“It takes a few days?” Elle asked, still hung up on that little piece of information. "I had no idea so much went into baking croissants. I’ve only made the ones that come out of a can.”
He gave her a disgusted look, which made her laugh. “Those are not croissants,” he said.
“Justin Tate, I do believe you’re a bit of a food snob.”
He gave her a heart-melting grin. “My mom wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.
Elle smiled back, then followed him to the industrial-sized refrigerator. He pulled out what looked like a miniature mountain of butter, packaged by the pound.
“First we need to roll out the butter.” He set down the butter on the table. “It needs to be the right size and shape, or the croissants will look like a train wreck.”
“All that is going into the croissants?” Elle asked, eyeing the stack as it grew. “Now I know why I can’t stop eating them.”
“Pay attention,” he said, but she thought she saw amusement pull up one corner of his mouth. “Once we get the butter rolled out we’ll add the dough and fold them together. Roll and fold three times, and after each round of rolling it out and folding it, the whole thing needs to chill for thirty minutes. Since we have three batches to take care of we’re going to be here a while.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
He looked at her with one eyebrow raised. “You know those buttery layers you were crying over at breakfast? Well, this is how it’s done.”
“God, I love those layers,” she groaned. “And the butter.”
His eyes crinkled when he smiled. It was gone in a flash like he’d caught himself.
“We have to move fast,” he said, placing the tray on the table. “If the butter starts melting, you’re dead.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Dead?”
He lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug. “It’s what we—my siblings—would say. We made it a game. If you let the butter get too warm, you have to start over. Which means going back to square one. So we said you were dead and you lost the game.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’ve never killed the croissants?” she asked.
He smirked. “I’m the only Tate kid who hasn’t.”
“Momma’s boy,” she teased.
“Better get to work,” he said, nodding to the butter. “Don’t want this to be the first time.”
Elle moved to stand at his elbow. Their arms brushed, and she told herself she didn’t notice the way heat radiated off his body. The man was like a walking furnace.
“So show me how it’s done, momma’s boy,” she said, shaking off her thoughts.
He handed her a pound of butter. “Take the wrapper off. Chop it up.”
While Elle followed instructions, he grabbed a measuring tape, rolling pin, and a sheet of wax paper.
“A measuring tape?” she asked. “Really?”
He gave her a look. “I’m an expert at this,” he said. “Trust.” He took the chopped butter and pounded it into one big glob, then scooped it up and plopped it onto a sheet of wax paper. Next, he started to roll it out, using quick, economical movements. Once the butter layer was large enough, he used the measuring tape to gauge the size. “We need it to be a square,” he explained. “Otherwise it’ll mess up the next steps.”
Elle watched him roll out the butter a bit more. It looked easy enough, so she offered, “Can I try?”
“Sure,” he stepped back. “But be quick. Don’t want it to melt.”
“I know. Wouldn’t want to add croissant killer to my résumé.”
He stood, arms crossed, watching her like she was handling a bomb and not a baked good.
She made a tentative pass with the pin.
“Put more strength into it,” he said. “You have to work the butter or the consistency will be off.”
She tried again.
“Check the tape. The sides look uneven to me.”
Elle said something colorful beneath her breath. She was tempted to show him she knew how to use a damn rolling pin: As a blunt instrument for hitting bossy men.
Who in their right mind uses a measuring tape to make a baked good?!
She rolled with great enthusiasm, imagining she was squishing his face into a neatly measured square.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” he said.
Elle straightened, brandishing the pin. “Are you going to complain, or are you going to quit griping and show me what I’m doing wrong?”
Justin moved to her in two long strides. Elle stepped back, stopping when she bumped into the table. He was close enough she could feel his warmth, smell his scent of spice and soap.
“I’ll show you how,” he said. His voice, low and rumbly, sent energy fizzing through her body.
Dear God, what this man does to me.
Elle swallowed. “Well then. Good,” she said in a high, thin voice she barely recognized as her own. She made a tidy, ahem noise and waited for him to give her space.
He didn’t move.
She turned, acutely aware of his nearness, and the brush of her body against his.
As Justin wrapped his long arms around Elle, she had a distracting thought: The butter wasn’t the only thing in the room in danger of melting.
Justin stood behind Elle. She was small, and her curves fit him like a puzzle piece he hadn’t realized he’d been missing. She smelled of roses blooming in the sun, and her skin was hot. Flushed. All at once, the desire to turn her around, to run his hands over her body, to consume her, filled him.
He picked up the rolling pin.
“I’m going to show you how to roll it out,” he said, enjoying her shiver when he spoke into the curl of her ear. “Watch me.”
“Okay,” she said, her voice soft.
He pushed the pin down and out, rolling the butter into a tidy square. Each movement brought him closer to her. Her breaths were uneven. She was beyond distracting. He’d lost track of what he’d been trying to prove.
The butter layer was done. Flat and even. Square.
He didn’t move.
Suddenly, Elle was turning in his arms. She was pinned between his body and the table. She looked up at him, an unspoken question in her eyes.
Justin leaned in, covering the space between them in a breath. He inched closer, watching her lips part. When he couldn’t wait any longer, he tasted her. Slowly. A nip. A bite.
Justin pulled her closer. When it wasn’t enough, he lifted her onto the table. She wrapped her legs around him and he groaned.
She was sweetness. Rich and delicate. A heady flavor he wanted to lose himself in. He couldn’t get enough.
Elle curled her arms around him. She clutched at his hair. Ran her fingers down his neck.
Justin was lost. Heat ran through him like an inferno. He leaned forward, pushing her back and down, moving with her, moving closer to where he wanted to be, and then—
“Hey Mom, can you—"
The kitchen door swished shut behind Amy. “Ew, Jus. Not on the counter.”
Elle stiffened at the sound of Amy’s voice. She pushed him off and away like he was contaminated. It took Justin a moment longer to shake off the fog.
“God, it’s ass-shaped,” Amy groaned.
Elle backed away from Justin and the table. Her face was flushed a deep red, but he didn’t think it was from the kiss.
“Amy,” Justin ground out. “Shut. Up.”
“I have to—" Elle stumbled into the counter. “I have to go. Sorry. I can’t—"
“Wait,” Justin said to Elle, holding out a hand to her. But she slipped past.
She shook her head once, not meeting his eyes. Then she rushed out the door.
Justin turned to Amy. “Great timing,” he said.
“Mom’s gonna be pissed,” Amy retorted, pointing to the counter.
The butter—the carefully rolled and measured square—must have gotten between Elle and the table. Specifically between Elle’s ass and the table. Two bowl-shaped depres
sions stared back at him, making the corners of his mouth twitch. He’d never hear the end of it. No doubt Amy would tell his brothers. For the rest of his life, this would be the story of how Justin killed the butter.
Amy crossed her arms. “This isn’t funny,” she said. “Do you even know how gross that is? What if the health inspectors stopped by?”
Justin wanted to care, but all he could think was: Worth. It.
Elle fled the kitchen. Her thoughts swirled, and her pulse still fluttered in her chest. The kiss—that kiss—had messed with her head. She was certain her brain had short-circuited. What had she been thinking?
Justin was a flirtation. He was attractive and different, but that was where it stopped.
Only … Elle had a problem. Before the kiss, she could pretend they could be friends. But now Elle knew the truth. Justin was dangerous. Not because of the way he lived or dressed, but because now she knew exactly what she was missing. She knew he was a good man. A kind man. And she was starting to realize it meant more than all the rest.
Unfortunately, she had no idea what to do about it.
Elle was used to rules and order. Good manners might have been something her mother drilled into her, but she’d grown to depend on them to understand the way the world worked. Men asked women on dates. Wooed them. Met their families. Proposed with a ring.
This was how Elle’s world worked—it was how she wanted it to work.
But Justin didn’t fit into her perfectly planned future.
Did he want to date her? Would he take her out to a nice dinner? Or expect sex and nothing else? How did that even work?
Elle’s mind whirled. She had no idea how to navigate the situation. She was tempted, so tempted, to rush back to him and ask him to explain it to her.
There was no point in pretending, though.
Elle didn’t do flings. She wanted flowers and dinner at a restaurant with linen tablecloths. She didn’t know how to be casual. All she knew, all she wanted, was a serious relationship that led to love, marriage, and everything that came with it.
Justin—and his searing kisses that made her feel like the world was full of possibilities—was dangerous. Elle couldn’t afford to lose herself to him. He might be able to kiss and move on, but she wasn’t made that way. For Elle, kisses like that were a brush away from falling in love.
Chapter 15
Elle kept busy during her last two days at Oak Bramble. She spent hours at the viewpoint, took long baths, and plowed through the stack of books she’d brought. She even decorated the back patio for a special evening dinner Jess had planned, complete with hanging lights and candles, although she’d had to beg Jess to let her help out again.
By the time her last day had arrived and she was due at the Murphy House, she’d rebuilt the walls around her heart. She barely thought about Justin.
Liar.
She casually “ran into” him a few times because she couldn’t stay away. Each time, he’d give her one of his thunderous looks, like he was half exasperated with her and half … hungry for her.
She should be happy. Looks aside, Justin was giving her space. That was a good thing.
At least, that was what she tried to tell herself.
By the time her taxi arrived, ready to take her to Murphy House, Elle had said her goodbyes to everyone but him. She had just turned to go back to the inn to fix her mistake when another vehicle pulled into the drive, spitting gravel as it stopped.
"Elle," a familiar voice called.
Carter strode toward her, his smile blinding white.
"Where were you?" he asked Elle. "I've been looking for you."
Just then, another voice called her name.
“Elle,” Justin said. Then, when he saw Carter, “What’s he doing here?”
Elle looked between the two men.
“Carter,” she said. “This is Justin.”
Carter eyed Justin. She watched the judgment pass over his face before he turned back to Elle, ignoring Justin as if he didn’t matter. "I need to talk to you.” He spared a look for Justin. “Alone."
Elle didn't know what to say. She didn't want to see Carter. Didn't want to speak to him. But did she owe him the chance to speak with her?
There was an awkward silence. "Well I better get back to work,” Justin said. He backed away before adding, “Goodbye, Princess. It’s been … interesting.”
Elle didn’t know what to say, and she certainly didn’t want to say anything to Justin in front of Carter. So she turned back to Carter, ready to tell him to leave.
"Let's get dinner in town," he said, rushing to speak. "I know we both have a lot to say. I think we should be adults here. Talk it out."
Her heart told her to walk away, but her head told her to listen, to be polite. He was saying all of the right things. Everything she wanted him to say that day on the plane—a day that felt impossibly far away now.
Elle frowned but covered with a smile. "I need to take my things to Murphy House,” she said. “But … I can meet you for dinner. You’re right. There are things we should talk about. How about I meet you in Asheville?”
Carter smiled. "Perfect."
They made plans, and Elle got into her taxi after Carter left in his rental car. While Oak Bramble faded in the taxi driver’s rearview mirror, she couldn’t help but feel as though she was missing something—something she couldn’t name or understand, but something important nonetheless.
Elle picked at her food. Carter had chosen a French restaurant in downtown Asheville. He'd already filled the air with talk of what he’d done the last week, and manners made her pretend a passing interest. He swore he hadn’t shown up sooner because he wanted to give her space. What he thought she’d do with that “space”—forgive him? move on?—wasn’t clear to Elle.
“The restaurants here really don’t compare to what we have in the city, don’t you agree?“ Carter speared a piece of fish and took a bite. When he sipped his wine he held the glass with a delicate grace.
He was everything Elle should want—well-mannered, rich, charming—but she found herself wishing she were back at Oak Bramble. Hell, she’d even take mucking out bathrooms over having this conversation with Carter.
Elle wasn’t even looking forward to her night at Murphy House. She wanted to watch twilight creep over the mountains from the viewpoint at Oak Bramble. She wanted to see the lights come on in the growing dark.
She wanted to be with Justin.
Elle tried to pull herself back to the moment. Back to Carter. Back to duty and politeness, manners and reason.
“Well this restaurant is lovely," she said.
He shrugged. “I suppose,” he said, looking as though he’d rather disagree.
Carter was tiptoeing around her, acting like a repentant dog who wants to leave the dog house.
She put down her fork. “Carter, why did you ask me to dinner?”
He took a careful sip of his wine. He put down his glass, then dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “I’m glad you asked,” he said. He looked into her eyes. “I wanted to apologize for my indiscretion on the plane.”
“Indiscretion?” she asked sweetly. “Do you mean when you had sex with another woman?”
Carter cleared his throat. His eyes slid to the table next to them, then back to Elle. “Well. Yes. If you must say it like that.”
“I must, Carter. I really must.”
“No need to get bitchy.”
“You don’t get to say that to me,” she snapped. “In fact, let me give you a little piece of advice. Never tell a woman not to get bitchy—it’s a fantastic way to piss us off.”
“Sorry,” he said. “You’re right. That was uncalled for.”
The waiter appeared and Carter asked for the bill. They were silent while they waited. Around them, the restaurant hummed with the sound of couples chatting in happy, muted voices. It stood in stark contrast to the icy pall hanging around Elle and Carter’s table.
Once the waiter took Carter’s
payment, Carter ran a hand through his hair. It wasn’t a gesture Elle had seen him use before, and it reminded her of Justin.
Carter cleared his throat.
She waited.
“Elle, I messed up.” He took a deep breath. “That day on the plane, you started talking about your sister’s wedding and babies and, well, I panicked. I started thinking about us, about our wedding. It was too much. The redhead approached me, and, well … I had no idea it would hurt you so much.”
She couldn’t stay quiet. “Of course it hurt me!” she said.
Elle wasn’t the same woman she was a week ago, and she wasn’t willing to compromise. She was tired of pretending that a life with Carter—or any man who treated women the way he did—was what she wanted.
“Why would you even think that it wouldn’t hurt me? We were dating. More than dating.” She was hot and cold all at once. Flushed with anger, but burning with resolve; as though the hurt he’d caused had turned into strength when she hadn’t been looking. “I saw the ring, Carter. You were going to propose, weren’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
“That’s what I thought.” She shook her head. “You panicked. Freaked out. Whatever you want to call it. Instead of telling me how you felt like a normal person, you cheated on me. You can try to paint a pretty picture, but those are the facts. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t going to cut it.”
Her throat tightened, and she blinked back tears.
“And I don’t want to be with a man who would treat another person like that. I don’t care about the rest—nothing is worth pretending that what you did, that the way you treated me was okay.”
“I know,” Carter said. He dropped his head. “I am so sorry. Elle, please. I don’t want to lose you. I know what I did was wrong. I can’t change that. I can only promise you I’ll do better in the future.”
He paused to take something from his pocket.
“I love you, Elle,” he said. He reached across the table to take her hand and pressed a small, hard object into her palm. “Please forgive me.”
Elle opened her fingers. A diamond on a simple gold band shone against her skin. It was everything she wanted. Well, everything she had wanted. Right down to the square-cut of the diamond. More, it was the symbol of safety and security she had wanted, and the future that fit within the parameters of what her mother expected of her.
Love At First Ink: A Woodbine Valley Romance (Tate Family Book 1) Page 14
