by Melody Grace
She put on some old Kings of Leon, set out her ingredients, and got to work. First, the starter. She scooped out a cup of the yeast mix and used it as the base for her dough, adding flour, water, and a little oil, until she had the consistency just right. When she was in a hurry, she threw the lot in her mixer and let the paddles do the work, but today, Summer was happy to roll up her sleeves and knead it all by hand, digging the heel of her palm into the dough and working it in each direction, over and over again.
It was soothing. Almost like a meditation. If by meditation you meant imagining her mother’s face getting pounded into the dough.
“Pastry chef openings don’t grow on trees.”
Summer tried to ignore her mother’s voice, taunting her. She was wrong. Summer had proven it time and time again, with the glowing reviews from the diners and promotions all the way up the line. Eve couldn’t take that away from her, no matter what she said. And even if her whole career back in New York was a lie, this bakery wasn’t. This was something all her own. Summer looked around at the gleaming kitchen and the green of the garden beyond, and felt a little better. Nobody in Sweetbriar even knew she was Eve’s daughter, and when they lined up outside the doors, it would be because of the welcoming tables and sunny patio and Summer’s sticky morning buns.
Her mother couldn’t take this away from her, even if she tried.
“What did that dough ever do to you?”
Summer looked up. It was Grayson, standing in the kitchen doorway with an amused look on his face. She took a breath, still caught up in her noisy rage, her heart beating fast. From the exertion—and the sudden sight of him, just as handsome as when she’d left him that morning. Only wearing a few more clothes now.
Unfortunately.
“It’ll surrender, if it knows what’s good for it.” She shut the music off.
Grayson’s lips quirked with a smile. “You’ve got some flour . . .” He gestured to her face, and Summer wiped. His grin grew wider.
“Let me guess, there’s half a cup all over there now?” Summer shook her head and admitted defeat. “Hazard of the trade. I’ve heard it’s great for skincare.”
Grayson strolled closer and gently brushed her cheek. He tilted her face up to him, and then kissed her, a warm, light, afternoon kiss, that somehow still took her breath away.
“Hi,” she breathed, feeling better already.
“Hello.”
He released her and peered at the jar of sourdough starter on the counter. It was a bubbling, oozing mix that gave off a heady fermented smell. He wrinkled his nose. “Should I call hazard management?”
Summer laughed. “It’s my starter mix. Well, Madame Celine’s grandmother’s. I smuggled it back across the Atlantic wrapped in towels in my suitcase.”
“Do I want to ask why?”
“The yeast is a living thing,” Summer explained. “It ferments over time, and you keep feeding it with flour and water, taking part out to use for new bread. The best ones have been around for a hundred years; they give the bread an amazing flavor.”
“Like fermenting wine?” Grayson asked, looking interested.
“Kind of,” Summer nodded. “To be honest, I could use store-bought yeast and it would come out just fine,” she confessed. “But I like the history of it. A hundred years of baking, using the same yeast. It’s heritage. Want to try?”
Grayson blinked.
“It’s easy,” she reassured him. “You just knead it around like so. A third-grader could do it. We did, actually. We even had a song. Knead the dough, knead it so,” she hummed, before stopping herself.
What was it about this man that made her ramble?
Oh yes, his eyes. And his lips.
And the way he was looking at her. Like the dough wasn’t the only thing he wanted spread on the counter.
“I’ll let the expert handle it.” Grayson leaned back, watching her.
The dough was pretty much beaten into submission now, stretchy and elastic, so she covered it with some film and set it aside to rest under a warm towel. “I like to let it rest for at least an hour,” she explained. “I’ll pummel it a few more times before it bakes.”
“Any reason for the workout?” he asked, and she sighed.
“Three guesses. Wait, you only need one.” Summer gave him a rueful look. “Starts with Eve, ends in Bloom, has a world of passive-aggressive disappointment bound up in the middle.”
“Ah.”
“Exactly.” Summer felt self-conscious for a moment. She didn’t want to unload all her issues on him and send him running for the hills before she’d even had a chance to know more. But Grayson didn’t look like he was running. He tilted his head and held a hand out to her.
“Come on,” he said, tugging her closer. “Let’s get you out of this kitchen—before you do any more damage.”
Summer exhaled. “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure I’m the best company right now.”
“Let’s just see if we can’t change that.”
13
Grayson didn’t know where he was taking her, he only knew he needed to get her out of that kitchen—before he took her there, instead.
Who knew bread could be so sexy? Summer was flushed and disheveled, with flour still smudged on her collarbone, and it took everything Grayson had not to push her up against that kitchen island and peel her dress away, claim her sweet mouth the way he’d been fantasizing ever since he made that barefoot walk back across the orchard at dawn.
She was more addictive than sugar. One taste, and he was hooked. Out of control. Which meant he needed to get a grip, and fast.
He led her outside, and Summer quickly locked up behind them. “It’s not like you to play hooky,” she teased. “What about the bookstore?”
Grayson had lasted about an hour there pacing the floor before deciding to close up early. “I don’t always work Saturdays,” he said vaguely, and opened the passenger door of his Jeep for her. Summer climbed in, and he went around to the driver’s side, thinking fast for somewhere to take them. Some place with plenty of people around, so he wouldn’t be tempted to repeat last night’s madness. The swimming pond was out . . . and so was his farm . . . but luckily, there was at least one spot on the Cape where a Saturday crowd was guaranteed.
He put the Jeep in drive and pulled away, noting how Summer immediately made herself comfortable: turning on the radio, rolling her window down, and wriggling out of her sandals right there in the passenger seat. Anyone else, and he would have been annoyed, but her toenails winked bright red at him, and as she hummed along with the music, he felt his tension ease.
A date. In daylight. Nothing to be worried about. He could handle this just fine without losing his head all over again.
“So how did the inspections go?” he asked. “All clear?”
“Barely.” Summer grimaced. “I thought I was doomed, until Marmaduke saved the day.”
Grayson arched an eyebrow. “That rabid beast? I’ve still got scars from him.”
“Poor baby.” Summer laughed, and patted his knee. “He’s a sweetheart, really. At least according to his new best friend, Harry.”
“Harry Gordon, at the council?” Grayson asked. He’d had some dealings with him before, and ‘best friend’ weren’t exactly the words he’d use to describe the man.
“One and the same. Turns out he’s a sucker for cats.”
“Hmm, I’ll have to remember that.”
Grayson turned onto the highway up the Cape and sat back, letting the road unfold in front of them. It was a warm day, with one of those endless summer skies that made him relish being so far from England, where he was lucky to get a glimpse of sunshine until late June. He’d never realized what a difference it made until his first year on the Cape, when he discovered that the endless grey drudgery he’d taken for granted lifted like a weight from his shoulders with every sunny day. He glanced over at Summer, expecting a relaxed smile, but instead she still looked tense, deep in thought like when he’d foun
d her in the kitchen.
“What are you planning on baking for opening day?” he asked, changing the subject to the one thing he knew would bring back that smile.
Sure enough, she brightened. “Oh god, where do I even start? That’s the hard part,” she added, looking over at him. “I want to make everything, so I’ve been trying to narrow it down. There’ll be breads and rolls, and croissants, of course, but then I want to have fruit pastries, and some cake too . . .”
As she launched into a debate about the merits of buttercream versus cream cheese frosting, Summer’s trademark sparkle returned. Grayson smiled to see her so animated. He didn’t think he’d met anyone as passionate about food—or anything—before, but that passion was what set Summer apart: it shone from everything she did, every enthusiastic word and reckless smile. Unstoppable.
Irresistible.
He glanced over again for a glimpse of her—and almost missed the turn to Fairhurst Farms. Grayson forced himself to keep his eyes on the road, and soon they were pulling up in the gravel lot, already packed with cars. People were browsing by the shop, making their way over to the main barn, or hiking back to their cars, laden down with bags of produce.
Summer clapped her hands together. “A farm stand!” she said, excitement in her voice, and Grayson had to chuckle. “What?” she glanced back.
“Nothing. Just, most women want wining and dining.” Grayson grinned, going around to get her door. “You go crazy for fresh produce.”
“Well, you should know by now, I’m not most women.” Summer slid out of the Jeep, then went up on her tiptoes and kissed him.
Heat slammed through Grayson, from zero to sixty with just the soft touch of her lips on his. He tried to take it slow, but Summer’s arms came around his neck, pulling him closer, and he couldn’t resist. He pressed her lightly back against the Jeep, the length of her body melting into him, those miraculous curves, and damn if he didn’t forget himself all over again, forget the bright daylight, and the crowds, just a few feet away.
When she kissed him, there was nothing else in the world.
Grayson finally pulled back, feeling like the world had just been flipped upside down. But Summer seemed perfectly fine: she gave him a lazy smile and reached up. “I like this thing,” she said, playfully stroking his beard. “It’s tickly.”
He rubbed it, self-conscious. “I usually get rid of it for summer.”
“Hmm, I can’t picture it.”
Grayson released her. His pulse was still racing, and he was tempted to pile her back in the Jeep and drive home, but he fought to get a hold of himself. Necking in the car park like some kind of hormone-addled kid?
He was better than this.
“I thought I’d introduce you to Kate and Felix,” he said, nodding to the farm. “They supply a lot of the local restaurants, and I thought you might want to check out their fruit fields.”
“You know how to talk dirty to a girl,” Summer beamed, and he laughed.
“Farm-fresh,” he teased, putting on a low, throaty voice. “Organic. Pick your own.”
“Heavens!” Summer pressed a hand to her forehead, and feigned a swoon. And just like that, Grayson was filled with gladness, as simple as the sight of her: bare-faced with her hair tangling in the breeze.
This girl was something else.
Summer took his hand and flashed another dazzling smile. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
Summer followed Grayson as he showed her around the old barn, where the farm had set up their stands to sell everything from leafy greens fresh out of the field to creamy honey butter and apple jam. The Saturday market was packed, full of tourists catching up over a bushel of sweet tomatoes, describing how they’d been dreaming of their first grilled corn on the cob all winter long. Summer knew how they felt. She couldn’t believe the abundance of gorgeous produce, and it was already setting her mind whirring, planning dishes for the weeks ahead.
“God, these tomatoes are incredible,” she said, biting into a sample of the sweet, fruity flesh. “I could bake them into a focaccia with fresh herbs, and maybe some crumbled feta cheese to melt on the top . . . And those zucchini!” she spied them across the room, plump and glistening in their baskets. “I learned the best zucchini bread recipe from an old mentor. The trick is, you add fresh-grated ginger and a dark chocolate glaze.”
She caught Grayson looking amused, and stopped.
“Sorry,” she said, feeling self-conscious. This was why she didn’t date non-chefs, because they glazed over with bored stares when she started babbling about food. “I know I’m a dork when it comes to this stuff.”
“No, I love it,” Grayson answered. “I was just thinking, if you’re this excited over the farm stand, what’s going to happen when we go pick our own strawberries?”
“That’s for you to find out,” Summer laughed. She paid for her full bags and Grayson went to stash them in the Jeep before they made their way out back, to where the fields of strawberry plants were waiting, green and scarlet in the sun.
“This reminds me of when I was a kid,” Grayson said, as they began to fill a basket. “I grew up in the countryside, a couple of hours outside London, so we’d go berry-picking in summer sometimes. Or rather, my mom and sister would pick the fruit, and my brothers would eat it all,” he added with a grin.
“How many siblings do you have?” Summer asked, seizing on the chance to learn more.
“Two brothers, older, and a younger sister,” Grayson said, leaning to pluck another cluster of strawberries.
“Do you see them much?”
He shrugged. “My brothers are both pretty settled, families, mortgages, but my sister comes to visit sometimes. She’s still kind of a wanderer.”
“Sounds like Jamie—my baby brother,” Summer explained. “I don’t think he’s landed in one place longer than a month or two for years.”
“I never saw the appeal.” Grayson straightened up. “I mean, I understand traveling when you’re young and figuring things out. But soon enough, you want to make a life somewhere, build a routine. Settle.”
“I don’t know,” Summer said slowly. “Just because you put down roots somewhere, doesn’t mean you’re settled. There’s always room for adventure.”
“Perhaps,” Grayson agreed. “If you put it in the schedule.”
He fed her a strawberry, so ripe it burst against her tongue, sweeter than anything you could find in a grocery store. Summer licked the juice from his fingertips, then caught his gaze. It shot through her, fevered and hot.
Grayson dropped his hand and looked away. “So, you’re having problems with your mom?”
Talk about a cold shower.
Summer sighed and kept picking. “I don’t know why I let her get to me, she’s always been this way. It’s like, I know exactly what will happen, but somehow I’m still surprised when she pulls this stuff. I used to send her an invitation, to come eat at every new restaurant when I started working there,” she confided. “Celebrate my first night, you know?”
Grayson nodded.
“Well, she never came,” Summer said, remembering the disappointment, fresh every time. “It was always a different reason—she was filming, or there was some crisis with her restaurant, it didn’t matter. But I kept sending her the invitations, like this time it would be different. That she’d make me a priority, show me some support. I guess I never learned.”
Grayson gave her a sympathetic smile. “Have you invited her to the bakery opening?”
Summer snorted. “Nope. I haven’t even told her about it. I was going to, when she called this morning, but surprise, she wound up talking about herself the whole time, and I never got a chance.”
She felt a pang. It was painful just how predictable her mother was—and herself, too, holding out that small glimmer of hope that one day, Eve would want to be a part of everything she worked for, be proud of what Summer had achieved.
“It’s silly, I know,” she said, realizing Grayson was
still watching her. “I guess that’s why the bakery is so important to me now. It’s the one dream of mine she never had her fingerprints on. No matter what she says, I’ve done it all on my own.”
“You have.” Grayson nodded and smiled at her, his dark eyes full of something she couldn’t quite read. “You, and that strudel of yours.”
Summer laughed. “Baby, you haven’t seen nothing yet. Just wait until I show you how to make strawberry clafoutis.”
“Strawberry what now?”
“You’ll see,” she said confidently. “I promise, it’ll change your life.”
They took their bounty and drove back to Grayson’s place. Summer was serious about giving him a cooking lesson. For a man who enjoyed food so much, it was a crime that he didn’t know how—and she was going to show him exactly what he’d been missing out on.
“I should warn you, I’m not a baker,” Grayson said, showing her into the farmhouse. “Cooking, I can do. Roast chicken, a good piece of steak . . . but all that flour and baking soda stuff?”
“It’s not as scary as it looks,” Summer reassured him, weighed down with produce bags. “And I’ll teach you all my secret cheats.”
She followed him to the kitchen, looking around curiously to take in the scene. Poppy always swore you could tell everything about a man by the place he made his home, but the guys Summer had dated all lived like her: in shoebox apartments in the city, crammed with roommates and hand-me-down Ikea furniture. Now, she was on the lookout for hints about Grayson’s life: a secret love of reggae music, or an embarrassing hoard of rom-coms.
But instead, it was clear Grayson kept his home as inscrutable as everything else in his life. The farmhouse was old, and rustic enough, but inside, nothing was out of place. His furniture was leather and wood, gorgeous vintage pieces, and everything seemed purposeful, chosen with intent. A single vase on the mantle, the old metal coffee table, bare save a chess board, and a neat stack of New Yorker magazines. There was no clutter, not an object out of place. He’d chosen each object carefully, and that just made Summer even more curious for the story behind everything.
