of her brides. But really, she thought, it hadn’t been too bad. A scatter of calls, a handful of problems and concerns she’d been able to handle long-distance.
In fact, it was satisfying to know she could be away and still deal with what needed to be done.
She smiled as she spotted Mac, her shock of red hair covered in a ball cap, her windbreaker a bright blue flash as she headed down to the rain-washed beach with her camera.
They could get away from home, Parker thought, but not from what they were.
She watched a moment longer, then walked over to switch the music to something less driving for the rest of her workout.
It was such a treat to take as much time as she wanted, not to watch the clock, not to adjust her routine to meet an appointment or dig into a chore.
She opted to make use of the barre, started off with some plies.
When Mal walked in she had her foot on the barre and her nose to her knee.
“Bendy,” he commented, then lifted his eyebrows when she stared at him. “Do you have a problem with me getting some time in?”
“No, of course not.” It irritated her that she caught herself, too often, stiff and ungracious around him. So she made a deliberate effort to be friendly. “Help yourself. You can change the music if you want. It won’t bother me.” She refused to be bothered.
He only shrugged, and headed over to the weights to set up for bench presses. “I didn’t know anyone else was up until I heard the long-hair.”
“Mac’s already down at the beach with her camera.” No reason not to be civil, Parker told herself.
“In the rain?”
“We can’t seem to help ourselves.” She turned to face him with a smile—but mostly because she suspected he’d stare at her ass if she didn’t.
“Whatever works for you. I’ve seen some of her shots. You ought to put some up around here.”
It surprised her as she’d already planned to do so. “Yes, we should. So ...What do you press?”
“I keep it about one-fifty.You’ve got good arms,” he said after one of his long surveys. “How about you?”
“One-ten, maybe one-twenty if I’m in the mood for it.”
“Not bad.”
She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she stretched. There was no denying the man had arms on him. Muscles bunched but didn’t bulge as he lifted and lowered the weights. High on his sleek right biceps rode a tattoo in the shape of a Celtic manhood knot.
She’d only Googled the design out of curiosity.
She respected a man who stayed in shape. As she’d seen Mal stripped down for the ocean—not that she’d paid particular attention—she knew he did.
She moved on to crunches, and he to curls. She added in some pilates, and he switched to flies. He was unobtrusive, so she nearly forgot he was there and ended her workout with a few minutes of yoga to stretch everything out again.
She turned to get a bottle of water and nearly walked into him.
“Sorry.”
“No problem.You’re seriously ripped there, Ms. Brown.”
“Toned,” she corrected. “I’d pass the ripped to you, Mr. Kavanaugh.”
He got two bottles of water out of the cooler, handed her one. Then he moved in until her back was against the cooler, his hands on her hips, and his mouth taking easy possession of hers.
She told herself it was the stunned surprise—where had this come from?—that prolonged the moment, the kiss, the slow, sultry rise of heat. She shoved him back a half a step, gulped in air.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.”
“Okay.”
She stared him down, but he seemed unaffected by the look that withered most. Still, he didn’t move in on her again, but only stood watching her with those sharp green eyes.
Cat to mouse, she thought. That’s how it made her feel. And she was nobody’s mouse.
“Listen, if you’ve got the idea I’m ... that because everyone’s paired up and we’re . . .”
“No. That was you. Fourth of July. I remember it really well.”
“That was just—nothing.”
“I liked it. But no, I don’t have the idea. I just like your mouth and thought I’d see if my memory was accurate. It was.”
“Now that we’ve established that.” She elbowed him aside, and stalked out.
On a sound that combined amusement and pleasure, Mal stepped over to change the music. He preferred his long-hair with guitar and drums.
WITH VERY WARM FEELINGS TOWARD THE LOCAL MARKET, LAUREL unloaded her bags. She might’ve gone just a little overboard, but since it made her happy, she didn’t see anything wrong with that. She had enough to bake her pies, some bread, a coffee cake—and whatever else struck her fancy.
“I think it’s clearing up.”
She turned to see Mac, windbreaker shiny with rain, crossing over from the beach steps. “Oh yeah, I can see that.”
“No, really. See? Look over there.” Mac pointed to the eastern sky. “Little patches of blue. I’m optimistic.”
“And wet.”
“Got some great shots.” She reached in for another bag. “Dramatic, dreamy, moody. Jeez, this is heavy. What did you get?”
“Stuff.”
Mac peeked in, then sent Laurel a smug smile. “You’re going to bake. Just can’t take the Betty out of the Crocker.”
“You should talk since you haven’t dug Annie out of the Leibovitz.”
“Emma’s making noises about putting in a beach garden. Pampas grass and . . . well, who knows. It doesn’t make us workaholics.”
“No. It makes us productive.”
“Much better,” Mac agreed as they hauled the load up the steps. “I’m having the best time, and now I can’t wait to upload the digitals and see what I’ve got. I took some film, too. I wonder what it would take to talk Parker and Del into putting in a darkroom.”
“Parker thinks the place would be perfect for casual beach weddings.”
Mac pursed her lips in thought. “That may be going too far. Except, shit, it reall
y would.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Laurel ordered and shifted her bags to open the door.
Before she could, Del pulled it open. “There you are.” He took a bag from each of them. “Did we need supplies?”
“I did.”
He set them on the counter, leaned down to give her a quick kiss. “Good morning. Hey, Macadamia, you’re all wet.”
“It’s clearing up,” she insisted. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Have you seen Carter?”
“Briefly. He had a book about this thick.” Del stretched his thumb and forefinger out.
“That’ll keep him occupied.” She poured the coffee and gave them a salute on her way out.
“Missed you in bed this morning,” Del said to Laurel. “I woke up to the sound of the rain and the surf, and thought, now this is the perfect place to be. But you weren’t there, so it wasn’t.”
“I went on a mission.”
“So I see.” He reached in a bag, pulled out one of several lemons. “Lemonade?”
“Lemon meringue pie, and a deep-dish cherry pie, I think.And I want to bake some bread, maybe a coffee cake. Rainy mornings are great for baking.”
“Boy, our minds went in different directions on rainy morning.”
She laughed as she unpacked the bags. “If you’d woken up sooner, we could’ve had both. No, let me unpack. I know where I want everything.”
He shrugged and left her to it. “I guess I’ll hit the gym then, especially since pies are in my future. If you’ve got the receipt or remember what you spent, I’ll pay you back.”
She stopped. “Why?”
“You shouldn’t have to buy the supplies,” he said absently as he pulled a bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge.
“And you should?” She couldn’t stop the line of heat that rode up her spine.
“Well, it’s—”
“Your house?” she finished.
“Yes. But I was going to say it’s more . . . equitable since you’re doing the work.”
“Nobody did any work last night when we all went out to dinner and you picked up the check.”
“That was just . . .What’s the problem? Somebody else will get it next time.”
“Do you think I care about your money? Do you think I’m with you because you can pick up dinner checks and have a place like this?”
He lowered the bottle. “Jesus, Laurel, where did that come from?”
“I don’t want to be paid back. I don’t want to be taken care of, and you can screw
equitable because that’s never going to happen. But I can pay my own way, and I can buy my own damn supplies when I want to make some pies.”
“Okay. I’m a little puzzled why offering to pay you back for a bunch of lemons pisses you off, but since it does, offer rescinded.”
“You don’t get it,” she muttered as Linda’s jeering hired help echoed in her mind. “Why would you?”
“Why don’t you explain it to me?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to bake. Baking makes me happy.” She reached for the remote, turned on music at random. “So, go work out.”
“That’s the plan.” But he set down the bottle to take her face in his hands, study it. “Be happy,” he said. Kissed her, grabbed the bottle again, and left.
“I was,” she murmured. “Will be again.” Determined, she began arranging her supplies and ingredients as suited her.
Mal walked in while she cut shortening into her flour mixture for the pastry dough.
“I love seeing a woman who knows what she’s doing in the kitchen.”
“Glad to oblige.”
He went to the coffeepot, judged the remainder stale, tossed it. “I’m going to make a fresh pot.You want?”
“No, I’ve had enough.”
“So, what’s on the menu?”
“Pies.” She heard the edge in her voice, made the effort to dull it. “Lemon meringue and cherry.”
“I’ve got a weakness for a good piece of cherry pie.” Once he’d set the coffee to brew, he stepped over to her counter, scanned it. “You use actual lemons for the lemon meringue?”
“Well, they were out of mangoes.” She glanced at him as she added ice water. “What else?”
“You know that little box with a picture of a slice of pie.”
She unbent enough to laugh. “Not in my kitchen, friend. Juice and rind from actual lemons.”
“How about that?” He poured the coffee, then poked in a cupboard. “Hey, Pop-Tarts. Is it going to bother you if I watch?”
Stumped, she stopped what she was doing to stare at him. “You want to watch me make pies?”
“I like seeing how things work, but I can take off if I’m in your way.
“Just don’t touch anything.”
“Deal.” He took a seat on a stool on the other side of the counter.
“Do you cook at all?”
He ripped open the Pop-Tart package as he spoke. “When I first took off for L.A., it was learn to put food together or starve. I learned. I make a damn good red sauce. Maybe I’ll put that together tonight, especially if the rain keeps up.”
“Mac claims it’s clearing.”
Mal glanced out at the thin, steady rain. “Uh-huh.”
“That’s what I said.” She picked up the rolling pin—a good marble one she knew Del had bought with her in mind. It made her feel small about jumping down his throat.
A sigh escaped as she flour-dusted her board.
“It’s hard to be rich.”
She looked up, stared again. “What?”
“Harder to be poor,” he said in the same easy tone. “I’ve been both—relatively—and poor’s tougher. But rich has some baggage with it. I was doing okay in L.A. Steady work. I built up a rep, and I had a decent cushion when I got hurt doing that gag. That put the brakes on the work, but they ended up dumping a shitpile of money on me for my trouble.”
“How bad were you hurt?”
“Broke a few things I hadn’t broken before, and a few more I already had.” He shrugged it off as he bit into the Pop-Tart. “Point is, by my standards anyway, I was rolling in it. A lot of other people figured the same, and that they could do some rolling, too. Mice come out of the woodwork looking for a nice bite of the cheese, then they get nasty if you don’t share, or share enough to their way of thinking. Gave me a whole new perspective on who and what mattered, and who and what didn’t.”
“Yeah, I guess it would.”
“Del’s always had the rolling in it, so it’s some different for him.”
She stopped rolling. “You were listening?”
“I was walking by, heard what I figure was the last of it. I didn’t plug my ears and whistle a tune. But maybe you don’t want my take.”
“Why would I?”
Her frigid tone didn’t seem to chill him in the least. “Because I get it. I know what it is to need to prove you can handle yourself, make your own. I don’t come from where you do, but it’s not all that far off. My mother talks,” he added. “I let her. So I’ve got some of the backstory.”
She shrugged. “It’s not a secret.”
“Pisser though, being gossip fodder, especially when it’s ancient history, and not really about you since it’s about your parents.”
“I guess I should quid pro quo and tell you I know you lost your father, and your mother moved back here to work for your uncle. And that didn’t work so well for you.”
“He’s a fucker. Always was.” He picked up his coffee, gestured with the mug. “How do you do that? The crust deal? Get it almost perfectly round?”
“Practice.”
“Yeah, most everything takes it.” He watched in silence as she folded it, placed it in the first pie plate, unfolded. “Applause. So anyway, my take—”
“If I’m going to get your take, you can be useful and pit the cherries.”
“How?”
She handed him a hairpin, took another. “Like this.” She demonstrated, plunging the
pin into the base of the cherry. The pit popped out the top.
His eyes, very green, lit with interest. “That’s freaking ingenious. Let me try that.”
He did so with considerable more skill than she’d expected, so she pushed two bowls toward him.
“Pits in here, fruit in here.”
“Got it.” He got to work. “Del doesn’t think about money like most of us do. He’s nobody’s fool, that’s for damn sure. He’s generous by nature—nurture, too, if what I hear about his parents is even half true.”
“They were amazing people. Incredible people.”
“That’s the word on the street.” Mal’s hands worked quickly, deftly—impressing her—with pin and pit. “He’s compassionate and fair. Not a pushover, but believes in using money not just for his comfort and pleasure, but to build, to make a mark, to change lives. He’s a hell of a guy.”
“He really is.”
“Plus he’s not an asshole, which counts a lot. Hey. You’re not going to water up or anything, are you?” Mal asked cautiously.
“No. I don’t water up easily.”
“Good. So what I’m saying is he buys this place—or he and Legs buy it.”
“Are you really going to call Parker ‘Legs’?”
“She’s sure got them. An investment, sure. And a getaway for them. But he—they—open it up. Seems to me they could’ve said, ‘Okay, vacation time. See you in a couple weeks.’ But that’s not what they did.”
“No, they didn’t.” Her opinion of him rose several notches. He understood, and he appreciated.
“So we’ve got this houseful of people. I felt a little weird about tagging along, but that’s on me. For Del, it’s, ‘We’ve got this place, let’s use it.’ No weight, no strings.”
“You’re right. Damn it.”
Those sharp green eyes met hers again, with an understanding that nearly made her “water up.”
“But he doesn’t get we bring our own weight, our own strings. He doesn’t feel them or see them. If he did—”
“He’d be irritated or insulted,” she finished.
“Yeah. But sometimes a girl needs to buy her own lemons, so he’s got to deal with the irritation and insult.”
