Gimme Some Sugar

by Kimberly Kincaid

  Jackson’s sandy brows popped up in surprise. “Sure.”

  Before Carly had enough time to acknowledge the are-you-nuts message pumping from the rational part of her brain, Jackson had disappeared around the side of the house. Come on, surely she was overreacting. There was nothing indecent about a cup of coffee and fifteen minutes of small talk.

  The doorbell rang just in time to snag the not-so-rational part of Carly’s brain from imagining how many indecent things could happen in fifteen minutes.

  She blanked her expression so it wouldn’t betray the naughty images she’d just conjured up, then swung the door open, gesturing inside. “Hi. Come on in.”

  Jackson bent to unlace his work boots, shucking them on the brick threshold of the porch before padding into the bungalow on sock feet. “Thanks. My last cup of coffee was ages ago.”

  “Okay, you do know it’s only 8:45, right?” She pulled a mug that matched her own down from the cabinet, inhaling the deep, earthy scent of the coffee as she filled it. Jackson followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the rectangular butcher block island in the heart of the room, giving her a grateful nod as she passed him the mug.

  “I’ve been up since six.”

  “My condolences. Milk?” Carly popped the fridge open, feeling in her element surrounded by food. While she might need work in the social graces department, feeding someone was definitely something she could do with seamless ease.

  “Please,” Jackson replied. “So you’re not a morning person. Is that a personal preference or an occupational hazard?”

  Her snicker was unavoidable, and it snuck out as she passed him the milk. “Both. I’ve got some scones if you want a couple. Are you hungry?”

  She’d been fiddling with a recipe for basic scones for the better part of two weeks, looking to add something versatile to the Sunday brunch menu. The results of her experimentation currently overflowed from the enormous cookie jar on the counter.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to put you out . . .” he started, a sip of coffee washing down the rest of whatever he was going to say.

  Carly put a hand on her hip. “Is that a yes?”

  Jackson held up his hands as if to cry uncle, a drawl tilting the edges of his lips upward. “You are direct, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry.” She edged past him to put the milk away, but he caught her forearm with a brush of his fingers so gentle, it belied both his strength and his size.

  “It wasn’t a criticism. I’d love some scones.”

  “Oh.” Carly blinked up at him, unable to make her feet move. Okay, make that unwilling. Damn his hand felt good on her skin, to the point that not even getting him something to eat could make her put one foot in front of the other.

  But then he let go, clearing his throat and taking a giant step to the side so she had more than enough room to get by him. “So, ah, what do you do?”

  Carly paused for a moment too long, trying to make heads or tails of the passion-fried circuitry that had replaced her brain. “Oh! What do I do, right. I’m a chef at La Dolce Vita, the restaurant at the resort.” The refrigerator door squeaked on its hinges as if startled by her cursory jerk of the handle. “Ginger peach or lemon blueberry for the scones?”

  “You pick.” Jackson propped a sun-bronzed arm on the counter and looked at her. “My buddy’s girlfriend works as a line cook over at La Dolce Vita. She’s got some crazy skills. Makes the best apple pie you ever had. Even better than the new bakery down on Main Street, and theirs are no joke.”

  “Really?” Carly pulled a couple lemon blueberry scones from the jar and replaced the lid, popping them into the microwave for a quick spin just to warm them up. “Who is she?”

  “Bellamy Blake. Do you know her?”

  Ah. That figured. Adrian had culled Bellamy from a long list of hopefuls looking to move up the ranks, and so far, she’d been one of the brightest spots in La Dolce Vita’s kitchen.

  “Mmm hmm. I’ll have to ask her about the pie.”

  Jackson made a so good face before continuing. “Yeah, she’s training under this fancy chef from New York who’s allegedly the best thing since pockets. You probably work for her too, come to think of it.” His forehead creased in thought. “I can’t remember her name to save my life.”

  Carly’s laughter tasted incredibly good as it bubbled up from her chest. “Chef di Matisse.”

  “Yeah! That’s it,” Jackson nodded, eyes bright. “What’s so funny?”

  “Bellamy’s the only one formal enough to call me that. Everyone else just calls me Chef Carly.”

  He jerked his coffee cup to a stop halfway to his lips. “You’re the fancy chef from New York?”

  “At your service.”

  “Oh, shit. I mean!” Jackson scrambled to apologize. “Sorry about that. I just pictured her—you, I guess—kind of, uh. Differently.” He gulped his coffee, clearly chagrined.

  “It’s okay. We fancy chefs from New York are normal people, I promise. Well, most of us anyway,” she amended, leaning against the counter. The buttery smell of the scones tickled her senses as she pulled them out of the microwave, and she took a deep draw of air, savoring the smell.

  “I guess it’s not really fair to judge a book by its cover. Or where it comes from, in this case.”

  Carly rummaged through a deep-bellied drawer for a sifter. “Things are a lot different out here in Pine Mountain.” God. Was she ever going to stop feeling so homesick? It wasn’t like she was never going back.

  “Pine Mountain’s not so bad.” Jackson’s voice was suddenly stiff.

  “I didn’t say it was,” Carly replied, shocked at her lack of defensiveness. “But I grew up in the city, and I lived there all my life. It’s hard not to think of it as home. I miss it.”

  Whoa! Where had that come from? Not that it wasn’t true or anything, but still. Spilling her guts to a veritable stranger was definitely not her MO.

  “Oh.” His response softened with understanding, and he leaned toward her. “Well, every place has its advantages, and Pine Mountain has tons of them. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll think of this as home.”

  Carly shook her head. “To be honest, I’m not planning on being here for the long haul. I got a great opportunity at the resort, but eventually I’m going back to New York. Nothing personal.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Mmm. Well, I’m happy to point you in the right direction if you want some good places to check out while you’re here. Just a little food for thought.”

  The corners of her mouth ticked upward into an involuntary smile, washing away her sudden melancholy. “Nice food reference, slick.” She rolled her eyes and reached for a box of powdered sugar in the pantry.

  Jackson waggled his eyebrows, which only kicked her smile up another notch.

  “You like that? I can come up with another one if you want. Piece of cake.”

  Carly’s groan fought with her laughter, both escaping her lips together. “Boo! You’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Jackson’s blue eyes sparkled like ocean waves under the midday sun. “What? That one didn’t cut the mustard?”

  “Argh, you’re getting worse.” But still, her laughter didn’t let up.

  “Come on. You’re not going to make me sing for my supper, are you?”

  Ouch. The subtle jab at her Motown performance made her wince, but she kept a straight face and sifted a fine dusting of powdered sugar over the warm scones like softly falling snow.

  “You know what they say. There’s no such thing as a free lunch.” She paused for just a beat before adding the pièce de résistance. “Honey.”

  God damn, Jackson thought with a shake of his head. Who knew kitchen banter could be so sexy? All it took was one look from Carly’s chocolate-brown eyes and a hot little kick of her lips as she spoke, and he’d all but forgotten about the food.

  All things considered, that was a pretty big deal.

  “I suppose you think that one should count double.” His att
empt at a frown was a poor disguise for the amusement lurking beneath it, a fact he was sure Carly could sense.

  “Of course.” She slid the plate with the scones across the island. “Here, you don’t even have to sing for them.”

  Jackson paused, even though his mouth watered at the sight of the two thick triangles of flaky goodness in front of him. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Carly shook her head, propping her elbows on the butcher block as she leaned across from him at the corner of the island. “Nah. I usually eat a little later in the morning, closer to when I leave for the restaurant.”

  “Wait, I thought the restaurant was only open for dinner during the week. When do you go in?”

  “Well, now that we’re pretty established, most days I start around eleven, but it depends. Some days I meet with the restaurant manager, which is impossible to do while we’re open because he and I are both slammed during a service. Other days, I like to supervise food deliveries to make sure everything’s fresh and we have what we need.” She shrugged, as if the laundry list of daily tasks was as easy as a stroll down Main Street on a cool Sunday morning. “Oh, and I have to hook up with my sous chef to talk shop before the kitchen opens, review specials, plan food orders, that kind of stuff. Then there’s the tasting menu to consider . . .”

  “Whoa. I had no idea it was so involved,” Jackson replied, struck not just by what Carly was saying, but how her face looked when she said it. She looked so totally relaxed and in her element that he didn’t want her to stop talking, so he said the first thing that popped into his head. “What’s a tasting menu for?”

  Her face softened even further, pretty eyes animated with a glowing excitement that hit Jackson like a boulder on a downhill slide.

  “Every night before a shift starts, my sous chef Adrian and I make a couple of regular menu dishes and at least one of the specials family-style, and the staff all sits down together to eat. That way everyone can experience what they’re bringing to the patrons firsthand, whether they cook it or serve it. It helps everybody get to know the food, if that makes sense,” Carly said, dropping her chin into one palm. “Then everyone has an idea of how the flavors go together, why the colors and textures of each dish are important, and how it all makes the food more than just a meal.”

  Jackson scratched his head. “I don’t get it. How can you make the food more than a meal?” He was all for good eats and everything, but this just didn’t make sense.

  “By turning it into an experience.” Carly swept her hair off her shoulders and gestured down at his plate. “Here’s a perfect example. See how the powdered sugar is so fine on top of the streusel here? Two different textures, and that’s before you even get to the scone itself, which adds yet another layer.”

  Her brown eyes sparkled like liquid amber. “The colors do the same thing. Break one in half, and look at the blueberries against the dough.”

  Huh! Hell if she wasn’t right. The colors did make it look mouth-wateringly good, and the crumbly piles of brown sugar-laced topping seemed to fade right into the fluffy cake of the scone. “Wow. That’s pretty cool,” he murmured, lifting the plate for a better look.

  “Now keep it right where it is and breathe in.”

  Her face was wistful as he inhaled. Jackson was no stranger to breakfast pastries, but he was utterly unprepared for the bold knockout punch of the scone’s aroma, a combination of lemony tang and heady butter that made his mouth water and his tongue demand not just a taste, but a bite that would fill him entirely.

  “All that and you haven’t even taken a bite.” Carly smiled, as if she’d just shared a secret with him. “So even though those things are subtle, they build anticipation. Add to it things like smell and presentation, and you have yourself an experience.”

  Jackson blinked. “And I thought I was hungry five minutes ago.” His stomach sounded off like a car with a busted muffler, which made both of them laugh.

  “By all means, complete the experience. Eat,” she encouraged, burying a smile in her coffee cup. She didn’t have to tell him twice.

  The first bite sent so many flavors and textures through Jackson’s gray matter that he couldn’t pick one and stick to it. Tender, flaky dough melted against his tongue, leaving behind the signature salty-sweetness of both the butter and the sugar, and the grainy crunch of the streusel balanced out the soft, almost jelly-like quality of the blueberries in every bite.

  “Mmmf.” Jackson tried to slow down, he really did, but the flavors were so intense and incredible that both scones were gone way too soon. “Man, those are insane.” The lingering taste of brown sugar played on his tongue as he brushed the crumbs from his hands, following the deep, caramelized sweetness with a sip of savory breakfast blend.

  Carly’s laugh was humble and soft, yet it drove right into him all the same. “Thanks.”

  The conversation had smoothed into silence while he ate, but Carly didn’t seem to be pushing for him to go, so Jackson took another wild stab at easing more laughter out of her. “So, are you fluent in Italian? Or do you only know the curse words?”

  Her head sprang up, bouncing a few dark locks off her shoulders. Although he’d swear her olive skin pinkened just slightly, she pinned him with a bold stare that canceled it out. “Well, my brothers all delighted in teaching me the curse words first, but yes. I am actually fluent in the rest of the language too.”

  Jackson’s fascination went from a flicker to a steady stream, and something odd snapped to life deep in his gut. “Okay. Impress me.”

  “You want me to curse at you in Italian?”

  “You’ve already done that,” he reminded her. “Why don’t you mix it up this time?”

  “So, what? Just say whatever pops into my head?” Her expression was a combination of wariness and amusement, suggesting that she thought he was losing his marbles a little bit. Hell, considering how badly the unnamed force in his head pushed at him to keep her attention right now, he probably freaking was.

  Not that it was going to stop him.

  “Go for it,” Jackson drawled, dishing up a smirk to provoke her. “Anything you want.”

  Carly tipped her head at him, the warmth in her eyes turning fierce. “Tu sei l’uomo più bello che abbia mai visto.”

  The sexy velvet of her voice wrapped around each intonation, and even though he had no idea what she was saying, every last one of Jackson’s nerve endings smoldered at the sound of the words.

  “Anything else?” he asked, the low tone of his voice shocking him. He knew he should take a step back, that daring her like this was going to lead to trouble and he should stop. But then her lips parted, and the words that rolled out seemed to pulse through his blood with each hypnotic inflection.

  “Amo il modo in cui mi guardi. Mi fa sentire bella.”

  Jackson’s eyes flared, and he closed the space between them without realizing he’d done it. “Are you going to tell me what any of it means?”

  “No.” The single syllable fell from Carly’s lips on little more than a throaty sigh, but she raised her chin in a defiant lift, turning her back on the counter to face him.

  Christ, the heat coming off of her was incredible, and all he could think was more. He reached down and caught one of the strands of hair tumbling over her shoulder, sliding his fingers all the way down to the ends before tucking it back behind her ear. “No?”

  “It was nothing, really,” Carly breathed. “Mostly gibberish.”

  “Mmm.” His fingers brushed her cheekbone, and he stared down at her, not giving an inch. “Say it again.”

  Her eyes dropped to his lips, but she didn’t hesitate with her words.

  “Tu sei l’uomo più bello—”

  Jackson captured her words midsentence, his mouth brushing hers in a hot, unyielding stroke as her lips parted over a sigh. His fingers tightened in her hair before he moved his palm to cradle her face. The kiss was like a low fire, begging to be stoked, and Jackson obliged on nothing but impulse.
/>   His tongue mingled with the supple sweetness of Carly’s bottom lip, testing the way and drowning in the magnetic pull of her as he deepened the kiss. Her mouth vibrated against his as she released another small sigh, and it tore through him like an avalanche, prompting his hands up into the thick fall of her hair. Christ, she tasted so sweet and yet so sinful, pushing enough hot need under his skin to tighten his fingers against her nape. With a demanding stroke of his tongue, Jackson searched her mouth with even more intensity, until . . .

  A loud tap on the glass of the back door made the two of them scatter like leaves in a brisk fall wind.

  “Oh!” Carly crossed one arm tightly over her chest and covered her mouth with her opposite palm, staring up at him with wide, holy-hell eyes. Micah, who Jackson had totally forgotten was on his way with the jackhammer, stood with his hands in his pockets outside the sliding glass door. Although his vantage point had been somewhat blocked by the new drop-off created by the missing deck, the uncomfortable way he stuffed his hands in his pockets and refused to look through the glass told Jackson all he needed to know.

  Micah had seen everything.

  “Carly, listen, I’m really sorry. I don’t—”

  “It’s okay, really.” Her raspy voice was suddenly level and cool. She inhaled a slow breath, and the swell of her breasts beneath the pink cotton of her T-shirt did nothing to improve the how-you-doin’ status of Jackson’s hard-on.

  She continued. “I think it’s probably for the best if we agree to forget that that happened.”

  Not bloody likely! His inner voice snapped to life, but his rational side countered fast. There was no denying that it hadn’t been a run of the mill kiss. Okay, fine, it had come within inches of being a life-altering experience. But wasn’t that all the more reason he should forget about it?

  A girl like Carly couldn’t be good for him if he wasn’t interested in anything serious, because everything about her was seriously addicting. Walking away wasn’t just a good idea.

  It was absolutely necessary. For both of them.

  Jackson cleared his throat and ran a hand over his barely-there crew cut. “Okay, sure. But I really am sorry.”