Jessica Casillas-Moore’s former life as a beauty queen led to her current gig as a lifestyle consultant for a dozen local TV stations, but it also means she hasn’t eaten carbs since she was fourteen. But smelling them won’t ruin her career, so she makes a point to route her morning run past The Breadery, River Hill’s most delicious site. When she meets the handsome baker, sparks fly and cupcakes get … frosted.
Opposites really do attract, and it turns out that Jess and Sean just might be made for each other. But when his past rears its ugly head and her future comes calling, they’ll have to work out just how much they’re ready to give in order to get what their hearts most desire.
Chapter One
“I don’t know much about interventions, but I think you’re doing it wrong.” Sean Amory peered over the rim of his glass at his friends. “For starters, I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do it at a bar.”
Max Vergaras rested his elbow on the sticky surface of The Hut’s bar top, making a face as his shirt moved in a different direction than his skin. “It’s the only place we can find you these days.”
“It’s here or work,” Noah Bradstone added, taking a seat on the other side of Sean as Iain Brennan nodded in agreement from behind him.
“So?” Sean sipped his whiskey, ignoring the concern written all over their faces—except for one. “Disappointed I’m not drinking yours?” He aimed the barb at Iain.
“We don’t distribute here. Just Frankie’s,” the Irishman answered with an easy shrug.
“I don’t drink at Frankie’s.”
“Not anymore, you don’t,” Max said. He owned Frankie’s, and when he wasn’t in the kitchen, he was behind the bar. He had a fair idea of how much his customers drank on any given night, which was exactly why Sean had stopped drinking there.
“I didn’t know you were hurting for business.”
Max rolled his eyes but didn’t bother to respond. Frankie’s—and many of the other businesses that rounded out River Hill’s ridiculously charming downtown—had never been better. Some recent high-profile publicity for the town had brought the tourists in droves, and everyone appreciated the extra income, if not the actual vacationers.
Noah leaned in. “Sean, you know why we’re here.”
“Slumming?” Noah’s highbrow wine labels weren’t available at The Hut any more than Iain’s fancy whiskey was.
“You need help.” Noah’s thick eyebrows snapped down into a frown. “Seriously.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re drinking too much.”
“Maybe you’re not drinking enough.” These men had been his friends for years. Iain was new to the pack, having moved to River Hill to cohabit with the notoriously prickly Naomi Klein last year, but the others knew him well. Right now, Sean wished he’d never met any of them.
“Listen.” Noah was taking the lead again. Sean briefly imagined slamming his friend’s head into the ancient bar top in front of them, then shook his head slightly to clear it. Violence wasn’t his style. Maybe the guys had a point. He transferred his glare from the group to the glass in front of him as Noah continued speaking. “My therapist is always saying to think about what it would look like if you confronted the things you’re running from, if your worst fears actually came true. Then—”
Sean snorted a bitter laugh. “That’s the last thing I need to imagine.”
He knew exactly what it would look like. Cal Grissom’s too-pale face, slack in death, had been floating into his vision every time he closed his eyes for the last year and a half. Drinking was the only thing that blurred the grisly image, the only thing that stopped him waking up in the middle of the night reaching helplessly toward the kid’s hand, dangling loosely over the side of the perfectly made-up hotel room bed, still clutching the pill bottle that had killed him. Rigor mortis had made his fingers curve exactly to the shape of the bottle even after they’d pried it out, a detail Sean wished every single day he could forget.
“I think you should call a therapist. If not mine, then a different one.” Noah reached out and plucked the half-empty glass from Sean’s loose grip. “This isn’t cutting it, my friend.” He sniffed the glass. “I’m pretty sure Johnnie Walker’s degree is strictly honorary.”
“Fuck you.” He’d meant for the insult to be biting, but it just came out sounding tired. He didn’t try to get the glass back.
Max sighed. “Whether you decide to call a shrink or not, brother, this phase is over. We’re calling it.”
“What are you talking about?”
The chef exchanged a nod with the bartender, who shot Sean a guilty glance. “Sorry, Sean. Big Mitch called a few minutes ago. You’re cut off.”
“What?” This was the last thing he’d expected. Nagging him to get help he could deal with. Bringing Big Mitch into the picture was a little extreme. The head of River Hill’s resident biker gang was a silent owner of The Hut, a fact not many people knew. Except the other small business owners of River Hill, of course. “What the hell did you do?” he said, turning on Max.
Iain laid a hand on Sean’s back, warm through the fabric of his vintage tee. “Sorry, lad. It’s done. I’m afraid you won’t be served at any bar in town.”
“You …” Sean seethed. He couldn’t even get words out.
“It’s for your own good,” Max said. “You’ll thank us later. Maybe.”
“I don’t give a shit whether you thank us or not,” Noah added. “I just want you upright and alive by the end of the year, and this is the only way we could see to make that happen.”
“I’ll just go out of town to drink, then.” Sean rolled his eyes. “Your perfect plan has some pretty big holes in it, guys.”
“Well, that’s your choice,” Noah said. “But I have to tell you this particular plan was Plan B.”
“What was Plan A?” Did he even want to know?
Noah sighed. “Angelica just got a seat on the tourism board. With your mom.” Noah’s girlfriend was a former actress who’d opened a bed and breakfast in River Hill last year, leveraging her former career to get a deal with a TV network to film the renovation. The show had brought a lot of good publicity to River Hill, and pretty much everybody adored her these days. Including Sean’s mother, who owned the family bakery. Where he now worked.
The only thing he did these days besides drink, and the only thing that had given him a lifeline when it had felt like his entire world had spun out of control, was head to the bakery. He’d come home to River Hill to work, hoping the familiar actions of kneading, cutting, and baking would soothe his bruised soul after what had happened in L.A.
But his mother didn’t know about the drinking part, as far as he knew.
“I hate your girlfriend,” he told Noah. “And you can tell her I said so.”
“You can tell her yourself, if you do it sober,” Noah said. “She told me to tell you that.”
Sean shook the bleariness of sobriety out of his eyes as he bent over a sheet of scone dough. His head was aching more than it usually did on the days he was hungover.
He sliced mechanically through the thick dough on a diagonal with his bench scraper, the movement economical as only years of practice could make it. He might have spent the last ten years in L.A. working his way up the ladder as a record producer, but he’d grown up doing this. Baking was in his bones. The Amory family had owned The Breadery since River Hill had been founded.
He slid the scones onto a waiting sheet pan and popped them into the huge oven, pulling out two oversized muffin tins before he closed the door. He prodded the muffins with a finger, then spun the tins onto the counter to cool enough that he could turn out the goodies inside and put them into the display case before opening. Which he wasn’t looking forward to.
It was the quiet mornings alone in the bakery that had brought him back here. Sometimes, he thought the bakery had actually saved his life. He’d been shell-shocked, shattered after finding his protégé dead. Producing records had suddenly seemed
like an incredible waste of time. A week after he’d buried the kid, Sean had returned to the one thing he knew he could do productively: feeding people. When he’d asked for the opening shift, the bakery’s other employees had practically thrown him a party. His mother hadn’t asked any questions either. She’d simply handed over the keys and a couple of quick instructions he hadn’t really needed.
It turned out baking was like riding a bike. You never really forgot how, especially when every turn of the dough, every shake of the sifter, and every sprinkle of cinnamon brought color back into your pale, dry life.
But he still hadn’t been able to shake the nightmares. So he’d been drinking. Maybe his friends were right, though, and it was too much.
Today was the first morning in ages he hadn’t simply gone through the motions of mixing, scooping, rolling, and flipping. The line of pastries already in the display case shone softly in the light, sugar crystals winking slightly. Sean sighed, and rested his head against the side of the huge refrigerator.
Sobriety might be healthy, but it was hard as shit. He wanted a drink.
Instead, he swept the used parchment paper and crumbs lining the countertop into a trash bag and spun it swiftly to bring the ends together. He tied a knot in the top and hooked a finger through it, lifting the bag and taking it to the back door toward the dumpster, which was cleverly disguised behind a faux picket fence. Because this was River Hill, and everything was relentlessly pretty here. Even the dumpsters.
Sean heaved the bag over the edge of the fence, then paused to admire the sunrise for a brief moment before going back inside to start on his next batch of danishes. Picket fences, window boxes full to bursting with color, and delicate filigree gazebos were one thing; this was real beauty.
The Breadery opened at seven in the morning for folks who wanted a quick breakfast pastry to go with their coffee from the Hollow Bean across the town square. That meant he arrived no later than four to prepare the morning’s offerings. A few doughs got made by whoever closed the night before—usually his mom and one of the other employees—but the quick breads and all the decorative work had to get done before the sun came up.
He stretched, feeling his back crack, then paused as he heard an unexpected sound. Was that somebody running? His body came alert without conscious thought, years of living in L.A. taking his mind into danger mode immediately. He wasn’t about to deal with another tragedy, especially not here on his home turf. Just the thought of seeing another dead body here, in his safe haven, made his blood boil. He turned, ready to do something—although he wasn’t entirely sure what—and saw the source of the running footsteps.
It was only a jogger. His body sagged, then straightened as he got a closer look. She was toned and lean, but with just enough curves in all the right places. Tanned skin wrapped in black compression leggings and a purple tank that left the lines of her shoulders bare to the thin morning light. Long dark hair, swept back into a thick ponytail, swung with every rhythmic step. She slowed as she came closer to the bakery, and he stepped back, not wanting to get in her way. His back hit the doorframe and he watched, enraptured, as she slowed to a walk. The woman took deep breaths, lifting her head and closing her eyes. It seemed almost like she was sniffing the air. Then again, maybe she was. He was mostly used to it, but the heady scents coming from the ovens were strongest at this time of day.
His foot scuffed the ground, and her eyes flew open. When she saw him staring, he felt himself blushing like a teenager. It was like she’d caught him peeping. He raised a hand awkwardly and she smiled at him, then sped past without a word. A few long steps later, she was gone, jogging around the corner and into the growing foot traffic of a River Hill morning.
Sean let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he was holding. Well, that was something new. If he was going to see beauty like that every time he took a break in the morning, he’d come out to admire the sunrise a hell of a lot more often.
As it was, this was the first morning he’d taken even a moment out of the simple routine he’d clung to as a lifeline when he came home. And to be honest, it was the first morning in months he’d been sober enough to appreciate anything anyhow. Had she been there all along?
What else had he been missing?
To be notified when THE BAKER’S BEAUTY is available for pre-order, sign up here: https://www.subscribepage.com/RiverHillSeries.
Acknowledgments
From Rebecca
As always, a million and one thanks to my husband who who is a saint among men. I couldn’t do this without his support. A huge thanks also goes out to our beta readers who continue to provide valuable insight and suggestions that help make our characters that much better. My heartfelt gratitude to Melissa and Jessica who keep me organized so that I can focus on writing while they take care of all the magical behind the scenes stuff that goes into being an indie author. And of course, I can’t forget the book bloggers who’ve supported me along the way and have been enthusiastic about the River Hill Series since I first teased you with the words “sexy winemaker.” I hope you love this dashing distiller too! And finally, to Jamaila … my soul sister. I am so, so glad we decided to write together. This has been such an amazing experience, and I hope we’re still doing it when we’re both old and gray. (PS, tell the husband I’m sorry about all the texts.)
From Jamaila
Thanks always and foremost to my husband, who is still putting up with this bizarre career choice of mine. And special thanks to my children, who are both the reason I write and the reason I never have time to write. A huge thank you to my BFF and beta reader Robin, who is always super enthusiastic about these books (and always willing to have playdates, especially with mimosas). I have never-ending wells of gratitude for the book bloggers, bookstagrammers, tweeters, and reviewers who have embraced River Hill - if I could, I'd invite you all to a huge party in that adorable town square and dinner at Frankie's afterwards. And finally, most importantly, thank you to Rebecca, my partner in crime and wine. For a hundred texts, instant messages, and emails, and for messages of increasing enthusiasm as the time difference gets greater. I can't wait for our next retreat, and I can't wait to keep writing with you no matter where we are!
About the Authors
USA TODAY bestselling author Rebecca Norinne writes sexy romance from the heart. When not writing, she is watching rugby, enjoying a pint of craft beer, or traveling the globe in search of inspiration for her next book. If she could invite three people to dinner it would be Hillary Clinton, Martha Stewart, and Kelly Clarkson. Much wine would be consumed. Rebecca currently lives in Dublin, Ireland, with her husband, but is originally from California.
For more information, visit http://www.rebeccanorinne.com.
Or, you can stalk her on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram where you’ll find pictures of food, booze, and hot athletes in short shorts.
Jamaila Brinkley writes historical romance with a hint of magic. Her Wizards of London series features thieves, duchesses, witches, and more indulging in mayhem and romance in Regency England. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, and was a finalist in the Romance Through the Ages contest in 2015.
Jamaila came to romance as an avid reader of fantasy and science fiction, and found that her favorite historical romances seemed ripe for an injection of magic. Her favorite historical period is currently the Victorian era, and she’s never happier than when immersed in a multi-book family series.
Jamaila lives outside Baltimore, Maryland in a house that is perpetually under renovation with her husband and twin toddlers. You can find her blogging about romance, writing, parenting, cooking, and more on her website at www.jamailabrinkley.com, and posting pictures of her lunch on Twitter as @jamaila.
Also by Rebecca
The River Hill Series
The Vintner’s Vixen
The Distiller’s Darling
The Dublin Rugby Romance Series
Trying Sophie
Ruck Me
SCR
UMptious
Break Down
The Love Story Duo
Lucky Star
The Ties That Bind (Coming July 2018)
The McClintock Security Series
Ashes to Ashes
Return to Me (Coming Fall 2018)
Also by Jamaila
THE WIZARDS OF LONDON SERIES
Thieves’ Honor
Witch’s Stone
Captain’s Lady
THE GALIPP FILES
The Star of Anatolia
The Mathematical Gambit
The Portrait Problem (coming soon!)
Copyright © 2018 by Rebecca Norinne and Jamaila Brinkley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product(s) of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or meant to lend credibility and authenticity to the story. The use of brand names and locations should not be read as an endorsement of this author’s work.
The Distiller's Darling (River Hill Book 2) Page 18
