Courtship of the Cake (20 page)

SPIN DOCTOR

I had left the Half Acre to get Mick out of my mind, and I wasn't even safe at the supermarket, for God's sake. Those women were practically throwing themselves at his feet, yet he had the nerve to pull the whole innocent act.

Music met my ears as I pushed through the front door. Logan and Nash were sitting in the front room, on the curved window seat in the turret. They had a notebook between them, and guitars on their laps. Logan's facial expressions were changing with each note Nash demonstrated, his mouth moving along with the cues.

“C . . . yeah, you got it, kid. Now G.” Nash tapped the letter in the notebook, and Logan lifted his hand just long enough to demonstrate the letter before moving it back to tackle the guitar neck. His hand was small for the frets, but his fingers were long and promising. Just like his father's.

“Check you out.” Nash grinned, licking his lips. “Very sexy secretary.”

I grimaced, smoothing down the pencil skirt I had changed into
before leaving for the store. “I prefer my own clothes, but a deal is a deal.” Riggs didn't want it to look as if Nash had pulled me right off the festy circuit. But his assistant must've been channeling some eighties MTV fantasy, as every outfit that had been delivered was a cross between Van Halen's “Hot for Teacher” and the sexy librarian gone wild from Adam Ant's “Goody Two Shoes” video.

Mick had certainly done a double take in the checkout aisle. The thought of his eyes roaming approvingly gave me a one-two punch of excitement and guilt in my gut.

I wondered if he noticed I had chosen my blouse to match his eyes.

I spread my bounty of school supplies out on the Persian rug and went to work labeling each piece, as Mick had suggested. If Sharpie-markering Logan's name twenty times on quarter-inch #2 pencils scored points with Quinn, I would gladly take one for the team and huff the fumes.

I remembered my excitement with the start of every school year on Long Island. The nip in the air come nightfall, and the leaves performing their annual drop-and-clog ritual into the swimming pool. I loved pulling out cozy warmer clothes and debating with Laney what we'd wear that first day of school. She'd left me a voice mail that morning, but I hadn't gotten back to her yet. Jax had been uncharacteristically quiet, considering he usually texted me daily.

“One, two. One, two,” Nash conducted in time, and Logan proudly strummed two simple chords. Hugging the body of the acoustic against his tummy, he practically thrummed along with it. The excitement was palpable.

I smiled and resumed my labeling, remembering the thrill of cracking into blank notebooks. Relishing the idea of a fresh start, the endless possibilities to do well.

Nash began to accompany him, taking it above and beyond with a melody to his son's simple backbone. I noticed Quinn standing in the doorway, watching, as Nash's nimble fingers tackled the frets and
he began to sing, barely moving his mouth, brow creasing as he held the last word of each line.

Wasting away

Waiting to be found

Hard to find the words

When I can't hear a sound

Lost in the fray

Stumble to the ground

Cannot be heard

When you're not around

Logan hit an off note, and Nash winced. I glanced back toward the doorway, but Quinn was gone.

“Rome,” I murmured. “It wasn't built in a day.”

This was certainly a start.

•   •   •

I spent the afternoon reading up on Nash's condition, and ironically, ankylosing spondylitis tended to worsen during periods of inactivity. So much for Riggs's bright idea of taking Nash off the road to calm him down. He needed exercise and movement, and luckily, we had an eager ten-year-old ready to test out his father's running legs. After dinner, Logan, Nash, Mick, and Bear played Frisbee and horseshoes out on the lawn, under the watchful eye of Quinn. Sindy came and joined us at the fire pit later; the consummate guest, she had even brought her own skewer.

“Dani, you've given those boys a great gift,” she said, blowing gently on her smoldering marshmallow to keep it burning. The four were still whooping it up and rolling around on the grass, with Quinn refereeing. “The gift of time. I really don't think Nash would've come home, had it not been for you.”

Affection for the woman surged through me; next to Bear, she had been the most straightforward and kindest of them all since we had arrived.

“Darling, speaking of time . . . I hope you'll consider holding the wedding here. Soon. Lord knows this place could use some joyful memories.”

The guys were descending, sweaty and hungry, and Sindy made quick business of shoving more marshmallows on skewers.

“Going for a water run,” Quinn called, making toward the house.

My heart began to speed up at the thought of things going any faster than they already were. Arriving in town and discovering Mick had thrown me for a loop. I had been evading the eventual questions that I knew were bound to come, and excuses came natural for me. “Well, you know. We haven't even considered who will officiate—”

Sindy waved a hand. “We do it differently here in Pennsylvania. You and Nash can go get yourself a Quaker license. It only takes three days, and it's self-uniting.”

Three days? As in, before the week is up?

“Just you, your vows, and two witnesses. Isn't that romantic? Hell, if I could do it all over again with Walt that way, I would,” Sindy was saying.

“Do what?” Nash asked, wiping his face with his shirt. He looked exhausted but happy.

“Get hitched right here at the Half Acre.” Sindy smiled and presented Logan with a marshmallow-topped skewer and a curtsy, like he was king of the world. I felt Mick's presence behind me, heard his labored breathing, and smelled clean sweat as he reached around me and thrust a skewer into the blaze.

“That's a great idea,” Bear said, before anyone else could react. “Right here!”

“At the fire pit?” I laughed, poking the flames with my own stick.

Bear gave a small smile, and pointed up.

I hadn't noticed it before, but the concrete pad we were sitting on rested under a regal metal archway. It wasn't enclosed, and we could see countless stars overhead on the clear night.

“It's an open-air chapel,” Bear explained. “We used to have weddings here all the time.”

“It will be perfect.” Sindy sighed. “Let us help plan the wedding of your dreams.”

Mick's gaze met mine as I came back down to earth. Smoldering. The sweets we held between us turning to forgotten ash.

I don't sleep anymore
, he had said.
Not since New Orleans.

I no longer dream.

I turned to catch Nash's reaction, but his eyes were roaming elsewhere. Focused on the dark corners of the property, his mind somewhere in the past.

•   •   •

“I need you. Baby. Please.”

There's that weird spot between awake and sleeping, where you can't remember whether you're dreaming, yet everything feels good and right in the world. And you're happy and your mind's at peace, for no real reason.

That's where I was when Nash reached for me.

“Where?” I kicked the covers off of both of us.

“Lower back,” he gasped. “Maybe I overdid it today.”

“Pain scale?” I plugged in the heating pad I had bought for him, which would help with the inflammation.

“Getting worse by the second.” He groaned loudly as I eased him over onto it.

“Relax,” I whispered, stroking his hair back as he winced and sighed.

“Christ, I am so tired of this pain. When's it going to go away?”

“Shhh . . .” I began to stroke and knead the tense muscles in his
thighs while the heat loosened his back. “You're tired because your body is fighting a war.”

Deep down, I knew he was terrified of the pain truly going away . . . because that was the true sign that the scarring had fused the spine, leaving him with limited mobility and balance.

“Can you—” I worked my way to his hips and he moaned in grateful relief as I helped him flex them. “That's the fucking spot, girl. Yeah.”

“Deep breaths,” I reminded, as I leaned over him.

He ran his hand over mine, breathing hard. “Oh God. Spasm. Need to turn.”

It was better for him to lie facedown, but getting there was torture. He muffled his groans and curses in the pillow as I gently massaged the hot spots where his flare-ups tended to occur.

Gradually, his breathing became slower, shallower. “Yes . . . much better. Thank you,” he mumbled, wiping the tears and sweat with the back of his hand. His eyelids gave over to the heaviness and fatigue that often followed such an episode, and he was back to sleep within minutes.

I slowly lay back down, willing my heart rate to return to normal. Coaxing my body back toward sleep, I remembered my dream. So much for the lie I had spun in the supermarket parking lot. There were many dreams. And they were always about Mick. This one had me in his arms, on a blanket under the stars by the fire pit. No s'mores, just the sweet and sticky sin of his fingers slipping toward the hottest part of me. I closed my eyes, but was having a hard time finding my way back there. Nash began snoring next to me. The ache for release grew, and my only recourse was to take matters into my own hands. Quiet, gentle and quick, I opened myself to the fantasy. Mick's fingers, not mine, eased the ache and brought sweet sleep.

HAPPINESS SOLD SEPARATELY

The walls were way too thin at the Half Acre.

Room twelve wasn't far enough away from mine to pretend I wasn't hearing what I thought I was hearing, as I tossed and turned.

Nash led a charmed life, apparently. As evident from his grunts, groans, and “yeah babies,” followed by soft whispers, sighs, and creaks of the bed.

Sweet nothings that weren't exactly nothing, I thought bitterly.

The idea of Dani working him into such a state sent me out of my mind, and downstairs to watch some mindless television.

Quiet footfalls on the staircase turned my head. Quinn, freshly showered and wearing one of the inn's signature thick waffle-weave spa bathrobes, padded in. I smirked, remembering she made me relinquish the one in my room when I established residence.

“And I thought those fancy robes were just for guests?”

“Jesus, Mick!” Quinn's fist clutched the collar of her robe. “You scared the piss out of me.”

“Sorry. Couldn't sleep.”

She gave a snort. “With all their carrying on up there, I'm not surprised.”

Good to know I wasn't the only one.

“I came down to watch TV. Do you know why there are no batteries in the remote?” I gave it a shake.

“Why would I know?” she snapped, jamming her hands into the pockets of her robe and glaring at me.

“Because you always watch those ridiculous cooking shows after Logan goes to sleep. Don't bite my head off, kid.”

She reddened. “Maybe Bear used them for his guitar pedals. I don't know.” She shrugged and turned on her bare heel. “I'm making tea. You want a cup?”

“Nah,” I said, but followed her into the kitchen anyway. “Double-A batteries to power his rock? Doubtful, honey.”

“Well, look in the junk drawer.” She gestured toward the kitchen island. “I'm sure there are some lying around.”

“Nope. Already checked. None.” I leaned against the counter while she fussed with her tea bag.

“Okay. So maybe Logan's remote-control race car needed batteries.”

Her attempt to sound casual was just about as lame as that excuse. Logan got a billion new toys for his birthday, and that old car had been sitting in the shed since July.

“Or maybe,” I drawled, smiling wickedly, “Queen Quinnlyn's got herself a battery-operated friend upstairs.”

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered, yanking the steaming kettle off the stove. I knew I had her.

“Hey, hey, nothing to be ashamed about.” The batteries she pulled from her robe's pocket and whipped at me plink-plunked against my laughing chest. I stooped to retrieve them; they were still warm. “We've all been there, Quinn.”

“I don't want to know about
anywhere
you've been, Mick Spencer.”
She plunged her tea bag into the steaming cup and dunked it mercilessly. “End of story.”

Still chuckling, I placed the double-A's into the remote and clicked the back shut. “The end, all good,” I said emphatically, but couldn't help but add, “a good, happy ending. That's all anyone ever needs, right?”

“Get out of my kitchen.”

“Come watch TV with me. I'll even let you choose the show.”

“Gee, thanks.”

We settled into opposite ends of the couch. Quinn blew across the top of her mug while I thumbed through the channels. A nudge of her bare foot to my femur bone indicated her program preference, some celebrity cake competition. Not my idea of relaxing entertainment, but it beat listening to whatever show was still going on up in room number twelve.

Bacon lap-tested Quinn's waffle-weave before clambering over to poke holes in my sweatpants with his claws, kneading and turning until he flopped to rest across my knee.

“That guy reminds me of you.” Quinn jutted her chin toward the screen.

“Because he's short, stocky, bald, and looks absolutely nothing like me?” I joked, studying her profile. Cool, blue light flickered down her cute, upturned nose and dotted her cheeks before she answered.

“Because he gets absolutely lost in the joy of doing what he loves to do.”

We watched in silence for a while.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” I asked.

“About strangling Bear for inviting them to stay here? Yes.”

I laughed. “So what are we going to do about it?”

“The hell if I know. Nash is up to something. I can feel it.” She dropped her head on my shoulder, and I pulled her close. “I just wish I knew what it was, so I could head it off at the motherfucking pass.”

An idea struck. “You know that old saying about keeping your friends close?” I asked her.

“But your enemies even closer?” Quinn finished.

What about your enemy's fiancée?

“I think we should all go out this week. On a double date. You and me. Nash and Dani.”

Quinn smiled for the first time that evening. Or at least, since she left the privacy of her own room.