by Addison Cole
Weirdest night ever.
Kurt held up his beer. “Thank you for the drink.” Aw, hell. Leanna’s bike. Had she made his mind completely nonfunctional? How’d he forget that? “Your bike? Should I put it in my garage?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll come by and get it.”
He nodded, stifling the urge to ask when. Of course, first he’d have to waste time looking for her bike, and for some strange reason, that didn’t bother him one bit.
“Have a nice night, ladies.” He drove out of the complex completely perplexed—and intrigued—by the messy free spirit that was Leanna Bray.
Chapter Three
IT WAS THREE forty-five Saturday afternoon, and even beneath the awning above her booth at the flea market, it was a scorcher. The flea market was held in the parking lot of the Wellfleet Drive-In, and it was where she’d met Al Black when she was a little girl. He was an elderly jam maker from Plymouth, and over the years they’d become trusted friends. When Al became ill last year, he’d contacted Leanna, shared his recipes, and when he passed away a few months later, at the ripe old age of eighty-two, the idea for Luscious Leanna’s was born. In honor of her friendship with Al, and with the support of her most trusted friends, she’d set out for the Cape, hoping to make a go of the business.
Normally, Leanna wasn’t anxious for the flea market to close. She enjoyed the constant influx of people and loved knowing they enjoyed her products. But today she planned on taking a basket of goodies to Kurt to thank him for rescuing Pepper the evening before. Bella had given her grief for pushing him out of the cottage, and she’d given her more grief for not trying to hook up with him. But Leanna wasn’t in Wellfleet to pick up a brooding writer; she was there to figure out her career. If she’d learned one thing about Kurt Remington in the short time they were together, it was that he might be brave, hot, and successful, but he was the epitome of organized and—the thing she could never even hope to be—neat. Bordering on tragically so, from what Leanna could tell. And for a girl who sniffed her tank top to see if she could toss it on over her bathing suit for the second day in a row, that was a scary thought. She was brought up right, however, and showing gratitude was important. Even if she sometimes pushed handsome guys out of her cottage so her hot and aggressive girlfriend didn’t start hitting on them.
She’d arrived late again that morning and missed the first rush of customers. Leanna had brought a few of her new jam flavors to the flea market—apricot-lime and strawberry-apricot—and they’d caught the attention of some of the regulars. She wondered how much business being late had cost her. It didn’t matter how hard she tried or how early she got up; she was always late. For everything. She was even born a week late. Her mother should have nipped it in the bud when she was younger. Punished her more or something. Anything. But Gina Bray would never have done anything so regimented—or expected. I don’t want my kids to be cookie-cutter clones of other children. How many times had she heard her mother say that to her teachers when they’d complain that Leanna wasn’t focused or that she was too talkative or too loud? And her father, Colonel Will Bray, who should have been more regimented and stern, given his military career, was equally as forgiving of his children’s faults. It was a wonder that she and her siblings ever got anywhere on time or completed a darn thing in their lives. But they all had. At least each of her siblings had. Her older brothers, Colby and Wade, had found their calling. Colby was a Navy SEAL, and Wade was an artificial intelligence guru. Even her younger siblings had found their groove. Bailey was a musician, and Dae, who her parents adopted from Korea when he was a baby, was a demolition expert. Only Leanna seemed to still be floundering, and at twenty-eight, she wondered if she’d ever find anything that didn’t leave her longing for more.
Pepper whined at her feet where she’d tethered him to the leg of the table with a long leash. She hated leashing him to the table, but they didn’t allow unleashed pets at the flea market. Leanna thought about Kurt. She probably should have had Pepper on a leash last night, but she was glad she hadn’t.
“We’re leaving in a few minutes. Can you please wait?” Leanna patted his head. The flea market closed at four, and she had disassembling her booth down to a science. She could do it in fifteen minutes flat. Most of the time. Today she hoped she could, as she was anxious to bring the basket to Kurt.
Pepper looked at her with pleading, big, round eyes and barked. He had already wrapped himself around the table leg a bazillion times and she’d had to untangle the unhappy pup. He wanted to roam free—and she didn’t blame him, as she had that gypsy urge running through her blood, too.
Leanna had sold one hundred and forty-two jars of jam and jelly today, and at four dollars a jar, it wasn’t exactly a killing, but it was good enough. She loved working at the flea market. Vendors changed often, and there was always an influx of new and interesting people to watch or to chat with. She kept a little radio on beneath the table, and when it wasn’t too busy, she would dance by herself. Leanna had become friends with the neighboring vendors, and she was trusting by nature, so she never thought twice about having them watch her booth if she had to walk Pepper or use the ladies’ room.
Pepper whined again.
There were only a handful of customers left on the flea market grounds, and Pepper was wrapping his leash around the table leg again.
“Hey, Carey,” she called to the lanky twenty-four-year-old vendor in the next booth. He, like Leanna, had maintained his booth for the entire summer, and they’d become friends. They’d gone to the beach a handful of times, went out for drinks, and generally hung out. “Would you mind watching my stuff for a few minutes so I can walk Pepper?”
“No prob.” Carey sat with his feet propped up on a plastic milk crate full of vinyl records, wearing the same style cargo shorts and tank he’d worn all summer. He had a deep tan and longish, light brown sun-streaked hair, and because they’d gone swimming together, Leanna knew he had a six-pack beneath his tank top and looked amazing in his board shorts.
“Thank you. Poor Pepper hates this, but you know I hate to leave him home alone. I worry he’d be lonely.”
Pepper heard his name and barked, pulling against his leash as Leanna untied it from the table leg. His white fur was now brown with dirt on his belly and paws.
“Pepper, calm down. Please.”
Pepper pulled and pulled, and the jars on the table clanked together. When she finally freed the leash from the table leg, he took off running.
Leanna ran her hand through her hair and sighed. Her shoulders slumped forward. She loved the little curly-haired brat, but he sure tried her patience.
Carey laughed.
She held her palms up with a shake of her head. “Off I go.”
Leanna headed toward the snack bar, Pepper’s destination of choice. Vendor tents were set up in lines of twelve, with wide paths between them for customers. Each vendor had their own setup of tables or clothing racks. Some even set their products on blankets on the blacktop. One of the things Leanna loved most about the flea market was the diversity of what was offered. There were booths with antiques, and booths with what looked to be garage sale items. Hippie clothing, leather products, jewelry, and books were also sold. As she passed by a clothing vendor and neared the snack bar, the scent of popcorn and hot dogs filled the air, reminding her of when she’d come to the drive-in with her parents and siblings as a child. She smiled at the memory, enjoying the brief walk in search of her dog.
On one side of the snack bar was a patio with picnic tables and bleachers beneath a small awning. She found Pepper on the other side of the snack bar, at the little sandy playground, running circles around a group of children, jumping playfully into the air, slowing down just long enough to pant. The children, who looked to be six or seven years old, giggled with delight while the parents stood close by with mildly concerned eyes, obviously wondering if this jumping, happy dog posed a danger as he licked the toes of one of the little girls.
Leanna l
oved Pepper so much it made her heart ache, everything about him, from his crazy barking to his running away, and she knew he was about as harmful as a baby. He’d kill them with cuteness before he’d bite anyone.
“He won’t bite. Do you mind if he plays with them?” she asked a twenty-something couple. With their consent, she leaned on the split-rail fence surrounding the park and watched for a minute or two before saving the children from enjoying themselves too much.
“Aww, please can he stay?” asked a wide-eyed girl with pigtails.
“Please? Please?” asked another little boy.
Leanna looked toward her booth, where a group of women were perusing her products. Carey hadn’t moved from his laid-back perch. What’s another few bucks?
Thinking of Pepper and the way he’d taken off into the ocean, she snagged his leash and sat on the ground with him while the kids petted him. This is what life is about. Living in the moment was something Leanna was very good at, and this moment filled her with joy—but joy didn’t pay the bills. Leanna had a trust fund, passed down from her great-grandfather, but other than dipping into it to pay for college, she’d made a decision a few years earlier not to touch that money if she could help it. She wanted to find something that made her feel whole and fulfilled, and if she relied on her trust fund, she’d never experience enough on her own to fill that need. She lived simply, and even though she’d begun worrying about if she’d ever find a fulfilling career, she liked knowing that if or when she did, she’d have found it on her own, and she hadn’t simply sat back and used her great-grandfather’s hard-earned money.
After the children had played for a few more minutes, Leanna returned to take down her booth for the afternoon. Carey finished taking down his display and loading up his 1979 Dodge van. He smacked the door of his rust-orange-colored van, as he did every day. Good luck, you know?
“If you had a van like mine, you wouldn’t need luck.” Leanna glanced at her hand-painted 1968 Volkswagen Bus, which her father had given her as a college graduation gift. She wiped sweat from her forehead with her forearm, then placed the last insulated container of jam into the back of the van.
Carey leaned against his van. He was easy on the eyes, six feet of lean muscle, with angular features, full lips, and green eyes.
“Maybe you’re right. Your happy mobile doesn’t break down like my van does. Wanna hit the beach?” he asked.
She looked at Pepper sprawled out in the back of the van and debated going with Carey. They had fun hanging out together. Carey was nice and he was definitely hot, but Leanna wasn’t attracted to him as anything more than a friend. That had surprised her at first, given their close proximity the last two months and the good times they’d shared, but when she looked at him, she saw a nice guy. A friend. And it stopped there. Now her mind drifted to Kurt—in his Calvin Klein briefs—and a shiver ran up her spine, sending a tingling to the parts of her that hadn’t felt anything for months. She had more important things on her mind than finding a man, but she was still female.
“Can’t today. I’ve got a few things to do, but thanks anyway.”
She told herself she owed Kurt a thank-you basket. That was her story, and she was sticking to it.
THE SUN BEAT down on Kurt’s bare back as his fingers danced over the keyboard. He was in the zone. The killer was a breath away from his unsuspecting victim. Kurt’s heart slammed against his chest; sweat dripped from his torso and beaded his forehead. His hand perspired with every determined keystroke. This was what he lived for. The moment he became so engrossed in his writing that he was right there with both the victim and the villain, holding his breath in the space in between.
He heard tires in the driveway and blinked the noise away, hoping whoever it was had lost their way and was just turning around. He went back to the villain, who closed his eyes as he caught the victim’s scent, spurring on his deviant desires.
Knocking drew his focus toward the cottage.
“Darn it,” he muttered and turned back to his writing.
The knocking continued. Kurt clenched his teeth and continued hammering out the scene that played in his mind like a movie.
“Hello?”
Kurt’s fingers froze. Leanna. The thought of her in his arms, her wet body pressed against his chest, sent a wave of heat through him. He stared at his laptop, calculating his writing time. He’d written five thousand words and hoped for another three thousand before the day’s end. Once Leanna started talking, he’d have no hope of writing a word. She talked more than his fictional victims when pleading for their lives.
And for some unknown reason, she intrigued him. He wanted to hear what she had to say.
He heard scratching on the deck stairs, and then Pepper was clawing his bare legs and barking at his feet.
Oh, come on.
He shoved away from the table and, ignoring Pepper, descended the stairs and went toward the front of the house. He stopped cold at the sight of a rainbow-colored Volkswagen Bus. A colorful starburst surrounded a spare tire hooked to the front of the old van. He took a step around the gaudy, hand-painted vehicle. Yellow flowers covered half of the side, running from front to back, and a gigantic blue dragonfly covered the driver’s door. An ocean scene of fish, red mushrooms, and bikini-clad women covered the center of the van. A half-moon with a face, of course, covered the rear panel, and the expanded top of the van was painted blue with white clouds and stars.
She was not only messy, but a hippie to boot?
He looked down at Pepper, panting beside him.
“Hey there.” Leanna came around the side of the house with a basket under one lean, tanned arm and flashed a smile that nearly knocked him off his feet. “I brought you something.”
“Hi,” was all he could manage. Her body glistened with sweat, making her light blue tank top stick to her stomach and chest. She wore another pair of cutoffs, and when she bent over to pet Pepper, she flashed a curve of bronze skin where her butt met her thighs. Kurt swallowed hard.
She popped back up and handed him the basket. Her eyes took a slow roll down his body.
Kurt arched a brow, amused by the once-over, but apparently, she didn’t realize she’d done it, or hadn’t cared that he’d noticed, because she never missed a beat.
“I wanted to say thank you. I was kinda rude last night, pushing you out of the cottage and all, but I’m not a total jerk. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” She didn’t give him time to answer, as she followed the slate path toward the back of the house. “You were on the deck?”
He couldn’t do much more than watch and follow. Leanna befuddled him. No one befuddled Kurt Remington. He was unflappable. Or at least he’d always thought he was.
“Oh, gosh, you were working.” She leaned over his computer screen.
Kurt closed the laptop. “Writing.”
Her eyes grew serious. “You don’t like people to read as you write? No worries. I get that, I guess. In case you want to change something? You don’t want that person to know you changed what you’d written?”
What? No. Or at least I don’t think that’s why I do it. Holy cow. Now she had him questioning his writing practices in ways he never had.
“I have beta readers and editors who read my work before publication.”
She flopped down on a chair with another stomach-rattling smile. “What’s a beta reader?”
Distracted by Leanna and by her dog, who had made himself at home on Kurt’s chair, he answered cryptically. “A beta reader. Test reader before publication.” He glared at Pepper and pointed to the deck. “Off.”
Pepper jumped down.
“You need to teach me that,” Leanna said.
“What?”
“That. Off. Sit. The way you get him to listen to you.” She leaned her head back and dropped her arms to the sides of the chair. “It’s so nice out here. You have the breeze from the ocean, the sunshine, privacy…”
Privacy? Kurt could think of a hundred things to do when
a woman was in that position—and he’d never once thought about doing them on his deck. Until now. The thought of Leanna naked in the chair aroused him. He brushed the sand Pepper had so kindly left behind from his chair and sat down before she could notice. Not that she seemed to notice much. She made herself right at home.
He eyed the basket to keep his mind off of the way a bead of sweat was heading south, straight down her cleavage.
“Thanks for the basket, but you didn’t have to bring me anything.” He grabbed a jar of jam and read the label. “Luscious Leanna’s Sweet Treats?” Luscious Leanna? He was in big trouble.
She sat up and leaned toward him. “I wanted to. You were nice enough to go into the ocean in the middle of a rainstorm and save me and Pepper. Now I know you were probably writing some crazy thriller, so that means I really interrupted you.”
As opposed to fake interrupted me? He had to work hard to pull himself from his writer’s mind-set. She’d crinkled her nose as she’d said really, and she was so cute he couldn’t do more than watch as she stood and leaned over the railing. He noticed jam handprints across the back pockets of her shorts. Kurt wished they’d been from his hands. She threw her hands up in the air and exhaled loudly, before turning back to him with that glorious smile again.
“You’re so lucky. I mean, this is what you do. You write with the ocean in your backyard.” She glanced into the French doors and winced. “I hope your floors survived us.”
She touched his shoulder as she flitted past and sat down on another chair. He liked that warm touch, and she’d done it with a sense of familiarity. Weird. He’d never met anyone who was so comfortable in her own skin. Pepper licked the perspiration from Leanna’s legs. Kurt was a little jealous of the pesty little dog. He smiled despite the interruption to his writing—and despite wondering if that jam on her butt was still wet and would ruin his chair.
“They survived just fine.” But I’m not sure I will. She stirred all sorts of desires in Kurt that he usually kept under wraps—and drew upon only when his projects were sufficiently complete or when he was ahead of schedule and could spare a few hours to burn off steam. His stomach was doing something strange and unfamiliar, too. What is that? A flutter? Pang? Ache? He ran through a plethora of words that might or might not be accurate.
