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She’d only Googled the design out of curiosity.
She respected a man who stayed in shape. As she’d seen Mal stripped down for the ocean—not that she’d paid particular attention—she knew he did.
She moved on to crunches, and he to curls. She added in some pilates, and he switched to flies. He was unobtrusive, so she nearly forgot he was there and ended her workout with a few minutes of yoga to stretch everything out again.
She turned to get a bottle of water and nearly walked into him.
“Sorry.”
“No problem.You’re seriously ripped there, Ms. Brown.”
“Toned,” she corrected. “I’d pass the ripped to you, Mr. Kavanaugh.”
He got two bottles of water out of the cooler, handed her one. Then he moved in until her back was against the cooler, his hands on her hips, and his mouth taking easy possession of hers.
She told herself it was the stunned surprise—where had this come from?—that prolonged the moment, the kiss, the slow, sultry rise of heat. She shoved him back a half a step, gulped in air.
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute.”
“Okay.”
She stared him down, but he seemed unaffected by the look that withered most. Still, he didn’t move in on her again, but only stood watching her with those sharp green eyes.
Cat to mouse, she thought. That’s how it made her feel. And she was nobody’s mouse.
“Listen, if you’ve got the idea I’m ... that because everyone’s paired up and we’re . . .”
“No. That was you. Fourth of July. I remember it really well.”
“That was just—nothing.”
“I liked it. But no, I don’t have the idea. I just like your mouth and thought I’d see if my memory was accurate. It was.”
“Now that we’ve established that.” She elbowed him aside, and stalked out.
On a sound that combined amusement and pleasure, Mal stepped over to change the music. He preferred his long-hair with guitar and drums.
WITH VERY WARM FEELINGS TOWARD THE LOCAL MARKET, LAUREL unloaded her bags. She might’ve gone just a little overboard, but since it made her happy, she didn’t see anything wrong with that. She had enough to bake her pies, some bread, a coffee cake—and whatever else struck her fancy.
“I think it’s clearing up.”
She turned to see Mac, windbreaker shiny with rain, crossing over from the beach steps. “Oh yeah, I can see that.”
“No, really. See? Look over there.” Mac pointed to the eastern sky. “Little patches of blue. I’m optimistic.”
“And wet.”
“Got some great shots.” She reached in for another bag. “Dramatic, dreamy, moody. Jeez, this is heavy. What did you get?”
“Stuff.”
Mac peeked in, then sent Laurel a smug smile. “You’re going to bake. Just can’t take the Betty out of the Crocker.”
“You should talk since you haven’t dug Annie out of the Leibovitz.”
“Emma’s making noises about putting in a beach garden. Pampas grass and . . . well, who knows. It doesn’t make us workaholics.”
“No. It makes us productive.”
“Much better,” Mac agreed as they hauled the load up the steps. “I’m having the best time, and now I can’t wait to upload the digitals and see what I’ve got. I took some film, too. I wonder what it would take to talk Parker and Del into putting in a darkroom.”
“Parker thinks the place would be perfect for casual beach weddings.”
Mac pursed her lips in thought. “That may be going too far. Except, shit, it really would.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Laurel ordered and shifted her bags to open the door.
Before she could, Del pulled it open. “There you are.” He took a bag from each of them. “Did we need supplies?”
“I did.”
He set them on the counter, leaned down to give her a quick kiss. “Good morning. Hey, Macadamia, you’re all wet.”
“It’s clearing up,” she insisted. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Have you seen Carter?”
“Briefly. He had a book about this thick.” Del stretched his thumb and forefinger out.
“That’ll keep him occupied.” She poured the coffee and gave them a salute on her way out.
“Missed you in bed this morning,” Del said to Laurel. “I woke up to the sound of the rain and the surf, and thought, now this is the perfect place to be. But you weren’t there, so it wasn’t.”
“I went on a mission.”
“So I see.” He reached in a bag, pulled out one of several lemons. “Lemonade?”
“Lemon meringue pie, and a deep-dish cherry pie, I think.And I want to bake some bread, maybe a coffee cake. Rainy mornings are great for baking.”
“Boy, our minds went in different directions on rainy morning.”
She laughed as she unpacked the bags. “If you’d woken up sooner, we could’ve had both. No, let me unpack. I know where I want everything.”
He shrugged and left her to it. “I guess I’ll hit the gym then, especially since pies are in my future. If you’ve got the receipt or remember what you spent, I’ll pay you back.”
She stopped. “Why?”
“You shouldn’t have to buy the supplies,” he said absently as he pulled a bottle of Gatorade out of the fridge.
“And you should?” She couldn’t stop the line of heat that rode up her spine.
“Well, it’s—”
“Your house?” she finished.
“Yes. But I was going to say it’s more . . . equitable since you’re doing the work.”
“Nobody did any work last night when we all went out to dinner and you picked up the check.”
“That was just . . .What’s the problem? Somebody else will get it next time.”
“Do you think I care about your money? Do you think I’m with you because you can pick up dinner checks and have a place like this?”
He lowered the bottle. “Jesus, Laurel, where did that come from?”
“I don’t want to be paid back. I don’t want to be taken care of, and you can screw
equitable because that’s never going to happen. But I can pay my own way, and I can buy my own damn supplies when I want to make some pies.”
“Okay. I’m a little puzzled why offering to pay you back for a bunch of lemons pisses you off, but since it does, offer rescinded.”
“You don’t get it,” she muttered as Linda’s jeering hired help echoed in her mind. “Why would you?”
“Why don’t you explain it to me?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to bake. Baking makes me happy.” She reached for the remote, turned on music at random. “So, go work out.”
“That’s the plan.” But he set down the bottle to take her face in his hands, study it. “Be happy,” he said. Kissed her, grabbed the bottle again, and left.
“I was,” she murmured. “Will be again.” Determined, she began arranging her supplies and ingredients as suited her.
Mal walked in while she cut shortening into her flour mixture for the pastry dough.
“I love seeing a woman who knows what she’s doing in the kitchen.”
“Glad to oblige.”
He went to the coffeepot, judged the remainder stale, tossed it. “I’m going to make a fresh pot.You want?”
“No, I’ve had enough.”
“So, what’s on the menu?”
“Pies.” She heard the edge in her voice, made the effort to dull it. “Lemon meringue and cherry.”
“I’ve got a weakness for a good piece of cherry pie.” Once he’d set the coffee to brew, he stepped over to her counter, scanned it. “You use actual lemons for the lemon meringue?”
“Well, they were out of mangoes.” She glanced at him as she added ice water. “What else?”
“You know that little box with a picture of a slice of pie.”
She unbent enough to laugh. “Not in my kitchen, friend. Juice and rind from actual lemons.?
?
“How about that?” He poured the coffee, then poked in a cupboard. “Hey, Pop-Tarts. Is it going to bother you if I watch?”
Stumped, she stopped what she was doing to stare at him. “You want to watch me make pies?”
“I like seeing how things work, but I can take off if I’m in your way.
“Just don’t touch anything.”
“Deal.” He took a seat on a stool on the other side of the counter.
“Do you cook at all?”
He ripped open the Pop-Tart package as he spoke. “When I first took off for L.A., it was learn to put food together or starve. I learned. I make a damn good red sauce. Maybe I’ll put that together tonight, especially if the rain keeps up.”
