by Teri Wilson
Sam flipped the pad open and pulled a pen from yet another pocket. Those cargo pants were the fashion equivalent of a clown car. “If you agree to put the torch away, a verbal warning will suffice. But something tells me things aren’t going to be that easy.”
Violet weighed her options while Sprinkles danced at her feet in an effort to lure Cinder into a game of chase. Thus far, Sam’s Dalmatian was as unyielding as the man himself.
Perhaps it was time to take the high road, especially if said high road involved obeying the law. She could afford to lose this one battle, so long as she won the war. Most of the cupcakes had already been torched, anyway.
But just as Violet was about to surrender, Hazel Smith from the Turtle Beach Public Library rushed to Sam’s side.
“Oh my gosh, you came!” Hazel clutched Sam’s arm like it was a long-overdue library book.
First Barbara, now Hazel. Was Violet going to be forced to watch every eligible woman on the island throw herself at Sam Nash?
“What a nice surprise,” Hazel gushed. “I thought you had to work tonight.”
Wait. What was happening? Were Sam and Hazel on a date?
Violet shook her head as if to rattle the idea completely out of her thoughts. They couldn’t possibly be together. Who handed out fire code violations on a date?
No one, except maybe a man who ironed his cargo pants and had a history of shutting down bingo night. Sam was like a firefighter action hero. He probably wasn’t capable of going on a proper date without bringing along his pink notepad.
Violet’s stomach churned—this time not in a fluttery, swoony sort of way but in a manner that felt distinctly green-eyed-monsterly. She didn’t like it. Not one bit.
“Actually, Hazel, I”—Sam cast a fleeting glance at Violet and then seemed to do a double-take. His lips twitched again, like they always seemed to do when he was trying not to laugh.
Clearly he was amused by whatever emotions were written on Violet’s face.
“Am I interrupting something?” Hazel said, glancing back and forth between them while her manicured fingertips remained clamped around Sam’s bicep.
“I’m afraid so,” Sam said.
At the exact same time, Violet flicked her culinary torch back on and said, “Nope.”
Forget taking the high road, especially if Sam was going to date the librarian…or anyone else in Turtle Beach.
Sam glared at the tiny blue flame. “Give us a minute, please, Hazel.”
“Oh,” she said flatly. “Sure.”
Once she was gone, Sam took a deep breath that reeked of long-suffering. “Violet, I’m going to give you one more chance to put that thing away.”
“I don’t think so,” Violet said and proceeded to run the torch over the top of a cupcake until the meringue turned a perfect golden brown. Then she offered the cupcake to Sam. “This one’s on the house.”
“I’m going to pass, thanks.” He began aggressively scribbling on his pink notepad.
“Are you sure? Your date might want it,” Violet said.
Sam’s pen stopped moving. “Hazel and I are not on a date. We had a miscommunication.”
“Oh.” Violet put the cupcake back down on the table, and somewhere in the periphery, she was vaguely aware of a flash of black-and-white spots.
When she glanced down, the cupcake had vanished, as had both Sprinkles and Cinder. Two wagging Dalmatian tails poked out from beneath the polka dot tablecloth.
Violet fully expected Sam to put an immediate stop to their antics, but instead he handed her the citation and regarded her through narrowed eyes. “If Hazel and I had been on a date, would it have bothered you?”
The back of Violet’s neck went impossibly hot. How dare he ask her that question.
She took the pink slip of paper and crumpled it into a ball. She had half a mind to burn it right there in front of him. “Not in the slightest.”
The corners of Sam’s eyes crinkled, and he flashed her a knowing smile—too knowing, truth be told. Then he said just one word before he turned to leave.
“Liar.”
Chapter 10
Violet’s jealousy was written all over her face. Sam probably shouldn’t have found it as amusing as he did, but he couldn’t help it. Watching her pretend not to care if he dated Hazel the librarian was as delicious as any of the fancy cupcakes she was so famous for. Maybe even more so. Sam couldn’t be sure because thus far, he’d yet to actually try one of her sugary confections. He’d come close, but something always seemed to get in the way. He looked forward to the day he‘d finally get to take a bite.
Alas, today would not be that day. He couldn’t exactly give her a citation for wielding a culinary torch—which, make no mistake about it, was indeed a contraband incendiary device according to the Turtle Beach fire code—and then sample the illegal by-product of her crime. So once Sam called Violet on her bluff, he strode away from her heady cloud of zesty lemon and spun sugar feeling achingly dissatisfied.
It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced that particular sensation after being in Violet’s presence, which was a fact Sam preferred not to dwell on.
At least Cinder had the decency to scramble out from beneath the tablecloth and follow him as he made his way back toward the overflow area on the senior center’s front patio. Sam and Griff had already gotten the tables, chairs, and PA system all set up, so technically they could both head home. Sam was reluctant to do so, despite giving Hazel the wrong impression by turning up at bingo. If he left now, Violet would probably fire up her culinary torch again before he and Cinder made it as far as the intersection of Seashell Drive and Pelican Street.
The incendiary device was, indeed, still clutched tight in Violet’s grip as she chased after him across the crowded lobby-turned-bingo-parlor and dragged him into the activity director’s empty office by his elbow. So much for getting the last word. Was such a thing even possible with Violet March?
She slammed the door behind them, trapping them inside and out of view of the general bingo-playing public. The office was minuscule, with barely enough space for Barbara Nichols’s empty chair and a desk stacked with art supplies, board games, tambourines, and red-and-green-striped maracas. With the sudden addition of two Dalmatians and their overly competitive owners, there was scarcely room to breathe.
“You’re calling me a liar? Ha!” Violet tipped her head back and laughed, but somehow didn’t sound even a smidge amused. “I couldn’t be less interested in your social life.”
Or lack thereof.
Sam didn’t have a social life, but that was none of Violet’s business. Besides, she was kind of cute when she was pretending not to care who he played bingo with—bingo being a euphemism, obviously.
Sam knew a jealous woman when he saw one. He bit back a smile.
“Stop that,” she said, waving one of her delicate hands in the general direction of his face. Wafts of lemon and marshmallow fluff tickled his nose.
He arched a brow. “Stop what?”
Sprinkles chose that most inopportune moment to spring into a running fit, romping in frantic circles around them. Cinder gave chase and suddenly Sam and Violet were thrust against each other, stuck in the whirling eye of a Dalmatian storm.
Sam’s body came to immediate attention. He tried his best not to think about Violet’s tumbling mermaid hair and sea-glass eyes and tempting scent—the perfect blend of tart and sweet. But as usual, she was impossible to ignore.
“Stop what?” he said again, swallowing hard.
She peered up at him through her thick fringe of eyelashes.
“Stop looking at me like…” Her gaze flitted to his mouth for a telltale second, and her cheeks flared as pink as the giant spinning cupcake that sat atop her food truck. “…like you think I want you to…to…”
Sam couldn’t breathe. He didn’t dare move, no
t even to try and stop the Dalmatian excitation going on around them. He had no idea why Cinder seemed to think it was okay to embark on a game of chase when she was on duty. Perhaps Sam’s thus-far-unsuccessful attempts at getting her to stop making his bed and turning on the coffee maker had loosened his dog’s inhibitions. He couldn’t focus on that right now—he couldn’t focus on much of anything, because every thought in his head was wrapped around the unspoken ending to Violet’s sentence.
Like I think you want me to kiss you?
He couldn’t say it. Both of them might be thinking it, but saying it aloud would make the nonsensical feelings swirling between them impossible to ignore. The smart thing to do—the safe thing—would be to politely excuse himself and return to the harmless world of senior citizens and sponge-tipped bingo daubers.
But for once in his life, Sam didn’t feel like being safe.
“Like I think you want me to kiss you?”
There. He’d said it. And he wasn’t sorry—on the contrary, the moment the words left his mouth, a surge of satisfaction swelled inside his chest, so potent, so damn delicious that he found himself lowering his mouth…closer…closer…and closer toward Violet’s.
Just a taste. Only one, to get it out of our systems.
Violet’s lips parted, an invitation.
What’s the worst that could happen? Sam thought, only vaguely aware that Cinder and Sprinkles had stopped running in circles to cock their heads and watch the insanity that was about to transpire. It didn’t matter. Nothing did. When Violet rose up on tiptoe and brushed her soft lips against his, Sam’s eyes drifted closed, but something inside of him seemed to crack wide open. And then he was consumed with warmth, because kissing Violet was like trying to hold concentrated sunlight in his hands—an elusive bundle of joy and heat, as beautiful as it was potentially destructive.
In certain conditions, such energy could smolder and burn, but the old Sam hadn’t been afraid of fire. Once upon a time, he’d run toward it while others fled.
Maybe that part of him wasn’t so lost after all, because wild Dalmatians couldn’t have dragged him away from kissing Violet March.
***
Violet had hauled Sam into the nearest enclosed space she could find to give him a piece of her mind and emphatically deny the accusation that she could be jealous, so she wasn’t quite sure how she’d ended up kissing him instead. But to be honest, she wasn’t complaining.
What was it about him that she found so horribly offensive, again? For the life of her, she couldn’t remember. From the second the Dalmatians had begun running circles around them, effectively tossing her straight into Sam’s broad chest, Violet’s brain had turned to mush. She’d forgotten all about convincing him that she didn’t care who he played bingo with, probably because she did care. Very much.
And then he’d let his gaze linger on her mouth just long enough for her entire body to clench in anticipation. The waiting was the most exquisite form of torture she’d ever experienced. Every cell in her body seemed to hold its breath, her head spun, and all she could think about was how good it would feel to finally let her guard down around this man whom she’d tried oh-so-hard to resist. Honestly, she deserved a medal for holding out as long as she had.
Maybe the Charlie’s Angels were right. Maybe Sam wasn’t so bad after all—her growing pile of fire code citations notwithstanding. His Dalmatian clearly adored him, so he couldn’t be all bad.
Violet would just have to see for herself. Just this once. Surely no harm could come from one tiny moment of weakness. She and Sam could go back to hating one another tomorrow…or the next day…Saturday at the absolute latest, since that’s when the next softball game was scheduled to take place.
But for now, Violet took matters into her own hands and claimed her reward—a kiss. Just one tiny never-to-be-repeated kiss.
Wow, though. If she’d thought giving in to temptation would finally make it easier to breathe again, she’d never been so wrong. The fluttering she always felt in Sam’s presence spilled over into a full-on swoon as his arms slid around her waist, pulling her tighter against him until she could feel his heartbeat crashing against hers. Then the kiss grew deeper, more urgent, and Violet heard one of the Dalmatians whimper.
Wait, no. That sound hadn’t come out of Sprinkles or Cinder—it had come from Violet’s own lips. And she wasn’t the slightest bit sorry or embarrassed. Her thoughts screamed only one agonizing syllable. More.
“Hot.” Sam groaned into her mouth. “So hot.”
If Violet hadn’t been so weak in the knees, she would have laughed. No man on planet earth had ever told her she was hot, under any circumstances. Cute, yes. Quirky, always. Hot? Not so much. That adjective was reserved for women like Angelina Jolie, Halle Berry, and Scarlett Johansson, none of whom would be caught dead driving a cutesy cupcake truck.
And then she felt it—licks of heat simmering between them, as fierce as hot sand beneath her bare feet on a smoldering summer day. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
What kind of crazy kiss was this?
An explosion of barks made its way through the fog in Violet’s head. With great reluctance, she dragged her eyes open. Something was wrong—very, very wrong.
A tiny flame danced along the cuff of Sam’s uniform shirt. He stared down at it as if trying to make sense of what it was doing there while Cinder and Sprinkles stood at attention, barking in alarm.
“Sam?” Violet took a backward step and then realized she was still holding onto her culinary torch, the obvious culprit.
Oh goodness, she’d set Sam on literal fire. During that delicious clench of anticipation, she must have accidentally squeezed the ON button.
“Stop, drop, and roll,” she blurted.
Amazing. Apparently, she’d actually learned something at Cinder’s cute little fire safety demonstration.
“What’s going on?” Sam frowned down at his flaming shirt sleeve.
The poor man. Violet had clearly kissed all the common sense right out of him.
“You’re on fire,” she said, but Cinder and Sprinkles had started barking so loudly that she wasn’t sure he could hear her above the commotion.
“Stop, drop, and roll!” she shouted, panic coiling low in her belly.
Cinder immediately dropped to the ground and rolled over. Violet would have rolled her eyes if she hadn’t been on the verge of tears.
Then the door to the tiny office swung open, and Griff Martin poked his head inside. “Is everything okay in here?”
So not okay.
But as Violet glanced at Griff filling up the doorframe, she spotted a small fire extinguisher in the corner of Barbara’s office. Yes!
“What the…?” Griff paused a beat before springing into action and running toward Sam, leaping over the Dalmatians.
Violet beat him to it, though. She dropped the culinary torch and snatched the fire extinguisher from the wall. Hands shaking, she yanked the pin and aimed the nozzle at Sam. She squeezed hard and fine white powder sprayed in all directions, coating pretty much everything in Barbara’s office—the desk, the chair, the maracas and tambourines, both uniformed firefighters, and the Dalmatians too, of course. She kept spraying anyway—just to be sure. Plus she wasn’t quite sure how to stop. Sam probably needed to add fire extinguisher instructions to his and Cinder’s cute demonstration.
Griff planted his hands on his hips. Violet was pretty sure it was Griff, anyway. It was kind of hard to tell, since both men were covered in a thick layer of white. “Release the handle.”
Violet relaxed her grip and the fire extinguisher stopped with a sudden hush. Everything was fine, thank goodness. Messy, but fine. The Dalmatians were both sneezing, but Sam was no longer on fire. He was standing right there, completely unharmed, scowling at her like he always did.
Violet had saved the day!
Well, sort of. There was still the teensy problem that she’d been the one who’d started the fire in the first place.
“Um.” Violet felt sick to her stomach all of a sudden. The fire extinguisher slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a clang. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. It was an accident—a terrible, terrible accident. Obviously.”
Sam’s only reply was stony silence. Cinder pranced at his feet and nudged his hand with her head until he gave her a reassuring pat. Don’t worry, the gesture seemed to say. I’m fine. Everything’s okay.
Violet would have given anything to trade places with the Dalmatian in that moment.
Griff glanced back and forth between Violet and Sam. “What exactly happened in here?”
Sam took a deep breath and then bent to pick something up off the floor—Violet’s little culinary torch, which had indeed turned out to be an incendiary device. He held it up and arched an accusatory brow.
A chorus of gasps followed, and only then did Violet notice the crowd of people hovering around the doorway. Senior citizens, sunburned tourists, and any and all manner of bingo enthusiasts gaped at Violet in abject horror. Ethel, Opal, and Mavis were right up front, shaking their heads in dismay.
“Violet, dear,” Mavis said, “might you have accidentally set Marshal Nash on fire?”
Violet’s throat went thick. Something told her there was definitely another pink citation coming her way.
***
An hour later—after Sam and Griff had cleaned every last trace of dry powder from the fire extinguisher out of Barbara Nichols’ office and after Hazel the librarian had offered to give Sam mouth-to-mouth even though he was fully upright and the only part of him that had been touched by fire had been his shirt sleeve—Sam sat alongside Griff at a worn wooden picnic table at the end of the Salty Dog Pier. A small cooler full of frosted bottles of beer sat between them, along with two brown paper bags containing Turtle Beach’s most treasured delicacy: boiled peanuts.
Frankly, damp nuts of any kind hadn’t sounded at all appetizing to Sam. But Griff wouldn’t take no for an answer. Crazily enough, he’d been right. They were delicious. Maybe there was hope for Sam becoming a true Turtle Beach local after all.
