Don't Call Me Cupcake

by Tara Sheets

  Emma snuggled deeper into her chair with a contented sigh. It was close to eleven o’clock, but she still wore her pajamas—flannel pants with pink doughnuts on them—and a cat tank top that read CHECK MEOWT. She had just arranged a knit throw blanket around her and picked up a new romance novel, when the doorbell rang.

  A burst of dread washed over her, and she forced a couple of deep breaths. If it was Rodney again, she would stay exactly where she was. He could ring the bell all day long if he wanted to. She wasn’t answering.

  Buddy, on the other hand, was happy to investigate. He barked in glee and scampered into the foyer, pawing at the front door.

  After several moments, there was a polite knock on the door.

  Emma frowned.

  The house seemed calm and no lights flickered.

  She tiptoed to the door, but before she had a chance to peer through the peephole, the door swung wide open. What the heck, house?

  Hunter stood on the front porch with her file box. He wore a flannel shirt and faded jeans, with windblown hair and a slight stubble that gave him a rather disheveled appearance. Sort of a “Hot Lumberjacks ‘R’ Us” vibe. It must be his weekend look, and it was a good one. Not that Emma was keeping track, or anything.

  Buddy leapt over the threshold, his whole body wagging in joy at the miracle that appeared before him.

  “What are you doing here?” She tried to close the door a little, mostly to hide her pajamas and the puppy-chewed slippers on her feet, but the door wouldn’t budge. The house wanted to let him in.

  Hunter’s gaze swept over her and his mouth kicked into a grin. “Juliette was at the shop. She told me to come over.”

  No more cupcakes for Juliette. “Why?”

  “I went by to return the files and she said to bring them here, since you weren’t going in this morning. She also wanted me to give you this.” He held out a small vial of amber liquid. “For your headache?”

  Emma took Juliette’s headache remedy. It wasn’t charmed, but it worked like one. Her cousin always seemed to know when she’d need it. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting visitors.” She crossed her arms over her tank top and shivered. Storm clouds were rolling in fast, and the morning air had grown chilly.

  Upstairs, the floorboards creaked and a door shut.

  Hunter glanced behind her. “Do you have company?”

  “No. It’s just the wind,” she lied. How do you even begin to tell someone that your house is sentient? Just add that to the crazy Holloway rumors.

  Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

  Please, not now. Emma stared at the darkening sky, calculating how much time she had before the rain came. It had been days since she checked the leaks in the attic, and one of the windows had a hole in it. She hadn’t expected a storm to brew so quickly. She needed more time.

  Before she could thank Hunter and send him on his way, a flash of lightning cracked and the sky opened up. Emma knew she was in for it. The spell she had done to keep the storm at bay had finally run its course, and now it was back with a vengeance.

  Buddy yelped and ran back into the living room. In a matter of seconds, a torrential downpour surrounded the house.

  “The attic!” Emma cried. “I have to go.” She tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Another crack of lightning split the sky and she gave up with a frustrated groan.

  Hunter stepped inside and put the file box on the entry table. “Do you need help?”

  She was about to say no, but the word died on her tongue. He was there and he offered help. She’d be stupid to turn him away. “I just have to nail a board to one of my windows. The glass fell out last week—” Rain began pelting the front porch, and the door swung shut behind him.

  He glanced back with a tiny frown.

  “The wind,” she lied. There was no time for this. If the patches in the ceiling didn’t hold, the attic would be flooded. Emma darted up the stairs, praying she wouldn’t be too late.

  Thunder rumbled, loud and ominous, as she flung open the attic door. She was vaguely aware of Hunter following her. Heavy sheets of rain poured in through the broken window, drenching the floorboards.

  She whirled and ran down the hall to fetch a stack of towels, returning to throw them onto the growing puddle. It was no use; the rain was coming in too fast. Another bolt of lightning cracked across the sky outside and the sound of the storm echoed off the attic walls.

  “We have to block the opening,” Hunter shouted. Somewhere in the house, doors slammed, adding to the noise.

  Emma flew across the room, pushing old trunks and dusty boxes out of the way to grab her toolbox.

  Hunter lifted a piece of plywood from a scrap pile in the corner.

  She nodded, and together they positioned it over the broken window as the driving rain hit them full-on. Emma gasped. The plywood slipped from her hands. Icy water drenched her face and hair, soaking through her clothes. She grabbed it and tried again, holding the plank firmly as Hunter slammed the hammer over and over.

  Her arms began to ache, but she held on until the steady flow of water became a stream, and then a trickle. When he nailed the last section of plywood to the window frame, they stood shivering in the half dark, cocooned by the muted sound of the rain.

  Breathing heavily, Hunter set the hammer on the floorboards. His shirt was plastered to his very broad, very muscular chest. They were soaked to the skin, their faces only inches apart. A dark lock of hair fell across his forehead. “This isn’t going to last,” he said quietly.

  Emma swallowed hard. “I know.”

  Slowly, he lifted a hand and brushed a strand of wet hair from her eyes. The roar of the storm outside was nothing compared to the staccato thump of her heart.

  “You need something permanent.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But this works for now.” She wasn’t even sure they were still talking about the window. All she knew was that he was so close she could feel the heat of his body against her chilled skin.

  Hunter lowered his gaze to her lips, his expression fierce in the half light.

  She trembled with delicious anticipation.

  He cupped her cheek with one large hand, his thumb stroking once, featherlight, across her lower lip. “Is this okay, then?” he murmured.

  It was the smallest, simplest word. Yes. But Emma knew if she said it, a floodgate would open between them that she might never be able to close.

  She took a shaky breath.

  He watched her. The cords of muscle on his neck tensed, but he held very still. Waiting for her answer.

  Alarm bells went off inside her head, but Emma shoved them aside. She wanted him. And suddenly, even if it was wrong, she didn’t care. For once in her life, she was going to live a little. “Yes.”

  The moment his lips touched hers, she felt as if she were dipped in warm honey. The warmth of his mouth, at first a soft pressure, then more demanding, made heat pool low in her belly and her limbs shake from something far more powerful than the cold air surrounding them. He smelled like rain and wet wool and something darker and more alluring, something completely masculine and just, him. Emma gripped his shoulders and instinctively pressed closer. He tasted wild and dangerous and more delicious than anything she’d ever tried before. She wanted to inhale him. Suck him in. Lick him up.

  A sound like a low growl escaped him, and he deepened the kiss, wrapping his arms around her waist, smoothing his hands up under her wet shirt to slide across her bare skin. When he pulled her against him, a lightning-hot desire shot through her body and she couldn’t seem to get close enough. He was like a storm crashing over her, but this time she didn’t care. This time, she welcomed it.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emma didn’t know how long they kissed, but by the time he pulled away, she was liquid from head to toe. Where did he learn to kiss like that? On second thought, better if she didn’t dwell on it. She could just imagine the string of supermodels in his life. The tall, leggy types with sle
ek hair that never frizzed. Probably had names like Suzette or Giselle.

  She crossed her arms and shivered, all too aware of her bedraggled appearance. “Um, I’ll go and get some towels.” She ran out of the attic before he had even had a chance to stand.

  Down the hall, Emma leaned against her bedroom wall and waited for her pounding heart to slow. What the hell was wrong with her? He was supposed to be the enemy, and she needed to remember that. If she got all lovestruck over this man, nothing good would come of it. Sure, he had just helped her patch the window, and then kissed her into kingdom come, but she had to pull herself together.

  After drying off, she slipped on a pair of blue jeans and a T-shirt, then grabbed a few towels from the linen closet. When she didn’t find him in the attic, a brief pang of disappointment shot through her. She tried to ignore it. Maybe he had already gone home. Downstairs in the kitchen, she heard movement, and she found him tinkering with the ancient coffeepot in the corner.

  Years ago Emma had painted the little room a sunny yellow with glossy white trim. Crisp Battenburg lace curtains framed the window, and a collection of blue and white china plates hung on the wall above the small kitchen table. Aside from the industrial-grade sink and double ovens she used for baking, it had a quaint, homey feel to it. It was the same kitchen her grandmother had used for decades, and many other Holloway women who had come before her.

  Hunter Kane, shirtless and leaning over the coffeepot in the middle of the kitchen, looked completely out of place. And hot as sin.

  Beside him, her spell book lay open to that same old “Day of Bliss” recipe. As usual. The house still hadn’t given up on it and Emma had stopped bothering to put the book away. It seemed like every time she walked into the kitchen, there it was. She ignored it now, like she always did. “It’s not going to happen,” she told the house under her breath. “Quit trying.”

  “What’s that?” Hunter asked, shaking water droplets from his hair with one hand.

  “Oh! Um, you won’t get dry without these.” Emma held up the towels. “So, you know, quit trying.”

  He took the towels and began rubbing down his hair. The intimacy of the moment wasn’t lost on Emma. She could almost imagine him stepping out of the shower, except she wasn’t going to. That would be ridiculous. Nothing good could come of her imagining Hunter gloriously naked, surrounded by steam with water dripping down his muscular torso—

  “I thought coffee might be a good idea.” His deep voice startled her out of her thoughts.

  “Coffee!” she said a little too brightly. “Yes, I’ll just make some.” She flew to the cupboard and pulled down a tin of gourmet coffee, aware that he was watching her every move. Emma felt flushed and jittery. She forced her hands to remain steady as she measured coffee into the machine. Being in the tiny kitchen with him felt like being in a room with a wild lion. It was unsettling. Because she sort of wanted the lion to pounce.

  Outside, the rain continued to pour in gray, icy sheets. Emma sighed. “If all goes well, I’ll have a contractor fix that roof before the end of the summer. Good thing Sam’s been so easy on me with the shop rent.”

  Hunter straightened. “Sam seems to really love this town, and the people in it.”

  “Well, yeah. He owns the whole waterfront, aside from your restaurant. His family was in real estate, and he inherited it. Sam’s a lot different than his parents. At least, that’s what my grandma always told me. He’s kind of a simple guy, and genuinely cares about the community. I’m just so grateful he’s my landlord and hasn’t kicked me out yet.”

  She frowned at the storm outside. “I better bake something fast, or that patchwork job we did in the attic is never going to hold. The only problem is, if I force the storm away it will just come back worse, later.”

  Hunter was silent for so long that when she finally glanced up at him, she almost spilled the coffee grounds. He looked completely baffled.

  “You say the weirdest things,” he said.

  “Get used to it. The Holloways are the resident weirdos, haven’t you heard? Wait, you’ve spoken with Bethany Andrews. Of course you’ve heard.”

  He leaned against the counter and folded his arms, a playful smile curving his lips. “I’ve heard a few things, yes. I’ve heard you are a magical creature who lives all alone in this big house and bakes spells into cupcakes.”

  She eyed him carefully. Of course the townspeople talked. But he obviously didn’t believe it. Nobody with any sense ever really gave it much credit, except a few of the locals. Most visitors just found the story charming and bought cupcakes for the fun of it.

  “And you don’t believe it,” she said.

  His smile broadened and he took a step forward. “Who doesn’t like a good story? And it’s no wonder they chose you, Goldilocks, to be the resident fairy-tale character. You’re perfect for the part.” He smoothed his fingertips down a lock of her hair.

  “Fairy tales are make-believe,” Emma said solemnly, stepping back. It was important that he understood. “What I do is real.”

  His laughter was low, a deep, rich sound that resonated through her bones. He was special, too, this man. Something about him made her want to melt into him, and no one had ever made her feel that way before. But he didn’t know her. Not really. He didn’t accept who she was.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” She felt as though she were hanging from the edge of a cliff, holding on by just one hand. His answer would have the power to lift her up, or send her plummeting.

  Hunter gave her a half smile. “Sure, I do.”

  Her hand slipped on the cliff’s edge. “No, I’m being serious. I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories by now. Do you believe them?”

  Hunter took a deep breath and gazed out the window, avoiding her face. “You know what I believe in? Facts and numbers. The logic of A plus B never changes. It’s steadfast. You can hold on to it. You can build from it.”

  “Numbers?” Emma echoed. She was asking if he believed in her and he was talking about accounting? Her fingers slipped off the edge of the cliff and she began to fall.

  “Exactly,” he said. “In my experience, people are mercurial by nature, but you can always count on numbers to tell the true story. Profits, overhead, bottom lines. I pay attention to those things and I stay on top. Everything else is just window dressing.”

  Emma felt as though she were plummeting to the bottom of a ravine. All her hope dropped to the pit of her stomach. They were so completely different. A man like him could never live in her world, nor she in his. She hadn’t even realized she’d hoped it. Stupid!

  “Look, Emma. I can see you’re struggling to make ends meet. What I’m trying to say here is, I know how to make money. It’s what I’m good at. And it’s clear you need help. I can help you.”

  She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re obviously having financial troubles. Your house needs repairs and your business is failing. You need to start thinking about making serious changes. I know you haven’t had an easy time of things since your grandmother died.”

  A sudden ache unfurled inside her and she fought to breathe around it. “I’m managing just fine.”

  “Maybe for now, but it won’t last. Your grandmother’s way isn’t working anymore. The world’s moved on, and you’re going to need to update your business model. I can help you do that. I’ve already organized those vendor files and e-mailed you the new spreadsheets. Haven isn’t going to be the only establishment you’ll have to contend with. Bigger businesses will come. You need to consider what you’re going to do in the long run. This magic act you’ve got isn’t going to work forever. You need to be more realistic.”

  Magic act? Her cheeks burned with humiliation and something sharper. Anger flooded through her. “You’ve barely been on this island for longer than two minutes, and yet you want to tell me how to fix my life? My shop, my house? They’re mine. This is my life.”

  To her complete horror, she fe
lt tears prick the corners of her eyes. She suddenly felt as small as she’d been when her mother left; as hopeless as when her grandmother died. Why did she ever imagine he could believe in her? “You think you have it all figured out. But there are some things in this world that are just as important as your precious numbers and profits—no—more important. Like friendships. And community. And trust. Without any of that, nothing else matters. I’m sorry if my way of doing things doesn’t measure up on your spreadsheets.” She swiped at her eyes.

  “Emma.” Hunter took a step forward, a stricken look on his face. “I don’t want to upset you. It’s just hard for me to watch you struggle.” He ran his hands through his hair and let out a frustrated breath.

  She shook her head. They were so different. He had the whole world organized into neat categories that could be calculated and measured, and he was convinced that was how the universe worked because it worked so well for him. But she wasn’t him. Her life was nothing like his. In fact, Emma was pretty sure the universe had been laughing at her for years. The only thing she knew for sure was that she was born a Holloway, and she’d been given a gift. It wasn’t just a “magic act.”

  “You can’t do it, can you?” she blurted. “You can’t step outside of yourself for just one moment and believe that what I do is real.”

  He threw his hands up in the air. “Believe what, exactly? What do you want me to say? That I believe in magic?” His expression was one of incredulity.

  She lifted her chin, grateful that her voice was steady. “Some things can’t be explained, but that doesn’t make them any less real. Maybe you’re just afraid it might be true.”

  “I’m not afraid,” he said in exasperation. “It just makes no logical sense.”

  “So what? Believe anyway.” She knew he was going to walk away and that it was probably for the best, but a tiny voice inside of her urged her to try one last time. She gathered her courage. “I dare you.”

  He was quiet for a long time, and Emma wondered if she had pushed him too far. Maybe this was the part where he told her she was a freak and walked out the door. She waited for what felt like an eternity. Each tick of the clock above the kitchen door made her feel one step further away.