Wild Kisses (Wildwood)

by Skye Jordan

Turning a circle, taking everything in with a giddy bubble in her chest, she texted Delaney, Did you and Phoebe do this?

  She started up the stairs, eager to see how the event space was shaping up. At the top of the stairs she stepped into a room that stole her breath again. Not only was the flooring in, but it was buffed to a glossy shine. The fireplace’s stacked-stone face continued all the way to the vaulted ceiling. The huge windows had been trimmed out with molding, the recessed lighting had been installed and finished off, and natural light flooded the space.

  Her phone buzzed, and Avery blinked away tears to read Delaney’s message: Nope.

  Staring at the answer stirred other thoughts, and those thoughts stirred anger. If Delaney and Phoebe hadn’t done this, then the only person left was Trace. Which meant he was trying to ease his conscience by hiring his friend to finish the café even when Avery had told him not to.

  A scrape sounded in the apartment, drawing her gaze to the closed door. Complete with molding and handle hardware. A soft shuffle sounded, followed by silence again.

  She clenched her teeth, now caught in an impossible situation—facing this stranger who’d made this place absolutely dreamy and telling him to get out.

  Yes, it was wonderful to have the café finished, but not out of guilt, and not so Trace could clear his conscience, as if that were all it would take. And now he’d gone and put this other contractor in the middle.

  Avery took a deep breath and moved to the apartment’s door, pushing it open slowly to look into the rooms before she stepped in. Her little living room was neat, every book in place on the side table, every magazine stacked on the coffee table.

  Movement sounded in her tiny kitchen toward the back of the space, and Avery wandered farther, taking in the light-amber hue of sunlight spilling over the shining floors.

  She was forming a congenial get-lost message for her guest when she stepped into the opening for the kitchen, where a man wiped down the new handle on a closet door, his back toward her.

  A man with wide shoulders, small specks of blood on the back of his white tee, and raven-black hair.

  “Trace?” Her voice came out filled with what-the-hell?

  He swiveled, eyes wide. Or one eye wide. The other lagged behind, still a little swollen, still extremely discolored with bruises. “Hey. I didn’t think you’d be back for a couple more days.”

  God, he looked awful. She grimaced and covered her mouth with tented hands. Shadows and bruises, cut and swollen lips, black eye . . . and after reading the police report, she knew he’d gotten all his injuries in self-defense. That hadn’t surprised her, but it did make her feel even guiltier for the way she’d flinched when he’d tried to touch her.

  “Oh my God. Tell me you feel better than you look.”

  His lip twitched into a split-second smile, but it was gone before Avery could appreciate it. “I’m okay.” He shrugged. “Sore. Ugly. But . . . okay.”

  “I stopped by your house on the way here. Looks like you’re all packed up and moved out.”

  He glanced away and nodded. “Yeah.”

  She wanted to ask him where his father was, but venturing too deep into the personal areas still felt dicey. “I didn’t see your truck out front.”

  “It’s on the other side, by the kitchen. I had to haul in the shelves and put them together.”

  She narrowed her eyes, completely lost. “I don’t understand. You told me you couldn’t finish.”

  He looked down at the bar cloth he’d been using to wipe the table. “Well, I did some thinking. And you were right. I did make you a promise. But I can’t say I did it all myself, as much as I wanted to. I had to call in some help—that contractor friend I told you about. He did the heavy lifting. I took care of the small stuff. A couple of his guys came to help with the landscaping.”

  “Trace, I can’t afford—”

  “I paid them,” he said. “From my money.”

  Disappointment carved a hole in her belly. “So that’s what this is. Follow-through.”

  “Partly, yeah,” he admitted with a kind of annoyance that told Avery he believed that was more important than she did.

  She crossed her arms. “And the other part?”

  His sighed, set the folded towel on the table, and looked directly at her, bruises and all. “I thought getting away from you was the only way I could do right by you. But when Delaney told me you postponed the opening, I realized that instead of helping you, all I did was add yet another problem to your mountain of challenges.”

  This was sounding all very . . . mature. All very . . . clean and businesslike. And even though Avery wasn’t interested in acting mature or businesslike, she did her best. “Well, perfect. I guess you’ve passed the professionalism test.”

  She clasped her hands around her arms. A hot bath, a nap, and a private crying jag was on her immediate agenda, but not in that order. Especially not when tears were already burning her eyes.

  “I’m tired.” She couldn’t make herself pretend anymore. It took too much energy. “I’ll make sure you get the rest of the money I owe—”

  “I’m not here for the money.” His stern voice drew her gaze again. “I’m here to finish. I’m here to fulfill my promise. I’m here to show you that I’m not giving up. I’m not walking away from you or from us.” He pressed his hand against the breakfast bar, face set in a deliberate way she’d seen before, one that told her he was dead serious about following through. But his voice remained patient and compassionate. “I know the way I handled the situation with JT was wrong. And I don’t expect you to just believe me when I say it won’t happen again. I plan on sticking around and proving it to you.”

  She frowned, confused. “Trace, I don’t—”

  “Dad and I moved in with Zane to save money. We got notified that Dad qualifies for Medicare, so we’re going to start searching for a memory-care home nearby. I’ve picked up three new small jobs over the last few days, here in town. A bathroom remodel for Shiloh, a friend of Delaney’s; a custom-cabinet job for a lawyer down the other end of Main Street; and a new roof for Gabe Snyder. Ethan’s letting me use part of his warehouse space to set up shop. I smoothed things over with Mark, and he’s considering my bid on the kitchen remodel. It looks like he’s going to take it. And Caleb’s letting me bid on the market’s expansion project. I should be out of Zane’s apartment and on my own in three months, tops.”

  Avery’s mouth had dropped open at some point. Before she could find anything to say, Trace went on.

  “I’m here for you, Avery, and I’m here to stay. I don’t care how long it takes for me to prove that the other night was an event I never plan on repeating, or to wipe the smudges from my name around town, or for you to trust me again. I’m going to make it all happen because I love you, and I know, right here, right now, this is where I belong.”

  Having him repeat her own words back to her made her huff a laugh, and tears spilled over her lashes. She wiped them away with shaking hands, and when she looked up again, Trace was right there.

  He slipped one arm around her waist and cupped her face with the other, rubbing her tears away with his thumb. His troubled gaze held on her cheek as he stroked it. “And I’m going to make it my mission to stop these tears.”

  Avery closed the distance between them, pressing her body against his and curling his soft cotton tee into her fingers to keep from touching him somewhere that would hurt. “I have no doubts, Trace.” She pushed up onto her toes and kissed him gently, avoiding the cuts on the left side of his lips. “Not one.” She kissed him again. “And I’ve loved you since that day we met and you told me I had a killer smile.”

  Trace grinned . . . as much as someone could with cuts on his lips. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her body back against his. With his face pressed to her neck, rocking her back and forth, he murmured, “God, I missed you. The last three days felt like three months. Don’t ever go away again . . . unless you take me with you.”

&nb
sp; “That’s a deal.” She crossed her arms behind his neck and pulled back to smile into those gorgeous blue eyes of his. “So what do you think? Is this place ready to open?”

  He grinned. “Hell yes.”

  She kissed him, gently, away from his injuries. “Will you be at my side when it opens?”

  He gave her a look. “I don’t think my face will be healed by your opening day.”

  “My opening day has been canceled. I’m sure you’ll be fine by the time—”

  “I wouldn’t count on it, Cookie. Your sister has her own agenda, and she’s never taken direction very well.”

  Avery pulled in a sharp breath. “She didn’t . . .”

  Trace laughed. “You’re right, she didn’t. She didn’t tell anyone you were postponing. She decided it was easier to cancel at the last minute than it would be to get people excited about the opening again. So that gives you about five days to bake and train before the opening.”

  Avery laughed, overwhelmed with gratefulness for her family. For Trace. She leaned into him and asked again, “Will you be at my side when it opens?”

  His grin returned, and he pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ll be with you as long as you want me.”

  Her heart filled, and all the unease that had been jittering inside her for years, calmed.

  She combed her fingers through his hair. “Then I hope you’re prepared to stay around for one hell of a long time.”

  He kissed her and held her tight, whispering at her ear, “Hell yes.”

  TWENTY

  “And it’s time to pick another winner.” Phoebe’s voice came over the microphone, filling the café and filtering over the exterior speakers to the diners seated on the patio, where heaters kept the fall chill away for the grand opening of Wild Harts.

  The customers cheered, but that didn’t stop George from playing the piano. Nor did it stop Henry Baxter from singing along with George to “Blueberry Hill” by Fats Domino—much to the customers’ amusement.

  With a coffeepot in one hand and a champagne bottle in the other, Avery scanned the space, searching for flutes or mugs to refill. She was stunned by the sheer number of people stuffed into the café. The restaurant had been filled to capacity since they opened the doors at 6:00 a.m.; six hours later, both the indoor and patio space remained packed with an hour-long wait list.

  A giddy flutter passed through her belly, leaving a deep sense of awe and gratitude.

  “This prize,” Phoebe said, “is three free breakfasts for two here at Wild Harts.”

  She called off the ticket number, and a moment of silence ensued. Then Amber, a young woman who worked at Finley’s Market—and Mark Davis’s date for this event—jumped up. “Me! That’s me!” Everyone clapped, and Avery laughed.

  “Behind you.” One of the waitresses passed Avery coming out of the kitchen, her arms laden with plates. “Hot food.”

  A moment later, another waitress came at her from the opposite direction. The cooks were cranking out great food; the waitresses and bussers were kicking ass and turning tables. Phoebe and Pearl acted as the emcee team for activities, announcements, and door prizes. Delaney, Ethan, and Zane roamed the café and the patio, chatting, refilling drinks, making sure everyone was happy.

  Avery wandered to a table where Betty, wife of Avery’s piano tuner, Henry, sat with five other members of the Geri-Hat-Tricks bridge club.

  “Refills, ladies?” Avery asked.

  “Oh, yes, please.” Betty was the first to lift her champagne glass, but orange juice layered the bottom.

  “Would you like me to refresh your mimosa?” Avery asked.

  She gave a shrug. “Why water down the good stuff with orange juice?”

  “Good point.”

  After emptying another bottle, Avery thanked the women for coming and started toward the breakfast bar, where cases of champagne waited beneath the counter.

  Uncorking the bottle, Avery took in all the familiar faces. At least half the artists who rented space from Phoebe at Wildly Artisan were here now or had already been in. Belle Davis had pulled through on her promise to bring her entire office staff to the opening, including Dr. Morrison and his wife. Sheriff and Mrs. Holland had been on the patio chatting for hours, along with several deputies. The Mulligans, all Delaney’s and Avery’s friends from school, the owners of Finley’s Market . . .

  The whole town was here.

  Except of course Austin, for which she was grateful. It was better for everyone. She understood the hurt lingering over his brother’s death. But she didn’t understand his attempts to place blame on innocent people or to bully others over to his way of thinking.

  Harlan joined the older group at the piano, and George transitioned from “Blueberry Hill” into “Ain’t That a Shame.” In a corner near the piano, Willow had set up a children’s area, where kids now sat at a small table and drew or played with toys on a colorful carpet.

  Movement on the stairs to the second floor, the event space as well as Avery’s apartment, drew her gaze. Trace came down the steps and into the main restaurant with the couple from out of town he’d taken off Avery’s hands half an hour ago, offering to give them a tour. He was animated, gesturing as he spoke, pointing out different aspects of the remodel, and the simple sight of him flushed her heart with joy.

  Dressed in black slacks and a deep-blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms, Trace looked mouthwatering. He turned his head, caught her gaze, and grinned. A little over a week since the fiasco with JT, his face still bore remnants of their fight. But instead of being considered a leper as he’d expected, he’d been hailed by most as a hero for saving Avery’s business.

  Trace walked the couple to the door and shook hands before they left. Avery longed to get him alone to show him just how much she appreciated all his support. Then sleep twelve hours. She was exhausted.

  Avery wandered back into the seating area where Willow came up beside her. “Mother alert, two o’clock.”

  She glanced toward the front door where MaryAnn Holmes stood, looking around. She let out a breath of resignation. The day after the incident with JT, Willow had come by the café to check on Avery. She’d also come to tell Avery that she wanted her job as manager back, and that she’d given her mother an ultimatum: get over her resistance to Willow taking the job, or Willow was moving out. But Avery had reservations about how willing MaryAnn would be to honor their agreement.

  “Don’t worry,” Willow said. “I was extremely clear with her. If she says one wrong thing, you tell me. Becky’s got a bed ready for me at her house.”

  Avery smiled. “I’m sure it will be fine. How is everything else going?”

  “Fan-freaking-tastic,” Willow told her. Then she added, “We’re out of pastries.”

  Avery’s smile dropped. “We can’t be. There were mountains—”

  “Gone. Every last one.”

  “But we baked twenty hours a day for days—”

  “Not even a crumb left,” Willow said matter-of-factly, “and we have dozens of orders for more.”

  Avery’s breath whooshed out in shock.

  Trace came up to them and slid his big, warm hand up the back of her dress, slipped it under her hair, and caressed the nape of her neck. And, Lord, that felt good.

  “Add one to my name,” he told Willow, then shot a sly grin at Avery. “I just got another kitchen remodel bid.”

  Willow broke into a smile. “You’re gaining on her.”

  The amount of work she and Trace had been offered since they’d opened the doors that morning had become a running competition, with Willow keeping tallies on potential jobs stemming from the day. She’d been booking parties, catering gigs, and wedding cake design appointments for Avery all morning. Trace had a bevy of construction jobs lined up, everything from laying concrete to complete home renovations.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to lift the cap on your Thanksgiving pie orders?” Willow asked playfully. “I have a very lo
ng list of people hoping you’ll cave under the pressure.”

  Trace laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Good thing we added that extra oven.”

  “Holy shit.” Avery pressed a hand to her hot cheek and looked to Willow. “God, I hope you’re ready to start baking.”

  “I like the sound of that.” MaryAnn approached, her demeanor substantially friendlier today. “She is amazing in the kitchen.”

  “And I can’t wait to get her in there.” Avery offered her hand to MaryAnn. “We’re okay?”

  MaryAnn’s gaze darted to Willow, then back to Avery. “We’re good.”

  Relief eased Avery’s shoulders, and a smile spread across her face. “Would you like me to find you a seat—”

  “I’ll just grab a chair with my book club.”

  “Great. I’ll send a server right over.” Avery stopped one of the waitresses and directed her to MaryAnn.

  The portable phone rang in Willow’s hand, and she moved away from the group to answer.

  Suddenly, between the swamped restaurant and the buzz of activity, Avery and Trace were alone, in that intimate cocoon they seemed to be able to find anywhere.

  Looking into her eyes, he slipped his arms around her waist. His lips tilted in a slow, soft smile. “Hi.”

  She leaned into him, mirrored his smile. “Hi.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m ready to fall into bed with you.”

  “Mmm, ditto, baby.”

  She glanced toward the piano, where George attempted a rusty version of “Great Balls of Fire.” “I can’t believe how that’s come back to him.”

  “I can’t believe how that’s brought him back to us,” Trace said. He pressed his forehead to hers. “I don’t think I’ve thanked you yet.”

  “I don’t think you have to.”

  He kissed her softly, and Avery felt overwhelmed with gratitude and happiness. “I still feel like I’m in a dream. All anxious that I’m going to wake up and I’m still going to be fighting to reach this dream.”

  He lifted his head. “You’ve done all the fighting. Now you’re reaping your reward.”