by Kirk, Cindy
Steve Bloom was a traditional man. He’d been happy in his marriage and wanted the same happiness for his daughters. As much as she understood, Ami was grateful there was Delphinium to take some of the pressure off.
Her father worried almost as much about Fin as he did about her, but for different reasons. The young woman who’d been their father’s fishing buddy and was the next stair step down from Ami hadn’t been back to Good Hope in several years.
Ami jerked the hood of her parka up, zipping it until only her eyes peered out. The gloves on her hands were rated for subzero temps, so when she opened the door and stepped into the night air, she was warmer than she’d been in the bakery.
She didn’t mind the walk. As Ami didn’t drive, she normally got to where she was going on foot or by riding her trusty Schwinn.
Snow crunched under the heels of Ami’s boots, and flakes of white clung to her coat and gloves. Street lamps bathed the sidewalks in a golden glow. Distant music from the Flying Crane wafted on the night air.
Ami hummed along to the popular tune and felt the weight of the day lift as she found comfort in the familiar. Many of the shops had been in existence since she was a child.
There was the Good Hope Market. Next to it was Hill’s General Store, a business that had been in Eliza’s family for six generations. The Muddy Boots café, the business Beck had bought last summer, was dark now, the sign on the door flipped to Closed.
Ami had been as surprised as anyone when she’d learned someone from out of state had purchased the café. What had shocked her more was learning that same person had bought the Spencer-Shaw house.
Her secret wish had been to one day buy the house and turn it into a B and B. She’d done cleaning for Katherine Spencer when she’d been in high school and had fallen in love with the home. Kate, as she’d instructed Ami to address her, had no husband or children and wasn’t particularly close to any of her family.
Ami had hoped by the time Katherine decided to sell the home, she’d have the income that would allow her to buy it.
Obviously not meant to be, she thought with a sigh.
When she reached the intersection, Ami crossed Highway 42, the roadway that ran the length of the peninsula. The Spencer-Shaw place, er, Beck’s home, sat at the corner of the highway and Market Street, directly across the street from Hill House.
The house was impressive: a two-story white clapboard with green shutters and stained glass topping each window. A black iron fence enclosed a yard that spanned two lots. In the spring and summer, leafy trees shaded a spread of sprawling green accented with clusters of colorful flowers.
Those in the community who cared about such things had worried the new owner might not keep up the property. That hadn’t been the case. Though Katherine had used a lawn service, Beck tended the grounds himself.
Ami recalled the time she’d been biking to the library and seen him mowing. His white T-shirt was stretched tight across broad shoulders, and worn jeans hugged long, muscular legs.
She smiled at the pleasant memory and opened the gate. Like the sidewalk on both sides of the property, the walk leading to the house had been recently shoveled.
There were lights on upstairs, but the main floor was dark. Ami knocked on the door, then took a moment to brush the snow from her coat and stomp her boots on the mat.
After several seconds with no response, she knocked again, using more force.
This time, lights on the main level flicked on. Seconds later she heard the dead bolt snap. The door swung open and Beck stood blocking the doorway, wearing jeans and a navy, long-sleeved Henley.
He was tall, with a lean, rangy build and a striking face that was all hard angles and planes. He wore his rich chocolate hair longer than when he’d first arrived. The slightly wavy strands brushed the top of his shirt. His eyes, the same color as his hair, held intelligence and perpetual wariness.
“This is a surprise.” Puzzled, his gaze searched hers. “What brings you by, Ami?”
The way he spoke her name—Am-mee—in that soft southern drawl always made her shiver. She supposed all southern drawls were supersexy.
“Hi, Beck.” She gestured to the warmth flooding from the inside out. “Invite me in?”
After a barely perceptible hesitation, he moved back, giving her space to enter.
As she stepped inside, Ami was struck by the clean, fresh scent of him. He smelled of soap and shampoo and an indefinable male scent that had desire curling low in her belly. The thought that she might indeed be lusting after Beckett appalled her.
She’d only recently gotten to know the man, yet here she was, wondering what he looked like naked. The heat that rushed through her was surprising in its intensity. Though Ami was no shy virgin, her two love affairs had been eons ago, and physical intimacy had been a carefully considered decision.
There had been no punch of lust.
No spicy thoughts heating her cheeks.
Coming here, in this frame of mind, had been a mistake.
The odd thing was that Ami hadn’t known she was in this frame of mind . . . until she’d seen Beck.
She edged back into the open doorway. “We can talk about this tomorrow. Just so you know, I’m planning on bringing Cronuts. I don’t know if you’ve ever had one, but they’re really good. Are you familiar with them?” Without giving him a chance to answer or her to take a breath, she continued, “They’re a croissant-doughnut hybrid. My customers love them. I’ll bring a Danish for you, just in case you don’t share my enthusiasm.”
She was babbling, knew she was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop herself.
When he stepped closer, her speech came even faster. “Cronuts were invented by a sous chef in New York City. Right away they were this huge success and—”
“Ami.”
Something in the way he said her name silenced her, even as her heart continued its erratic rhythm. “Yes, Beck?”
“It’s cold out there.” He took her arm and tugged her farther into the foyer and shut the door firmly behind her. “Now, tell me why you came.”
Buying some time, Ami shifted her gaze from those smoldering eyes to the parlor. She blinked. Looked again.
The home that had once boasted luxurious Persian rugs and an amazing decor, looked sad and empty and old. The wallpaper—a delicate rose pattern—had begun to peel. It was obvious now that those beautiful floor coverings had been cloaking hardwood in desperate need of refinishing.
She turned to Beck. “It’s empty.”
His quicksilver smile was gone so quickly she wondered if she’d only imagined it.
“Stellar observation skills, Miss Bloom.”
Ami inclined her head in a regal arch. “Noticing when a room is empty is a particular talent of mine.”
This time she was certain his lips twitched.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
She had to give the guy credit. Beck obviously subscribed to the notion if you don’t get an answer when you first ask, try, try again.
“I’d say you could invite me to sit.” She gestured with a sweeping hand toward the parlor. “But as I don’t see any chairs, that might prove difficult.”
“How about you simply tell me what brought you by?”
Yes, indeed, try, try again.
“How about you find a chair and offer me something hot to drink?” Bantering with Beck was familiar territory, and Ami felt herself relaxing. Contrary to what Hadley intimated, the banter had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with sex.
Beck studied her for a moment through narrowed eyes. “You won’t leave until I do.”
“I knew you were a smart guy.” She took off her gloves, stuffed them into her pockets, then began to unzip her coat. “Too bad you don’t have a fire in there.”
She gestured with her head toward the dark and cold hearth.
“I’ve got the one upstairs. That’s where I spend most of my time.” Before he finished speaking, he raised a hand. “That part of th
e house is off-limits to you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Cross.” Ami gave a dismissive snort. “You act as if I have some burning desire to visit your bedroom.”
Yet she could see it all so clearly: snow falling outside the window, a cheery fire in a hearth, and Beck next to her in a four-poster bed, na—
“Actually, the upstairs fireplace is in the sitting area, not in my bedroom.” Beck sounded amused.
“Oh. Yes, of course. I knew that.” In an attempt to regain control of her wayward thoughts, Ami brushed past him. “Do you use the kitchen much?”
“Hey, where are you—”
Ami didn’t stop until she reached the large room at the back of the house. She’d spent many a pleasant hour in this kitchen.
Now, Kate was far away in Arizona, and she’d probably never see her old friend again. Ami experienced a little pang in the vicinity of her heart at the thought. “I remember when Katherine—Kate—had this room updated.”
Beck watched her warily. It was apparent he was still trying to figure out why she was there.
“Built-in cabinets didn’t exist at the time this house was constructed. Everything was freestanding and moveable.” Warming to the topic, Ami hung her coat on a vintage wall hook by the back door. “Back then the work surfaces were tables, not countertops. Kate was determined to stay true to the era. The only exception she made was the built-in cabinet that houses the dishwasher. This is definitely a twenty-first-century kitchen with a Victorian feel.”
“She did it up right,” Beck acknowledged.
“It cost her a whole bucketload of money.” Ami paused. “After the kitchen was done, she replaced the old boiler. She didn’t tell me what the new modulating-condensing one cost, but I got the impression it was pricey. I wonder if the cost of keeping the place up was part of the reason she decided to sell? Or maybe she had all the improvements made because she planned on selling?”
“Didn’t she tell you why?”
“By the time I heard, it was a done deal. She was already on her way to Arizona.” Ami tried to keep the hurt from her voice. “Kate was a very private person.”
His gaze searched hers. “Sometimes, a person needs to make a change, and they don’t tell others because they don’t want anyone making them second-guess their decision.”
Something told Ami he wasn’t speaking about Kate. She thought about asking him again what had brought him to Good Hope, but refrained. When he’d first arrived, Beck had made it clear his past was off-limits.
Ami plopped down into a chair and realized, for the first time since she’d left her house, she was warm. “A cup of tea would be nice.”
“Would you like a cookie, too?”
Sarcasm laced through the words like a pretty ribbon. Ami hid a smile. “No, thank you. I had a piece of kringle earlier. But I appreciate the kind offer.”
Beck wondered why he didn’t simply toss her out. Actually, he wondered why he’d let her in. He didn’t want visitors, especially not a brown-haired pixie with green eyes and a spray of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
Ami, not A-mee, but Am-ee, as she’d told him the first time they’d met, wasn’t like anyone else in Good Hope. For one thing, she never took him seriously when he growled.
Back when he’d been a trial attorney, one look had been enough to send junior associates in his firm scrambling. This woman seemed immune to such tactics.
Beck couldn’t figure her out. He’d noticed that while Am-ee appeared to know everyone, she seemed to hold part of herself back. But she didn’t ask him questions about his past and he didn’t ask her.
He wondered what she’d say if he told her he’d picked Good Hope by closing his eyes and settling down where his finger landed on the map.
“Since you seem to be moving slow tonight, I’ll brew the tea.” She rose and went to the cabinet. “You do have tea?”
He shook his head.
She rolled her eyes. “Good thing I came prepared.”
Her hand dived into the pocket of her pants and she pulled out two individually packaged tea bags. “I hope you like Earl Grey.”
He was beaten. He knew it. She knew it.
“I’ll get the cups.”
Chapter Three
Beck took a drink of Earl Grey and listened to Ami’s spirited account of the fundraiser she’d attended with her father earlier in the evening. He wondered if she was aware that her face glowed whenever she spoke about helping someone in need.
Ami had a giving spirit. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her. Shortly after he’d moved to Good Hope, she’d strolled through the door of his café at the absolute worst time. The crew he’d hired to tear off the hideous wallpaper had just arrived.
After introducing herself, she’d handed the foreman a box of doughnuts. Then she’d turned those sea-green eyes on him. With a cheeky smile and a sassiness he found refreshing, she’d swung the bag in her other hand back and forth and announced she’d saved several of her favorites for them to share as they got acquainted.
Beck had been powerless to turn her away. She’d plated the pastries. He’d poured the coffee. A morning tradition, which continued to this day, had taken root.
He’d told himself many times he should put a stop to it. The fact that it was becoming harder to take his eyes off her mouth when she wrapped those luscious lips around a cruller only emphasized the danger she posed.
“I put Cory’s name into the Giving Tree.”
“Cory?”
“Cory White.” She stared down into her tea. “The teacher fighting leukemia.”
“You went to a fish fry for him tonight.” That should show her he’d been listening.
“I did.” Ami lifted her gaze. “The event coordinator announced over a thousand dollars was raised for the family. It’s money they desperately need. Cory and his wife have three small children. His wife—Jackie—was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis last year. Stress makes her illness worse. Between the kids and taking him to the doctor for treatments . . .”
Ami’s green eyes turned dark as jade. “We’re lucky, Beck. You and I are so very lucky.”
The words sliced his heart like a meat cleaver. Lucky was not a word he’d use to describe his life. He opened his mouth, prepared to tell her just that, but came to his senses in time. Mentioning his past would only lead to questions. Questions about a time in his life he was doing his best to forget.
“I really hope Cory and his family will get assistance from the Giving Tree.”
“How does that work?” Beck latched on to the offhand comment as a way of getting the conversation off his “lucky” life. Too late he realized he should have steered it in the direction of why she’d come over. He still hadn’t received an answer to that question.
“It’s actually pretty simple.” Ami rose and refilled her mug. She held up the kettle and gestured toward his cup.
What the heck? He nodded.
Her smile was like the sun breaking through the clouds. Before Beck could steel himself, a wave of warmth washed over him. He realized the feeling of contentment he experienced when around her was another reason he hadn’t told her to stay away.
After filling his mug to the brim with steaming water, Ami resumed her seat across from him. Wrapping small, sturdy hands topped with short-cut light pink nails around the red ceramic mug, she leaned forward.
“The Giving Tree started out as a Christmas gift project sponsored by the rotary.” Her eyes took on a faraway look. “As kids, my sisters and I would do bake sales and car washes in the summer specifically to raise money to buy the gifts. Our dad was very active in the rotary. Still is, for that matter.”
“I don’t understand how the charity works.”
Ami stiffened ever so slightly. If he hadn’t been observing just how nicely she filled out her sweater, he might have missed the subtle response.
“It’s not a charity.” She paused, took a deep breath. “Not that charity is a bad word. In th
e most basic terms it means voluntarily giving, typically money, to those in need. But in some circles, it carries a negative connotation, a one-upmanship that I find offensive.”
Beck had never given the matter much thought. His parents were both very philanthropic. He’d carried on the tradition. In his former life he’d generously donated to numerous charities in the town where he lived.
“I never considered the one-upmanship angle.” He rubbed his chin. “I have to admit I’d probably be one of those too proud to take money or help.”
“If you had a family who depended on you, like Cory does, I imagine you’d find a way to overcome your reservations.” Ami sipped her tea, her green eyes thoughtful. “That’s why it’s so important to always stress this isn’t charity. The Giving Tree is basically neighbors helping neighbors who’ve fallen on hard times. We help in many ways, not just by giving money.”
“Do the Cherries have their fingers in this pie?” Beck barely suppressed a sneer. Eliza and her troop had been a thorn in his side from day one.
The slight twitch of those red lips told him Ami knew exactly how he felt about Eliza Shaw. No doubt she’d heard about his altercation with the group’s executive director.
“There is some crossover, but the rotary remains in control of the Giving Tree. It takes many community volunteers working year-round to meet the needs of Good Hope citizens. This year, I’m the chair of club projects, which means I’m in charge of Christmas gift distribution.”
Her gaze suddenly narrowed on him. When she tapped a finger against her lips, the hairs on the back of Beck’s neck prickled.
After a long moment she spoke. “Being a rotarian is an excellent way for a business owner to become involved in the community.”
“I don’t have time.” Beck raised a hand, palm out, deciding it was best to put a stop to her pitch before it went any further. “With Janey gone and—”
“I don’t need you to do me—” Ami inhaled sharply, then emitted a nervous giggle. “I mean, I don’t want you to—”
Beck inclined his head and watched a hint of red creep stealthily up her neck.
