"You know it's nearly ten, right?"
"What?"
He pointed to the clock.
Dismay flashed across her face. "Oh, I didn't realize it was so late. I guess I'll do the cakes in the morning. That's probably a better plan anyway."
"What time do you get up?"
"Tomorrow—probably four."
"That's six hours from now."
"I'm used to going on little sleep."
"So am I, but at some point it catches up to you. You can't do your best work when you're exhausted," he said.
"I appreciate that, but I feel pretty good. I am sorry I kept you so long. I tend to lose track of time when I'm baking."
"I noticed that."
"Your help was invaluable, Roman. I feel better having gotten so much done tonight."
"I'm glad I was able to help a little. I like your drive," he said, stepping forward to wipe a smudge of flour off her cheek.
Her blue eyes sparked back at him, and suddenly he had a feeling that neither one of them was thinking about cake anymore.
"I like your willingness to learn," she said.
"What else do you like?" he asked softly.
She drew in an unsteady breath. "Your eyes, the intensity of your gaze. When you're looking at me, I don’t feel like there's anyone else in the room."
"I know the feeling. What else?"
"Searching for compliments?" she teased.
"It's more that I want to know what you like."
"I like the way you kiss me, the way you hold me, pretty much everything about it."
"I like the way you kiss me back," he said softly. He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her up against him. "I think I've earned my reward for being a sexy assistant in an apron and a hat."
She smiled at the reminder. "First, tell me what you like about me."
"Where do I start?"
"Anywhere you want."
"I like your hair, the way it curls up from the steamy ovens. I like the way your cheeks flush when you cook or when you talk or when you think I'm going to kiss you."
She put her hands on her cheeks. "Are they pink now?"
"A beautiful shade of rose—like your lips…your soft, sexy, tempting lips."
"Oh, my," she said, breathing in. "When I first met you, I thought you were a man of few words, but I'm liking the words you choose a lot better now."
"So, is it time for my reward?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, smiling back at him. "You've earned it in so many ways." Her hands slid around his neck as she pressed on tiptoe to kiss him.
The kiss started out soft, tender, but within seconds it became explosive and hot. He was fast becoming addicted to her taste, to the feel of her body in his arms, to the scents of sugar and cinnamon and vanilla that seemed to cling to her skin. She was sweet and sexy—a deadly combination. Not to mention smart and fun and eager to explore whatever she was curious about.
He tried to put a brake on his thoughts, but every kiss between them just made him like her more. He knew he should stop. She had to get up early. And this fire could so easily burn out of control. He didn't want to hurt her. He didn't want to leave her. But he was afraid both would happen—and probably too soon for either of them.
His body told his brain to shut up, enjoy the moment and not think about tomorrow.
It seemed like good advice, especially when her breasts pressed against his chest.
And then the oven timer went off.
The sound took a moment to register.
Juliette woke up first, pulling out of his embrace. "The cake," she muttered, her voice somewhat bemused. She ran into the corner of the counter as she hurried toward the oven, yelped with a hint of pain, then moved around the counter to open the oven.
She pulled out her cake and set it on the counter. Then she rubbed her hip bone.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
"Yes." She let out a breath. "It's fine."
"Good thing you set the timer. We might have forgotten about that cake."
"That's a good bet." She tucked her hair behind her ear with a somewhat self-conscious smile. "I tend to forget a lot when we start kissing."
He nodded in agreement, wishing she wasn't on the other side of the big island, but she seemed to like the distance between them now, and maybe it was a good thing. Otherwise, he would probably never leave.
"I did appreciate your help, Roman," she added. "It was nice of you to offer."
"I don't know if I exactly offered, but you're welcome. I should go. And you should, too."
She nodded. "I'll just clean up a few things and then head upstairs."
"Can I help?"
"No, you've done enough."
He frowned. "I don't like to leave you here alone."
"I'm here alone all the time. It's very safe."
"You have to go out to the street to go upstairs."
"Which is also very safe, and it's about a six-foot distance between doors. You don't need to worry about me."
"All right—if you're sure." He took off his apron and hat and set them on the counter.
"I do want to follow up on the information you got from the county on the previous homeowners. Hopefully, I can find some time to get online."
"I'll leave the paperwork with you. We can touch base tomorrow night."
"That would be good. It's going to be crazy until then. Should I come over to the house, and we can go on the Internet together? Wait, do you have Internet there?"
"I have a hot spot on my phone."
"That will work."
"But actually tomorrow night isn't good. How about Thursday?"
"Sure. What's going on tomorrow? Or would you rather not say?" She paused, frowning a little. "Do you have a date?"
"No, it's not a date."
"Then what are you doing?"
"I'm playing guitar at Mickelson's Bar. John Mickelson is a friend of my grandfather, and he persuaded me to sit in with one of the bands tomorrow night."
Surprise ran through her eyes. "Wait. What? You play the guitar well enough to play in a band?"
"We'll find that out tomorrow night," he said lightly. "I'm a little rusty."
"I have to admit, I'm surprised. You are a man of many layers."
He shrugged. "Not that many. Do you want to walk me out?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "I'm going to stay right where I am, because I really do need to go to bed, and you really do need to leave, and if we end up at the door together, who knows what will happen?"
He smiled. "I'd like to find out."
"That's not going to happen tonight."
"Fair enough. Good luck with the baking tomorrow."
"Thanks. Good luck with the playing. Are you going to sing, too?"
"I don't think he'll be able to talk me into that."
"I bet you have a good voice."
"I don't know what you're basing that bet on."
"Gut instinct."
"You were shocked I played. Now your instinct tells you I'm a singer?"
She laughed. "Fine, I'll wait and see for myself."
His pulse sped up. "You're going to come?"
"Of course I'm going to come. You singing and playing the guitar—I wouldn't miss it for the world."
Eleven
Wednesday morning passed in a blur as Juliette worked from four a.m. until eleven when she went to the Wayfarer restaurant to drop off her desserts, which were received with a great deal of awe and praise.
On her way back to the bakery, she stopped in at Donavan's for some much-needed coffee. She'd sent Susan to make the morning delivery to Donavan's, so she'd missed her early morning espresso.
Sara and Donavan were both working behind the counter, and she noticed that Roman's grandfather, Vincent, and his friend Max were chatting at their usual table with another gray-haired man.
She stepped up to the counter and gave Donavan a smile. "I am in desperate need of coffee."
"What can I
get you?"
"I think I'll try the dark roast today. It smells so good."
"You've got it," Donavan said.
"You look tired," Sara commented, as she took her credit card and swiped it.
"I'm exhausted. I just finished up a huge order for a private lunch at the Wayfarer restaurant."
"That's a good place to show off your desserts."
"I hope so. The cakes turned out well, which is always a relief when I get a special order."
Donavan set down a mug of coffee in front of her instead of her usual to-go cup. "Why don't you sit down and read the newspaper or something? You've been going nonstop for days. The shadows under your eyes are getting bigger."
"I wish I could, but—"
"But nothing. Sit," Donavan ordered. "You have to pace yourself, Juliette. I recognize your need to make everything great immediately. But it's hard to build a steady business. You're going to need strength to keep all the balls in the air, so a few minutes here and there to breathe are absolutely required."
"I know you're right. It's just so hard to take those minutes when time is precious."
Donavan gave her an understanding smile. "From what I can see, you're doing really well."
"I actually do feel kind of proud of myself," she admitted. "I dreamed about owning a bakery for a long time, and I wasn't sure I could do it all by myself, but somehow I'm doing it."
"And you'll keep doing it, after you sit down and have some coffee."
"Thanks." She took her coffee over to a table and sat down. Someone had left a newspaper behind, so she browsed through the local news, thinking it had been a long time since she'd actually read a newspaper. Most information she got online. It did feel relaxing to actually be out somewhere and not have something pressing to do for a few minutes.
Sara brought over a sandwich on a plate and set it down in front of her.
"What's this?" she asked.
"I picked up sandwiches at Connor's Deli but then Eli called in sick, so I have an extra. It's turkey and jack cheese with tomatoes and sprouts. Will that work?"
"It's perfect."
Sara took the seat across from her. "So anything new happening? Did you ever go out with Doug?"
"As a matter of fact, I did—last Sunday night. He took me to dinner at Gladstone's."
"Fancy," Sara said with a raise of her brow. "Doug does know how to charm the ladies. And then what did you do?"
She saw the expectant look in Sara's eyes and knew she was going to disappoint her. "He took me home and we said good-night."
"No kiss?"
"Just a peck."
"So will there be a second date?"
"No. Doug is great, and I think we could be friends, but that's it."
"Oh, too bad. Does he feel the same way?"
"I haven't heard from him since Sunday night, so I'm guessing yes. I don't have time to date right now anyway. What about you? How was your night with Tim after the movie festival?"
"It was really fun and there were definitely sparks when we kissed good-night. He had to go visit his sister in Kansas City, because she's having a baby, but he's texted me a few times since then."
"That's promising."
"We'll see." She pushed back her chair and stood up. "I better get back to work."
As Sara left, Travis came into the coffeehouse. His steps slowed when he saw her. He gave her a quick, curt nod and then headed to the counter. He didn't look much better today than he had over the weekend when they'd first met. His clothes were still wrinkled, his beard still scruffy, his skin pale and unhealthy looking. She really hoped Cameron was all right.
"Travis," Donavan said. "Your mother said you were back in town. It's so good to see you again."
"I heard you have a good business going here," Travis said, looking around. "It's nice."
"Thanks. What can I get you?"
"Actually, I didn't come here for the coffee; I'm looking for a job. I was wondering if you might need anyone."
"Oh, well, I'm sorry," Donavan said, giving him an apologetic smile. "We're not looking for any help right now."
"Okay," he said heavily. "If you hear of any openings anywhere, will you let me know? Can I leave you my number?"
"Sure," Donavan said, jotting down Travis's number. "Is there any kind of work you're particularly looking for?"
"Whatever will pay some bills. I've been selling cars the last few years, but there aren't any dealerships around here, and I need to stay close to home. I've got a kid now—a son."
"Cameron, right?" Donavan said. "He's come in with your mother a few times. He's cute."
"Yeah, I'm hoping this is a good move for him." He cleared his throat. "I'm good with construction, too. I can paint, whatever."
Juliette could hear the desperation in Travis's voice and judging by Donavan's sympathetic expression, she could, too.
"I will definitely keep my ears open," Donavan said. "You might talk to Mr. Prescott. He's right over there. He's doing a big remodel."
Travis cast a quick look at the men in the corner and shook his head. "Roman's grandfather? I don't think so. But anyone else—let me know."
"Sure," Donavan replied. "But maybe it's time to bury that old problem."
"Not my choice," Travis said shortly, then tipped his head and walked out of the coffee shop.
As Travis left, she couldn't help wondering what had happened to his wife, why his finances had gotten so dire. Her concerns about Cameron's well-being returned. Hopefully, Travis could find work somewhere in town. Roman probably could use his help on the remodel, but she knew that was a non-starter. Travis hadn't even wanted to talk to Vincent. Once again, the past was rearing its ugly head, and once again, she wondered who had actually started the fire. She wondered if anyone really knew.
But that was a worry for another day. She took her plate and mug to the counter, then headed back to work.
Her next break didn't come until after six, when she closed up the bakery and made her way upstairs. The short night of sleep was catching up to her, but she had to stay awake. There was no way she was going to miss Roman playing at Mickelson's Bar.
She took a shower to wake up, blew-dry her hair, applied some makeup, and then made some scrambled eggs for dinner. After that, she got on her computer with the list of names that Roman had gotten for her yesterday. She might as well do a little research before she left.
She started with the first owner, Jeremy Bascom. Twenty minutes later, all she'd found was an obituary notice that made no mention of a wife or children. She decided to move on to the next owner, which was Harry Sackmore, who'd owned the house from 1933 to 1958. She found out that Harry was a dentist and that he'd died in 1958. He'd been survived by his wife Leonora and his son Franklin. Franklin was a dentist like his father, and he'd died in 1986, survived by a wife, Carol.
Frowning, she jotted down notes, not really sure exactly what she was looking for, but her gut told her that the letter writer had been a single young woman—which took her to the Graysons. Max and Jane Grayson had bought the house in 1958 and lived there until 1972. They'd had two daughters, Martha and Cecelia. Max had worked at a law firm in town before his death in 1990. There was no information on Jane.
Martha and Cecelia had lived in Fairhope their entire lives. Martha had been on the staff of a different law firm than the one her father had worked at. She'd been a legal secretary until she'd retired in 2008. Cecelia ran the local nursery and volunteered for several charities.
She didn't need the Internet to learn more about them; she could just talk to them. They came into her bakery several times a week. But she wasn't quite sure how to broach the question of whether or not one of them had written letters to a lover and then buried them under some floorboards.
She couldn't imagine Martha loving anyone. Cecelia was definitely softer and nicer. Maybe it had been her. Or perhaps it hadn't been either one of them, but it was the best lead she had.
And it was interesting that there ha
dn't been any men in their lives, or at least no marriages. Was that because one of them still pined for the man she'd lost?
Perhaps that was why Martha was so bitter. Or maybe it was why Cecelia seemed so lonely.
Setting them aside, she looked for the last owner before her parents—Connie Jacobson. There were several Connie Jacobsons on social media, but no one listing their hometown as Fairhope. She tried for marriage and obituary listings and finally found a Connie Jacobson who had died of cancer in 1985, which was two years before the house had sold to Juliette's parents.
Connie had been survived by three sons: Nathan, Philip and Adrian. There was no mention of a husband. It looked like the sons had sold the house to her parents.
It was possible Connie had been the letter writer. Maybe her husband had left her or died.
She tapped a few more keys, looking for any other info she could find on the sons. Nathan Jacobson, which implied Jacobson was Connie's married name, was a realtor in town. Finally, another lead.
She closed the computer. She had three people to talk to now—the Grayson sisters and Nathan—but they would all have to wait until tomorrow. Checking her watch, she got up, grabbed a coat and headed out to Mickelson's Bar.
* * *
What the hell had he been thinking? He never should have agreed to play tonight, Roman thought, as he looked around the crowded bar. So far, he hadn't seen any familiar faces, but that didn't mean some people from his past wouldn't show up. And those who came could very well be people who didn't like him at all. He was not only putting his rusty guitar skills on display, he was also putting himself in a position for some nasty heckling.
He didn't really care what anyone said to him, but he did like John, the owner of the bar, and the last thing he wanted to do was create any problems for him.
He stood off to the side, adjusting the tension on his strings, while a guy set up the amps. He'd met Bobby, the drummer, and David, the bass guitarist, and they both seemed like good guys. Hopefully, he could keep up with them.
As the door to the bar opened, he found himself looking for a certain pretty brunette with dazzling blue eyes, but Juliette had not shown up yet. He told himself she might not come. She had to be exhausted from all the work, but somehow he thought she would be there, and he was both excited and a little wary about her presence. He found himself wanting to impress her, and it had been a long time since he'd felt the need to do that for anyone.
Sweet Somethings Page 14
