by Shirley Jump
The interview, her mind urged. Say interview. The business. The bakery needed the increase in revenue. Her personal life could wait, just as it always had. The business came first.
“A date.”
Had she really just said that? Out loud? To the man who held the future of Joyful Creations in his pen? Sam’s face heated, and her feet scrambled back, ready to make a fast exit.
But instead of making a note on his ubiquitous notepad, Flynn leaned back in his chair and smiled. “You surprise me, Samantha Barnett. Just when I think you’re all work and no fun, you opt for a little fun.”
“Maybe I’m not the cardboard character you think.”
“Maybe you’re not.” His voice had dropped into a range that tickled at her gut, sent her thoughts down a whole other path that drifted away from fun and into man-and-woman-alone territory. He pushed the notepad to the side, then leaned forward, his gaze connecting with hers. When he did that, it seemed as if the entire room, heck, the entire world, dropped away. “Well, if this was a date, and we were back in Boston, instead of the pits of Christmastown here, do you want to know what we’d be doing?”
“Yes,” Sam replied, curiosity pricking at her like a pin. “Why not?”
He thought a second, considering her. “Well, since you haven’t been out on a date in a while, our first date should be something extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary?” she echoed.
“A limo, for starters. Door-to-door service.”
“A limo?” She arched a brow. “On a reporter’s salary?”
“I’ve done very well in my field. And they tend to reward that handsomely.”
Quite handsomely if the expensive suit, cashmere coat and Italian leather shoes were any indication. “What next, after the limo?”
“Dinner, maybe at Top of the Hub, a restaurant at the top of the Prudential building in Boston. Lobster, perhaps? With champagne, of course.”
“Of course,” she said, grinning, caught in the web of the fantasy, already imagining herself whisked away in the long black car, up the elevator to the restaurant, sipping the golden bubbly drink. “And after dinner?”
“Dancing. At this little jazz club I know where the lights are dimmed, music is low and sexy and there’s only enough room for me to hold you close. Very, very close.”
Sam swallowed. Her heart raced, the sound thundering in her head. “That sounds like quite the place.”
“A world away from this one.”
A world away. The world she had dreamed of once, back when she’d thought she was going to college, going places—
Going somewhere other than Riverbend and the bakery.
For just a second, Sam allowed her mind to wander, to picture a different future. One without the bakery to worry about, without the future of several potential additional locations to fret over. Without other people to worry about, to care for.
What if she were free of all that and could pursue a love life, a marriage, a family? A man who looked at her with desire like Flynn did—
And she had time to react, to date him? To live her life like other women did?
Guilt smacked her hard. She didn’t have time to dally with those thoughts. Too many people were depending on her. Later, Sam reminded herself with an inward sigh.
Later, it would be her turn.
Sam looked away, breaking eye contact with Flynn MacGregor. With the temptation he offered, as easily as a coin in his palm. She toyed with her silverware, willing her heart to slow, her breath to return to normal, and most of all, her head to come down from the clouds. “Well, that would be nice. If I lived somewhere else besides here.”
“If you did. Which you don’t.” Flynn cleared his throat, as if he, too, wanted to get back to business, to put some distance between them. “So, tell me. Why the lasagna?”
Of all the questions he could have asked, that one had to be the last one Sam would have expected. “I like lasagna, and the way they make it here is even better than my grandmother did—does,” she corrected herself. Darn. She had to be more careful. Sam brushed her hair off her face and opted for another topic, trying to stay on safe, middle ground. “Don’t you meet many women who like lasagna?”
That made him laugh. Flynn MacGregor’s laugh was deep and rich, like good chocolate. “No. Definitely not. Most of the women I know spend their entire day obsessing about how to whittle their waists down to the next single digit.”
Sam patted her hips. “Well, as you can see, that’s definitely not me. My waist has never been considered whittled. Though maybe if I did cut back on the—”
“Don’t.” Flynn’s steady gaze met hers. “Enjoy the lasagna. Your waist is perfect just the way it is.”
Heat pooled in Sam’s gut. Other men had looked at her with desire of course. She’d had boyfriends who had made her feel wanted, even pretty, but never before had a single sentence set off a blast of fireworks in her veins. And here was this big-city playboy, seeing her as a sexy woman.
“You don’t have to butter me up,” she said. “I already agreed to the interview.”
He leaned forward in his seat, his blue eyes assessing her intently. “I’m not buttering you up for anything at all. You look beautiful tonight, Sam.”
A trill of joy ran through Sam, skating down her spine. “Well then, thank you.” She felt a blush fill her face, and she cursed under her breath. Time to get the focus off herself. Every time he looked at her like that, she got distracted from what was important. “I’ve told you plenty about me. It’s your turn.”
He paused. “I’m from Boston. I write for a magazine. I live alone, have no pets.”
She laughed. “You’re not a man who shares a lot about himself, are you?”
“Just the facts, ma’am.” He smiled.
But behind that smile, an invisible wall had been erected. Curiosity rose in Sam. What made Flynn MacGregor tick? What made him smile? Until tonight, he’d rarely done so. When his mouth did curve into a grin, the gesture transformed his face, his eyes, and seemed to make him into an entirely different person. The kind of person she would—under other circumstances—want to get to know.
Not today. Despite their agreement to put the interview on hold, she reminded herself to watch her words. Aunt Ginny’s warning about Food Lovers’ tendency to want the story behind the story came back to Sam. She’d have to be on guard tonight. Flynn MacGregor could be doing all this simply to get her to open up.
And not because he wanted her.
She should be happy. For one, she had no time for a relationship. She had a business to run, a business that was on the cusp of taking off and becoming something so much bigger than this little town, that corner location. She had people depending on her to take Joyful Creations to the next level—and getting sidetracked by dating was just not part of the recipe.
But what if it could be?
The lasagna arrived, and Flynn immediately took a bite of the steaming Italian food. “It pays to follow the locals when ordering food. This is delicious.”
“I know. It may say steaks and ribs on the sign out front, but the owner is a full-blooded Italian, so that’s his specialty, which also explains the décor. I think he just has the other things on the menu, because that’s what tourists expect when they come to Indiana. Not that we get many in Riverbend, at least until the last few weeks.”
“Because of the airline magazine’s mention of the shop.”
Sam buttered two pieces of bread, and handed one slice to Flynn, who thanked her. “That article, and the boost in business, was a blessing and a half, but one that has kept us hopping from sunup to sundown. In fact, after I leave here, I’m going back to the shop to get a start on tomorrow’s baking.”
“Tonight? But you already put in a long day, didn’t you?”
“That’s the life of a baker. No free time.”
“And yet, you want more.”
“I’m not a sugar addict, Flynn. I’m a success addict.” She shot him a smile.
Flynn pulled his notepad over and jotted down those words. If anything reminded her this wasn’t a date, that did. A flicker of disappointment ran through her, but Sam brushed it off.
For a minute, he’d given her the gift of a normal life. Let her feel again like a normal woman, a beautiful woman. That would be enough. For a while.
A really long while.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why does anyone want success?” Sam bent her head and took a bite of food, chewed and swallowed. “To prove you did well with your business.”
“That’s all? No other reason?”
No other reason she wanted in print. “That’s all.” She signaled to Holli to box up her dinner and pushed her plate to the side, her appetite gone. But that wasn’t what had her wanting to get out of the restaurant so bad. It was the way Flynn kept studying her, as if he could see behind every answer she’d given him, as if he knew she was holding something back. “Is that all you need? Because I really have to get back to the shop.”
“Sure. Thank you for your time, Miss—” He paused. “Sam.”
She reached into her purse to pull out some money for dinner but Flynn stopped her with a touch of his hand on hers. A surge of electricity ran up her arm.
“My treat,” he said.
“I thought you said this wasn’t a date.”
“It’s not. I have an expense account.”
Once again, disappointment whistled through her as brisk and fast as winter’s winds. “Oh. Well, in that case, thank you.” Sam rose and grabbed her coat off the back of her chair. “If you have any other questions, call me at the shop. That’s pretty much where I live.” She turned to go.
“Wait.”
Sam pivoted back, part of her still hoping—some insane part—that all this really had been a date, and not an interview. “Yes?”
“You mentioned something about having dial-up Internet access at Joyful Creations. Do you think I could come by tonight, if you’re going to be there anyway, and access my e-mail?” A grin flashed on Flynn’s face. “I’m having acute withdrawal symptoms. Fever, aches, pains, the whole nine yards.”
She’d been wrong.
He wanted her—but for her Internet connection only. That was for the best. Even if it didn’t feel that way.
“Certainly,” Sam said. “Like I said, that shop is my life.”
CHAPTER SIX
FLYNN STARED at the picture for a long time. The edges had yellowed, the image cracked over the years, but the memories were as fresh as yesterday. Two boys smiling, their hair tousled by the wind whisking up the Atlantic and onto Savin Hill Beach, their grins as wide as the Frisbees they held in their hands. One day, out of thousands, but that one day—
Had been a good one.
Flynn put the picture back in his wallet, flipped open his cell phone and scrolled through his contact list until he got to the name Liam.
Flynn shut the phone without dialing. He didn’t have a signal anyway. Not that he would have called if he had. He hadn’t dialed that number in over a year.
Liam hadn’t answered his calls in two.
He’d driven all this way, with a crazy idea that maybe Liam would see him if Flynn called. If he said he was a few towns away, and asked if Liam wanted to see him? Or maybe if he just showed up on Liam’s doorstep and surprised him, saying “hey, it’s Christmas, why don’t we just put all this behind us?”
Flynn shook his head. Maybe too much time had passed to heal old wounds.
Flynn rose and put his wallet into his back pocket. He swallowed back the memories, the whiff of nostalgia—had it been nostalgia or something else?—that had hit him for a brief second, then grabbed his laptop and headed out of the bed and breakfast and over to Sam’s shop.
From outside the window, he could see her inside, softly lit by a single overhead light, the golden glow spreading over her features. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought she was an image from a Christmas card—the painted kind famous for their lighting and muted colors.
Flynn shook off the thought. What was with him today? He was going soft, that was for sure. First, the picture, followed by the quick detour down Memory Lane, then the temptation to call Liam, and finally the comparison of this woman to an artist’s impression, for Pete’s sake. He was not the emotional type. Clearly, he needed to get out of this odd little town and back to the city. He entered the shop, his presence announced by a set of jingle bells above the entrance.
Jingle bells. He scoffed. Of course.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Sam called to him.
He headed through the darkened shop, pulled as much by her voice as by the scent of baked goods. The quiet notes of vanilla, mixed with the more pungent song of nutmeg, all muted by the melody of fruits and nuts. The scents triggered a memory but it was gone before he could grasp it. “Smells good in here.”
She looked up and brushed a tendril of blond hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Thanks. I’m usually too busy to notice anything other than how low the flour supply is getting.”
He slipped onto a stainless steel stool in the corner and laid his laptop on the small desk beside him. “Don’t you take breaks to taste the cookies? Dip into the muffins?”
“Me? No. I rarely have time.”
“Didn’t we already have this discussion about all work and no play…?” He let the old axiom trail off, tossing her a grin.
She gestured toward his computer. “Hey, speak for yourself, Mr. Nose to the Grindstone.”
Right. Get back to work. Flynn had no intentions of missing this deadline, because doing so meant putting his road trip on hold, and even though he wasn’t so sure of the reception he’d receive, he knew it was time to see Liam. That meant he needed to check in with the office and get a head start on writing his article. Procrastinating wasn’t going to restore his reputation at the magazine, nor was it going to get him any closer to seeing Liam. “Speaking of which…Can I use your Internet connection?”
“If you get lucky.” Sam colored. “I, ah, didn’t mean that the way it came out. I meant—”
“If the lines are working.”
“Yes.” She nearly breathed her relief.
“I wouldn’t have thought anything else.”
But hadn’t he, for just a second? Samantha Barnett was an attractive woman. Curvaceous, friendly and she was surrounded by the perfume of cookies. Any man with a pulse would be enticed by her, as he had been—very much so—at dinner a little while ago. Mimi had never seemed so far away.
Not that he and Mimi had what anyone would really call a relationship. They were more…convenience daters. When either of them needed someone to attend a function or to see a movie with, they picked up the phone. Days could go by before they talked to each other, the strings as loose as untied shoelaces. Mimi liked it that way, and so did Flynn.
Samantha Barnett, who wore her small-town roots like a coat, was definitely not a convenience dater. He’d do best to keep his heart out of that particular cookie jar.
Flynn cleared his throat, turned to his bag and unpacked his laptop, plugging the machine into the outlet on the wall and the telephone line into his modem. Sam gave him a phone number to dial and connect to her provider. He typed in all the information, then waited for the magic to happen.
Nothing. No familiar musical tones of dialing. No screeching of the modem. No hiss of a telephone line. Just an error message.
He tried again. A third time. Powered down the computer, powered it back up and tried connecting a fourth time.
“No luck?” Sam asked.
“Are you sure we’re not on Mars?”
Sam laughed. “Pretty sure. Though there are days…” She tossed him a smile, while her hands kept busy dropping balls of chocolate chip cookie dough onto a baking sheet. “That remoteness, that disconnect from city life, is all part of the charm of Riverbend, though. And what draws those droves of tourists.”
Flynn shot her a look of disdain.
“All five of them? Not counting your temporary flood, of course.”
“Actually, it’s pretty busy here in the summer. And you saw the lines outside the shop today. People from big cities really like the rural location, and the fact that we have lots of lakes nearby for boating and camping.”
“The cityfolk roughing it, huh?”
“Yep. Except we have running water here.” Again, another grin. He noticed that when she smiled, her green eyes sparkled with gold flecks. They were the color of the forest just after a storm, when the sun was beginning to peek through the clouds.
Or maybe that was just the reflection from the overhead lights. Yeah, that was it.
Flynn gave up on his computer and shut the laptop’s cover. He rose and crossed to Sam. Was it the light? Or was it her eyes? “Why do you live here?”
She paused in making cookies, as if surprised by the question. The scent of vanilla wafted up from the dough. “I grew up here.”
He took another step closer. Only because he still couldn’t decide what caused the gold flecks in her eyes. Mother Nature or sixty watts. He’d been intrigued all night, first in the restaurant and now, wondering, pondering…thinking almost nonstop about her. A bad sign in too many ways to count, but he told himself if he could just solve this mystery of her eyes, the thoughts would stop. “Okay, then why did you stay? You didn’t have to keep the business open. You could have closed it and moved on.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it again, as if she had never considered this question before. “Joyful Creations has been in my family for three generations. My family was depending on me to keep it open.”
Another step. Flynn inhaled, and he swore he could almost taste the air around Sam. It tasted like…
Sugar cookies.
“What did you say?” Sam said.
Had he said that out loud? Damn. What the hell was wrong with him? He did not get emotionally involved with his interview subjects.
He did not lose his focus.
He did not forget the story. He went after it, whatever the cost.
Flynn backed up three steps, returned to his laptop and flipped up the top. It took a few seconds for the hibernating screen to come back to life. Several long, agonizing seconds of silence that Flynn didn’t bother to fill. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to work here for a little while. That way, if I have any questions while I’m writing, I can just ask them.” Meaning, he intended to probe deeper into the clues she’d dropped at dinner, but he didn’t say that. “And, I can try to connect to the Internet again.”
