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Carly fought to keep her tone light, but it was calm water over a rip tide. “I don’t need to be anywhere other than here. This is where my kitchen is.” It didn’t escape her that she couldn’t utter the phrase “this is home.”
“You’re right. My mother will forgive me eventually, plus, I’d just as soon give Travis a wide berth. With the shit he’s been pulling lately, the last thing I need is to run into him by accident.”
Adrian grunted, letting Carly shift the subject while he pulled a container of flour from one of the shelves outside the pantry. “What did your lawyer say about his threat over the show?”
Carly managed a genuine smile at both the distraction from her homesickness and her lawyer’s response. “When she was done laughing, she said she didn’t think it would be a problem. The contract for the show was for one season only, and it was fulfilled. I spoke with Winslow personally to let him know that there was no way in hell I’d work with Travis again. Any future projects he wants me for will have to be solo. Of course, he was surprised, because Travis had given him the impression that things were amicable.”
She paused for the exaggerated eye roll that was synonymous with all things Travis before continuing. “Technically, Travis can still drag his feet over the divorce if he really wants to, refusing to sign anything or agree to any reasonable terms. But in the end, my lawyer can file a motion—something about defaulting, I think. It basically says that he’s being difficult and I still want out. And then the divorce will be finalized anyway, even though it might take longer. So, I doubt he’ll keep up his tantrum for long.”
The addedI hopewas silent, but it rang through as clear as Prosecco in a fine crystal flute.
“I hate what he did to you.” Adrian’s hands were fluid motion, measuring flour with green-gray eyes as hard as glass. His brusque quiet belied something louder beneath the surface, something Carly had only seen once but would never forget. Her chest tightened, but her steadfast will overruled it.
“I do, too, but we have a job to do here. I can’t afford to let him get to me. Plus, soon enough, I won’t have to worry about Travis. I have this restaurant, and I have you and Sloane. It won’t be long before we can all go back to New York. I don’t need anything else.” She put a hand on his thick forearm, interrupting him mid-motion. “So don’t worry.” Carly’s words were soft, a direct contrast to her sous chef’s troubled expression.
“Carly—”
Nope. Not going there. “Look, I promise that once the summer rush is over and all of this stuff with Travis simmers down, I’ll think about going to New York for a couple of days. But really. I’m fine.”
Adrian narrowed his eyes, but surprised her by letting it go. “Okay. If you change your mind, just let me know. I’ve got you covered.”
Carly nodded, reaching for one of the loaves of rustic bread she’d pulled from the pantry. Peasant soup and garlic bread were the Italian version of tomato soup and grilled cheese, and her need for comfort food just wouldn’t be quelled without the hand-in-hand combination.
“I will. Thanks.”
The thing was, neither the city she’d left nor the place she lived now currently felt like home. So no matter how homesick she got, Carly didn’t have a place to go.
* * *
Jackson easedhis truck onto Rural Route Four, Carly’s bungalow receding behind him in the rearview mirror. Nine hours of straight-up manual labor had always been just the trick to knock even the most persistent thoughts out of his head, but the memory of kissing Carly in the sunny warmth of her kitchen proved to be the exception to that rule. The familiar comfort of the road home became a quick afterthought in the wake of his brain’s ping pong match between Hell Yes and Are You Out of Your Goddamn Mind?” Team Hell Yes was outscoring its opponent two to one.
Maybe he was taking this too seriously. True, kissing a client—and one he barely knew—wasn’t exactly his speed, but come on. Four syllables into Carly’s sexy Italian monologue and all bets were off. With the way her voice rode the rich curves of the language, any man in his right mind would’ve caved. Never mind the fact that he’d probably kissed her for saying something like, “You’re a gaping Neanderthal” or “I can tell you haven’t showered today”.
So, all things considered, Jackson should probably file the whole thing under the category ofno harm, no fouland get on with it. It was one mutually exclusive, impulsive-as-hell kiss, prompted by some sexy banter that would’ve made a dead man wake up and take notice.
Except now that hehadtaken notice, he couldn’tstopnoticing. Unable to help it, he replayed the sensual slide of the words again in his mind, the memory of Carly’s full, provocative lips shaping each sound, drawing him in and making him want to…
Jackson’s phone knocked him out of his bilingual reverie, and he jumped in the seat of his truck like he’d been goosed with a red-hot cattle prod. Breathing a mixed sigh of relief and frustration, he tapped the icon on his dashboard to answer the call.
“Hello?”
“Hey, man, it’s about time. Don’t you check your messages?” Excitement tinged Shane’s voice in a Christmas-morning kind of way, making Jackson laugh.
“Sorry. I got caught up in this little thing called work. Ever heard of it?” Jackson’s crack carried every ounce of the good-natured tone he’d intended, especially since Shane was one of the biggest workaholics he knew.
“Go ahead, be a jackass. See what you miss out on.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. What’s up?”
“You won’t believe what I’m looking at right now.”
Jackson creased his brow, making the turn to wind his way up the mountain. “This isn’t a trick question that’s going to get me into trouble, is it?”
Shane barked out a laugh. “You wish. Remember the guy with the ’67 Camaro I met at that auto auction outside of Carlisle last month?”
“Oh, yeah. He had connections close to here. Bealetown, right?” Jackson asked. Shane had inherited Grady’s Service Garage from his grandfather when the old man had decided to retire six months back, and Shane was looking to expand it to include his love of restoring and remodeling classic cars. He’d gone to more than a few auto auctions and car shows over the last few months, and Jackson had been happier than a pig in a puddle to tag along and help make contacts.
“Yeah, that’s him. Well the guy he knew out our way has a pristine 1968 GTO, and he’s been looking for someone to rebuild the engine. He gave me a call at lunch and asked if he could bring it out so I could give him an estimate. He liked what he saw at the shop and we agreed on a price, so I started work on it a couple of hours ago.”
