Come On Closer (7 page)

No. I finally have my crap together. This isn't a good time.

Of course, it was never a good time. Which meant
there was no time like the present, right? Maybe he was a bad boy . . . but he was also her friend. That was new. Different. It had to count for something. Her feet began to move, taking her in the direction Shane had gone before she was even aware of where she was going. The cart full of junk food sat abandoned and lonely behind her.

If the universe kept throwing Shane in her path, well, maybe there was a reason for it. She refused to lose any more sleep over this. All the good reasons in the world weren't going to convince her that this was a lost cause, apparently. She needed proof.

Then maybe she could get back to her regularly scheduled program of making people smile and eating too much sugar—the things she did best. And she
would
get back to it. She knew what brought her joy.

The lesson had taken too much precious time to learn, but she
had
learned it. Maybe—hopefully—it would allow her to work through this whatever-it-was with Shane with a minimum of pain and suffering.

I guess we'll see.

Larkin found him in the baked goods section, a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies in one hand, a giant cherry danish in the other. He seemed to be debating. He also looked miserable. Her impulse to do whatever she could to make him smile again was hard to restrain, but she managed to keep it tightly leashed.

Baby steps. You are not going to just throw yourself into this. Baby. Steps.

He didn't seem to know she was there. He mainly seemed concerned with frowning the cookies into submission. Or maybe he was just offended by the ingredients label. She certainly would be. Larkin lifted her
hand, held it in midair for a brief moment, then gave in to the inevitable and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Shane?”

“Hmm?” He pointedly kept his eyes on the cookies. “What's up?” He didn't sound like he cared, particularly. What he sounded was tired. Well, so was she.

“It would matter,” she said. That got him to look up, at least.

“What would matter?”

“If I knew for sure whether you were interested in me. Just me. Like,
actually
me.”

It had sounded better in her head, but it did earn her a pleased, if puzzled, smile. “I'm interested in
actually
you. That shouldn't be so tough to believe.”

“See, that's the thing,” Larkin replied, tilting her head. “I can't believe it because you don't know me well enough to say.”

“I know you.”

“You know the sexy singing baker lady. Who is pretty fabulous, I might add. And also a hell of a dancer. But that's the surface me.”

His chuckle did strange and wondrous things to her lower belly. “You're also weird, right here at the surface. How many selves am I supposed to meet before I get to say I like you?”

Her lips curved. “I contain multitudes.”

“I think there are meds for that. And see, the fact that I'm not running should tell you something.”

“Not really. Sexy baker lady is a powerful force. You know, I don't know you all that well, either. Doesn't that bother you?”

His smile thinned. “Nope. I'm all surface. Good-
looking, intelligent, basically the perfect man. What you see is what you get.”

She laughed softly, since his usual arrogance aside, she doubted very much if he believed that. She remembered what Gina had said about him—the amazing actor, the guy most likely to blow town and defy expectations, except he hadn't—and wondered if there was any possible way she would end up not regretting this.

Probably not.

“Well, whatever, but the point is that I'm going to bake you cookies.”

He looked at her blankly.

“I'm . . . You know . . . Those cookies are trash!” she said, pointing at the container in his hand. “Work with me here, Sullivan. Do you want to come over?”

“Wh—uh, yes? Yes.” She watched the question sink in, along with the possibilities it raised. “I will definitely come over.”

“We're not having sex.”

He burst out laughing. “Jesus, Larkin!”

“Well, just in case it sounded like that. I think it's better to be up-front about it.” It was also as much for her benefit as for his. For once, she was going to be smart with a guy and not just dive in headfirst. She planted a hand on one hip, exasperated. If she sounded like an alien life form who'd done only a passing study of human interaction, it was his fault. Besides, she knew he'd been thinking about it. She certainly was. But it still wasn't happening.

Cookies, though. Cookies were always a decent start. Besides, baking soothed her, and she'd need all the calm she could muster if she was really going to do this and explore what was between them.

Shane's eyes crinkled at the corners, and she found herself returning his smile. “Okay,” he said. “Cookies, no sex. I didn't know putting them together was a thing. Maybe bakers are kinkier than I thought?”

“Don't look so hopeful,” she said. “I usually go to bed early, but I can make an exception once in a while, so . . . baking and company is a good way to pass an evening. We could try that.”

“So you're saying . . .”

“That we could try that,” Larkin said. She knew he was teasing her now, but she was completely serious. Tongue-tied, semi-incoherent, but serious.

“I thought you said it was a bad idea?” he asked, and that was when she could see it—the swagger and self-assurance that set off alarms even as it attracted her. She liked confidence. But there was a thin line between that and simply being a jerk. To figure out which side Shane fell on, she'd have to get closer.

Too
close for her own good, probably.

“We can talk about it,” Larkin said. “I haven't changed my opinion.”

“Then why are you inviting me over?” he asked. “Apart from your weird need to feed people.”

“That's not weird, it's human. Feeding people makes me happy. And I'm inviting you because . . .” She trailed off, tried to come up with an answer that made some sense, and quickly gave up. She threw up her hands in exasperation. “I don't know. Because maybe I'm wrong. Or maybe I'm just susceptible to bad ideas. Both things have happened.”

“You want me to argue my case? I'm good at that,” he said. It hadn't taken much for him to get his mojo back. She was sure he could be convincing in a mood
like this . . . which meant it was even more important that she keep her wits about her.
Baking. That'll help me focus.

“No. Cookies. Talking. That's it. Do you know where I live?”

He didn't. Most people didn't, and that was by design. She loved people, but she guarded her sanctuary well. Just giving him the address had her stomach fluttering so badly she couldn't figure out whether she was excited or nauseous. She hadn't had a guy over in ages. Not since the one she'd followed east, in fact, and the one time he'd visited her here after they'd broken up she'd kicked him back out in very short order. Whatever Shane was, Larkin doubted he could hold a candle to Jesse Dane, Worst Idea Ever. At least, she certainly hoped not.

Well, like she'd told him, they'd talk. And she'd see what she would
see.

H
e didn't know what had changed her mind, and he didn't care. All that mattered was that her mind had changed. Or that she was at least thinking about changing it. Also, fresh cookies.

These were important things separately. Put together, his night was so completely made that he allowed himself a celebratory fist pump in the middle of the baked goods. He did manage to wait until Larkin had headed for the checkout before his victory dance, but he was pretty sure he heard laughter from behind the bakery counter.

Big deal. He had a date with Larkin. And even the most ancient, wretchedly lonely virgin on earth couldn't have been more excited than he was about the prospect.

After a quick trip home to dump his groceries, Shane headed for the North Side. It wasn't a part of the Cove
he was in much. He couldn't remember the last time, actually. It was a funny mix of old and older—some of the homes had been around since the early 1900s, a handful even longer. Many had been built shortly after World War II during the housing boom, tiny cookie cutters meant for returning soldiers and the families they would start. It had never been the wealthy part of town, but over the years it had deteriorated significantly. Not every street was bad, but a lot of it was run-down.

The address had surprised him. Larkin owned her own business, and it looked pretty successful to him. Why not get a place out where Emma and Seth lived? Nice, a little newer, safe, nothing fancy but still in a good neighborhood. He guessed he'd just add this to the pile of things he didn't understand about her. Shane slowed as he turned onto Willowbend, then drove past small homes that were almost indistinguishable from each other in the snow. He squinted at the mailboxes, looking for 578.

When he found it, Shane realized he hadn't needed to look for the number. The pink and white fairy lights looped through the branches of the skeletal tree out front would have tipped him off even if the sight of Larkin's van hadn't. He parked behind the van, pulling up to within an inch of her bumper thanks to the short driveway and the ever-present fear of having a snowplow hit his car, and got out.

He crunched up the walk, which she'd tossed some rock salt on, to the front door. Mentally, he was taking notes: The walk was cracked and ought to be replaced, the garage door had a fair-sized dent in it, and even in the dark he could tell that the shutters needed repainting. He'd have to drive by when it was daylight to get
a better look, but this was the kind of house that a Realtor would advertise as having “charm,” which in his experience meant “abysmally small fixer-upper, possible money pit.” This one was of the early 1950s Minimal Traditional variety: big bay window, small garage, maybe a thousand square feet of living space. Tiny. He saw a few things he could help out with, if she needed it. Of course, that was assuming she didn't throw his ass out tonight, which he was going to work very hard to prevent—

“Hey.” Larkin poked her head out the door, and the scent of vanilla wafted out to greet him. He was pretty sure he would never be able to disassociate that smell from her, which could end up being painful considering his love of sugar. Right now, though, all it did was set his stomach dancing in a way it hadn't in a long time.

“Hey,” he replied. She'd already tossed her hair up in a big sloppy, strangely attractive bun, and there was flour on her Pink Floyd T-shirt. A quick glance down her long frame showed him sweatpants and fuzzy socks.

It looked like the first thing she'd done upon arriving home was to change into an outfit that screamed
not trying to impress you
.

The joke was on her. It was sexy as hell.

“Come on in,” she said. “Just dump your boots on the mat by the door, okay? The floors don't need the water.”

“Sure.” Curious, he stepped onto the porch and then followed her inside.

He didn't know what he was expecting—maybe super girly, like the shop, or everything tie-dyed, because it just seemed like something she might do—but Larkin's home was at once different from what
he'd imagined and perfectly her. Shane looked around while he pulled off his boots, depositing them onto the rubber mat by the door. The wood floors she didn't want damaged already had some “character”—scuffed but not trashed. They looked pretty good, actually. Somebody had taken care of this place.

Careful. As Jake would say, your snob is showing.

Shane stripped off his coat, eyes moving over a low-slung gray couch, a few sky blue throw pillows, and a pair of chairs covered in some kind of red-and-white Hawaiian print that somehow managed not to look bizarre. The built-ins around the fireplace held a small TV and a variety of knickknacks and pictures, and above the fireplace itself hung an abstract painting, streaks of color dominated by splashes of bold, metallic blue. The rug covering the floor was as fuzzy as the socks she was wearing.

There was a rainbow-colored crocheted blanket thrown over an arm of the couch, a crumpled pair of jeans on one of the Hawaiian chairs, a stack of paperbacks and plastic-covered hardbacks on the coffee table, and an empty mug sitting beside the TV. He could easily picture her in here . . . and it was nice to know that she probably wasn't much neater than he was.

“Just use the coat tree,” Larkin said. “I've got batter started in the kitchen. You want a drink?”

“Sure.”

“I've got water, juice, various adult beverages. . . .”

He grinned. “What do you think?”

Her eyes twinkled when she replied, “Apple juice in a sippy cup?”

“If by ‘apple juice' you mean ‘beer,' then yeah, a sippy cup is acceptable. I'm not picky.”

“I'll see what I can dig up.” Her low, warm chuckle trailed after her, and he wondered if she really would hand him a sippy cup. She seemed a lot more relaxed here, in her own space, and that was a good thing. He wanted to make her feel a lot of things, but nervous wasn't one of them. Shane hung his coat on the coat tree and walked over to the fireplace, glancing again at the scattered pictures she'd framed and arranged around it. He saw laughing faces, a couple of beach shots, a couple more of the bakery and her friends here . . . no family pictures, though. She'd never mentioned her family to him. It made him wonder, considering she was from the other side of the country, if maybe there wasn't some static there. Definitely something he could relate to, if so.

“Are you coming, or are you just going to stand out there staring at my stuff? I don't have a shrine to you in here. Quit looking for it.”

Shane laughed. That was one thing about Larkin—she wasn't interested in feeding his ego. “Don't you know that's a condition of living in the Cove? The Sullivans insist that all citizens pay proper homage.”

“Does the glass of cheap wine I just poured you count? Came out of a fancy cardboard box and everything.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Uh. Great?” He rounded the corner and stepped into a cute little kitchen with a black-and-white tiled floor and accents of cherry red and sky blue. Larkin stood at the counter holding a martini shaker.

“Look at that face. I
should
have bought boxed wine.” She shook the metal canister, then strained the contents into two martini glasses. “It's chocolate martinis or bust in this house. Take it or leave it.”

“That's seriously a question?” Relieved, he accepted one of the glasses when she offered it and took a sip. It was boozy chocolate at its finest, so sweet and smooth it would be easy to forget the alcohol content. “Wow. Damn. Maybe you should put a bar in the bakery.”

“I've been a bartender. Not interested.”

He licked the chocolate liqueur from his lips and noticed the way her gaze zeroed in on his mouth. The muscles in his lower belly went taut, and he had to fight to keep the needy growl out of his voice. Yeah, he'd missed her all right. “You were a bartender?”

“Among other things. I worked my way through college, so I'm kind of a jack-of-all-trades. Though I guess that would be more like a jill-of-all-trades. Whatever. I have skills.” She sipped her own drink and leaned against the counter, crossing one fuzzy-socked foot over the other. Shane hooked a thumb in his back pocket and glanced around at the counters. A big ceramic bowl drew his attention. That and the open bag of chocolate chips beside it.

“You're going to let me lick the spoon, right?”

The look she gave his mouth this time was more fleeting, but just as heated. As much as he wanted to let her have this evening on her terms, she wasn't making it easy on him.

“No. That would be unsanitary.”

“I don't think there's going to be a health inspection,” Shane said.

“It would violate my strict ‘no cooties' policy.”

“I don't have cooties.”

She shot him a look. “A likely story.”

Shane took another sip and watched her over the rim of his glass. He was still having a hard time
believing he was standing in Larkin's house. Over the past few months, he'd kind of given up hope that this was in the cards. Now that he was here, he still wasn't sure what had prompted her to extend the invitation. When she stayed silent, her gaze darting between him and the floor, the window above the sink, and random points around the kitchen, Shane thought that Larkin might be struggling with the same question.

“So I figured something out,” he said, deciding he might as well break the ice.

“Hmm?” She looked genuinely curious.

“You have no idea what to do with me when it's just us.”

Larkin blinked. “That's . . . blunt.”

“You don't usually mind,” he said. It was a relief to see her smile, even if it was less certain than usual. “So what changed in a week? You shot me down pretty good.”

“I wasn't sure you were serious,” Larkin replied, her brows knitting together. “I'm still not.” She set down her glass and moved to where she'd placed the mixing bowl, picking up a large wooden spoon and beginning to stir whatever ingredients she'd already tossed in. Shane watched her curiously and wondered if he was making her nervous. Probably. The thought didn't sit well with him. Most of the time he didn't give a damn, but with her, it seemed to matter.

Even if she had a habit of kicking him right in the ego.

“This is because I used to date a lot, right?”

He caught the arch of her eyebrow when she turned her head, showing her profile. “If you're using ‘date' as kind of a loose term. That's some of it, I guess.”

The old, helpless frustration flared in him. That was one thing about living in a small town—you never got to live anything down. “That's pretty judgmental. Didn't you ever screw up when you were younger?”

“All the time. That's why you're standing in my kitchen instead of sitting at home in your boxers watching ultimate fighting.”

She wasn't the only one who could appreciate bluntness. Shane forced his shoulders to relax. She wasn't going to give him another in a seemingly endless series of lectures about how he needed to quit being such an asshole about dating. He already knew that. He just didn't have anybody left to practice on . . . which he was beginning to suspect Larkin knew.

“I'm not desperate or anything,” he said, the defensiveness emerging before he could stop it.

“Great. Neither am I,” she replied evenly. “Now that we've established that we're both nondesperate people with a history of screwups, maybe you'd like to help me figure out where we go from here. Or you could quit acting like I'm about to accuse you of something rotten.”

He snorted. “Point taken. Sometimes I get accused of rotten things.”

“Not guilty, I'm sure.”

“No, guilty as hell, mostly.”

Larkin laughed, a light, musical sound that filled the kitchen. “At least you're honest.”

“So if my awesome reputation is only some of it, why do you think I'm such a bad idea?” He found he was more interested in the answer than he might have been, simply because he expected the answer to be something outside of what he usually heard.

Larkin stirred for a moment, head down as though she was thinking hard about something. Shane watched the tight, wiry muscles in her right biceps shift and flex as she stirred. It was difficult to tear his attention away—it was the end of the day, it had been a long week, and she was very, very distracting.

Finally, she said, “My taste in men is terrible.”

“So?”

When she popped a chunk of dough into her mouth and turned to look at him blandly, he got it. And because he couldn't hate anything that worked in his favor, he smiled.

“That's not a compliment, Shane.”

“I know. Just give me a minute to be happy I'm your taste, okay? I'll be insulted later.”

Larkin laughed and shook her head. “No, you won't.”

“I might be. Maybe you could define ‘terrible' so I know what I'm up against, here. Everybody around here knows my track record, Larkin, or they think they do. You, though . . . It's like you came out of nowhere. That's not really fair.”

Her laugh was low and a little rueful. “Life's not fair.”

“Tell me about it.”

When she tapped the spoon thoughtfully on the edge of the bowl, he thought she was working on a way to change the subject. Instead, she surprised him by answering.

“Okay.” She turned her head to look at him, her green gaze direct, almost defiant. “I didn't come from much. You've probably figured that out. My family isn't evil, but that's the best I can really say about
them. I was glad to leave, and they didn't exactly beg me to stay. So. In my many adventures after leaving my dystopian hellscape of a hometown, I discovered I had a knack for attracting men who were, for lack of a better word, dirtbags.”

She was very matter-of-fact about it, he'd give her that. The honesty was refreshing, even if the idea of being lumped in with a bunch of unsavory characters wasn't. “What level of dirtbaggery are we talking about here?” he asked.