In the Mood for Love: A Cupcake Lovers Novel (The Cupcake Lovers)

by Beth Ciotta

“Kinky urges?”

  “My attention.”

  * * *

  Harper held it together as Sam drove them into Sugar Creek. A twenty-minute jaunt that felt like eternity. She alternated between checking her phone for texts and fingering her Serenity bracelet. She helped herself to his radio, dialing in cheery pop music to offset her darkening mood. She asked Sam to play tour guide, even though she was familiar with the area. Anything to distract her from morbid thoughts. Turned out he knew far more than she did about Sugar Creek and the surrounding land. Then again he’d lived here his entire life. She wondered what it felt like to love a place so much, you never wanted to leave. Harper had never felt rooted in that way, although she’d always had an affinity with the Rothwell Farm. Which prompted the question: After they married, where would they live? The farm was her safe haven and she had unfinished business with Mary. She didn’t want to move out. She’d just moved in!

  Harper fingered her bracelet, tempered her breathing. “How is this going to work exactly?”

  “The marriage?”

  “No, lunch.” Okay. That was snarky. But it had also been reflex. She’d learned to protect her heart by pushing people away.

  Sam shot her one of his wicked death stares. “Why don’t you shelve the sarcasm and tell me what’s twisting you up?”

  Harper stiffened her spine. “I’m not fond of sharing my … personal misgivings.”

  “Welcome to the club. What’s with the bracelet?”

  Self-conscious now, Harper stopped twirling the bangle. “You know how some people stroke rosary beads as a way of meditation? Same concept.”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “No.”

  “Religious?”

  “Not particularly.” Although the underside of her bracelet was inscribed with the Serenity prayer. “You?”

  “I take the kids to church.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Sam rolled back his shoulders. “My faith has been tested over the years, so I’m a little shaky on my exact belief.”

  Same as her.

  The awkward confession pulled Harper out of her self-absorbed misery. While decorating the farmhouse, Rocky had shared stories about her family, including bits about Sam. Harper knew he’d lost his first wife to ovarian cancer. That it had been an intrusive, lengthy battle and that Sam had been devastated when Paula had died. Harper assumed that crisis had shaken his faith. She’d gone through a similar shock with Andrew.

  Although Andrew’s fate, along with another, could have been avoided.

  If only Harper had intervened.

  Pulse racing, she shook off the memories, the guilt. That was Edward talking.

  Because she didn’t want to mention Andrew, she didn’t ask about Paula. Instead she turned up the music.

  Sam shut it off.

  She focused on her phone.

  Sam took it away.

  “Dammit, McCloud—”

  “The CLs mentioned you haven’t been in town since you’ve been back. That you’ve had your meals and supplies delivered to the farm. Why is that?” When she didn’t answer, he pushed. “You mentioned letting a lot of people down. Your clients? Why did the firm let you go?”

  Harper balled her fists in her lap. She wanted to massage her aching chest. She wanted to stroke her bracelet. She wanted to punch Sam. But none of that would soothe her brewing anxiety.

  The small town of Sugar Creek, with its quaint buildings and cobbled streets, loomed just ahead. She spotted the steeple of the Methodist church, the red-brick façades of the two- and three-story shops. The numerous trees populating the manicured parks and lawns and the green mountains that served as a verdant backdrop helped to create an old-fashioned scene reminiscent of a folk art painting. While the vision as a whole was serene, Harper’s pulse skittered with dread.

  Though the local population was small, Sugar Creek attracted hordes of tourists. Mostly they took advantage of the outdoor recreation—biking, hiking, skiing, snowmobiling—depending on the season. But in between they explored the delightful shops and restaurants. They relaxed in the town square. Stocked up on groceries at Oslow’s General Store. Bought necessities at J. T. Monroe’s Department Store. Took advantage of the wireless Internet in Moose-a-lotta—just one of the draws of Chloe and Daisy’s kitschy café. They dined and socialized at the Sugar Shack, a popular pub owned by Rae’s husband, Luke.

  The more Harper thought about the crowds and strangers, people who could have a gripe, or a death wish, or a mental problem … People who could act out in any way at any time, the greater her anxiety. She envisioned having a full-blown panic attack as Sam escorted her into a restaurant. The possibility served a brutal blow to her pride. She’d been so sure she had a grip on her phobia.

  “Turn around,” she said, adding, “Please,” and cursing her strangled tone.

  Sam cast her a glance. Not one of his stern glares, but a look of concern. It messed with her stubborn determination to fight her own battles. An unsettling first.

  “I have a problem with crowds,” she admitted. “With public places.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since last month. There was an incident. That’s what’s twisting me up. That’s what got me fired. Or at least contributed to my dismissal. It triggered this insane fear of random violence and mass killings.”

  “Is that why you’ve been glued to CNN? Are you looking for a pattern? Trying to find reason in senseless attacks?”

  Harper crossed her arms so as not to stroke her bracelet. Her insides churned and her head thrummed. This subject was dangerously close to Andrew’s tragic meltdown. She didn’t want to go there. Hard enough dealing with the incident in L.A.

  “We need to talk about this, Harper. I can’t subject Ben and Mina to whatever crisis you’re going through if I don’t know the details.”

  She got that. And, seriously, part of her wanted to confide in Sam. She’d tried everything to get a grip on her intensifying agoraphobia short of weekly visits to a shrink. Spewing her guts to a professional psychiatrist was akin to undergoing brain surgery sans anesthesia. Thank you, but no. That said, she was desperate to regain control of her life.

  “I won’t think you’re crazy,” Sam said, speaking to her earlier concern.

  Harper studied Sam as he slowed his truck at the last intersection before town. Her breathing eased as she soaked in his calm and grounded strength. She couldn’t talk about Andrew, but she could talk about the spa shooting.

  “Pull over, Rambo. Someplace private. And give me back my phone.”

  EIGHT

  Grenville’s Overlook.

  Sam made a U-turn, backtracked a mile, turned left then crossed the historic covered bridge to get to the other side of Sugar Creek—the river, not the town. He parked his truck near a copse of trees at the slope’s edge, affording them a prime view upriver. The water sparkled and rippled, a gentle current conducive to canoeing, kayaking, and inner-tubing. As a boy Sam used to cannonball off the covered bridge with his cousins. He doubted Ben would be so adventurous. Mina was another story. Sam dreaded that day. For now his kids were happy with an occasional rafting expedition.

  “Let me guess,” Harper said as he keyed off the ignition. “You used to bring girlfriends here to make out.”

  Sam’s lip twitched. “That was a long time ago.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Paula was fond of moonlit picnics.”

  “That doesn’t sound like your cup of tea.”

  “It’s not.”

  “But you did it. For her.”

  Sam didn’t answer, but he did look Harper’s way. She was studying him as though puzzling through a riddle. He felt the same way about her. “You mentioned someplace private and Grenville’s was close.” Anxious to know the details behind her sudden and peculiar fear of crowds, Sam unbuckled his safety belt. “Want to walk and talk?”

  She leaned forward, peered out and around the wooded river as if searching for
a lurking ax murderer or sniper—a psychopath in a hockey mask looking for a random kill. She pressed back against the seat, hunkered in. “I’m good.” She typed something into her phone, swiped the screen then passed him the android.

  FIVE DEAD IN FIVE STAR LUXURY SPA SHOOTING

  The article was dated a month and three days ago. The crime had taken place in Los Angeles, a chic fitness club near Rodeo Drive. Sam read for details, noting a man had strolled into an exercise class, pulled two guns, and started firing. Five dead, including the shooter. Seven wounded. Sam read every name. No mention of Harper.

  “I was there,” she said. “With a client. We were in another room, indulging in pedicures and mimosas. We never saw him. But we heard the gunfire, the screams. Everyone in our portion of the salon scrambled for cover or an exit. Except me. I bolted toward the chaos. A male attendant tackled me.”

  Thank God, Sam thought.

  “I hit my head and blacked out.”

  “Better than getting riddled by bullets.” He pictured Harper barefoot with newly painted toenails, half tipsy on a champagne cocktail. “What were you thinking?”

  “I wanted to help.”

  “By putting yourself in harm’s way?” Sam couldn’t fathom her rationale. It wasn’t like she was trained in offensive tactics. Or was she? Another reminder of how little he knew about the woman he’d offered his name and protection.

  “He could have been firing into the ceiling for all I knew,” she said. “A scare tactic. A warning. A threat. I thought if I could reason with him, talk him down…”

  Spoken like the publicist who solved clients’ meltdowns on an hourly basis, a woman who got off on spinning disasters into moments of redemption or convoluted misunderstandings. Sam dragged both hands down his face. “Are you that confident? Or that naïve?”

  “If you’re going to judge me—”

  “Not judging. Trying to understand.”

  “Never mind why I did what I did,” she said. “The last thing I want is to be psychoanalyzed. Just let me explain my present dilemma so you know what you’re dealing with for the sake of Ben and Mina. Not that it’s cause for concern, because I’m going to kick this problem’s ass.”

  “Worried I’m going to retract the marriage offer?”

  “Yes.”

  Blunt and honest. “Go on.” Sam shifted, giving Harper his avid attention. In doing so, he was once again struck by her stunning features. Her shapely figure. Her stylish wardrobe. He tried imagining her going head to head with a crazed shooter, but couldn’t.

  “I’m grateful to be alive, of course,” Harper said. “But I could have just as easily been in that fitness room. After I’d regained consciousness, my first thought was, Why not me? Survivor’s guilt, right? Totally natural, yes? But then that thought manifested into, It could still be me. Anytime. Anywhere. Mass shootings. Acts of terror. They happen all the time. In schools. Malls. Movie theaters. Work spaces. Military bases. You can’t predict when someone’s going to snap. You can’t avoid the possibility of being maimed or killed in a surprise attack unless you avoid all public places. Unless you hide out in a safe place.”

  “And for you that’s the farmhouse,” Sam interjected.

  “I told the firm I needed a short break to get my act together. I had plenty of holiday time. Plus I can work from anywhere. Yes, I teed off a few clients by dodging public meetings these last few weeks, but I’d promised to make amends. Firing me was bogus and I’m convinced they only used this momentary lapse as an excuse. Certain people in the firm have it out for me. As if being talented and motivated is a sin. I won’t apologize for being good at what I do. I won’t apologize for being detached. It keeps me sane and focused. I have to…”

  She trailed off and Sam raised a brow. “Have to what?”

  “Never mind. I’m babbling. I do that sometimes when I get fired up. I just—” She broke off and shook her head. “I’m haunted by the random senselessness of that shooting. I worry that something horrible could happen at any time. And I’m embarrassed to admit that I’m battling an intensifying case of agoraphobia. I’m petrified of venturing into Sugar Creek, a town that has a nonexistent crime rate.”

  Sam absorbed her fear, her concerns and compassion. He marveled that, though they’d been involved sexually on several occasions, he’d never once sensed Harper’s softer side. She was sensitive. How had he missed that?

  She took back her phone and tapped the screen. “I never realized how lax the gun control laws are in the state until I researched the other day. Lax as in no state gun control laws.”

  She passed Sam the phone, pointing out a list of statistics. Statistics he knew well. Stats that didn’t faze him. Many were steeped in tradition, like the right to hunt, which was written into the Vermont Constitution.

  “Vermont is one of four states that allows you to carry concealed without any permit,” Harper went on. “People as young as sixteen can buy a gun and carry concealed without parental permission! Any hormonal teen could have a bad day, get drunk, and go on a shooting spree.”

  “My dad taught me how to hunt when I was ten,” Sam interjected. “He gifted me with a twelve-gauge shotgun when I was fifteen. I had plenty of bad days, got soused a few times with friends. I never went on a shooting spree.”

  “You’re one person,” Harper said. Again she tapped her phone’s screen. “Close to fifty percent of Vermont households contain firearms.”

  “A liberal, gun-friendly state,” Sam said, “with an impressively low homicide rate. Vermonters own guns to manage our natural resources, to maintain hunting traditions, to protect our homes and loved ones. The intent is not to maim or kill innocent people.”

  “But it does happen!”

  Sam didn’t argue. Yeah, it happened. Once in a blue moon. He dragged a hand through his hair. Unbelievable. His first real discussion with Harper and they were arguing gun control.

  “Obviously you’re progun.” Harper took back her phone. “So naturally you think my fears are ungrounded and unreasonable. You may not think I’m crazy, but I’m sure you’re leaning toward hypersensitive or overdramatic.”

  “You know I served in the marines, right?”

  She glanced over, expression intense. Body rigid. “Your point?”

  If he touched her right now, Sam was pretty sure she’d shatter. She was wound that tight. “Several years of combat,” he continued. “Several years of spontaneous and unexpected ugly.” He wasn’t fond of talking about his time in the field, but he sensed it was important for her to know that he understood her fear. “There were weeks when I spent every minute bracing for a violent assault. Ambushes. Land mines. Air strikes.”

  She held quiet a long moment, as if envisioning those assaults, as if imagining the horror. “That must have been exhausting.” Her eyes sparked with something new. Sadness? Compassion? Respect? “Relentless terror. I think I’d crack. Some do, you know. Crack, that is. Some later than sooner.”

  PTSS. Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Sam had never suffered that particular ill effect of war. But he knew soldiers who had. Did she? He thought about the spa shooting. An angry husband on a rampage. Former military, perhaps?

  “How did you manage?” she asked.

  “Mental toughness and cool confidence. Extensive training in defense helps. Living in constant fear is paralyzing, Harper. Instead of worrying about what could happen, learn to defend yourself in case something does happen.”

  “Take control. Narrow the odds.”

  “Increase the odds of securing your safety and the safety of others.” Again he envisioned her in that spa conflict. “Rushing into a hostile situation, unarmed and blind to the specifics, was—”

  “Stupid?”

  “Unwise.”

  “Are you suggesting I enroll in a karate or kickboxing class? I’m not fond of group activities. That’s why I exercise alone.”

  “I can give you some pointers. Teach you some techniques.”

  “I refuse to handle
a firearm.”

  “The best defense is to avoid confrontation in the first place. It’s about being observant and aware,” Sam said. “When all else fails it’s about neutralizing an attack. I can teach you to do that with an umbrella.”

  Her lip twitched. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “You’re that good?”

  “I’m that good. And you’re that capable.” He reached over and grasped her hand. He meant it as show of faith, but his heart tripped over itself as something warm flowed through his blood. Something akin to affection, which was crazy because, aside from sex, he wasn’t exactly fond of Harper. Or at least the Harper he’d been subjected to in the past. Last night he’d gotten a glimpse of her vulnerability. Today, she’d peeled away another layer, revealing a courageous though reckless streak. Sharing her fears and talking about something real, something more serious than a soap opera star with weight issues being crucified in a tabloid.

  They’d had a lengthy discussion and even though they had opposing viewpoints on gun control, they’d never been more in tune. Sam felt it. And he knew Harper felt it because she didn’t pull away or make a sarcastic crack. She studied their hands then blew out a breath.

  “Where do we start?” she asked.

  Sam smiled. “With lunch.”

  NINE

  Harper wasn’t surprised that Sam had made lunch reservations at the Sugar Shack. Aside from it being Sugar Creek’s most popular restaurant and pub, the Shack was owned by Sam’s cousin Luke, and frequented by several other family members and friends. If Sam wanted word to spread fast about their “date,” setting the scene for their impulsive marriage, this was the perfect venue. One she would have chosen herself if she were vying for attention for a client.

  Sure enough, Harper spied Luke tending bar just as a hostess escorted her and Sam to a cozy booth. Luke who was married to Rae, Harper’s client and Sam’s ex-flame. As Harper understood it, there’d never been anything intimate between Sam and Rae, but Sam had been attracted to the tenderhearted woman and that had caused a rift between Sam and Luke. That had been months ago, around the same time Harper had purchased the Rothwell Farm. Now Rae was married to Luke and pregnant with his child and all was forgiven and forgotten regarding the rift. Not that Harper had ever asked Sam, but she’d gotten the lowdown from Daisy who seemed to know everything about everyone. It occurred to Harper that Daisy would be the perfect resource if she wanted to get the skivvy on the dynamics of all the Monroes.