Every Little Kiss (19 page)

“Stay,” she murmured. “Please stay.”

She felt the momentary tension in him, and then the easing of it as his breathing deepened, as his strokes slowed. It was all the answer she needed. Tonight, neither of them would be alone.

Emma’s lips curved into a sleepy smile, and she let herself drift down into the quiet dark.

*   *   *

He hadn’t intended to stay at Emma’s all night Saturday. Or all night Sunday, for that matter. In fact, once they’d
made love three or . . . five . . . more times and split the remains of a box of cereal Sunday morning, he figured he’d just go home, maybe get some work around the house done, and play it by ear. But while she was off making sure a baby shower ran like a well-oiled machine, something strange happened.

He missed her.

It wasn’t just a wistful “looking forward to the next time we get together” sort of thing, either. It was an actual, physical longing that kept showing up to beat him over the head when he least expected it. He had the weekend off. It was supposed to be awesome, spent doing manly things around his house and then making a bunch of noise on his bike, and then maybe eating an entire pizza by himself before passing out in front of the TV.

Instead, he stuck around her apartment for a while after she left, playing with the oddly named Boof, whom he liked even though Boof was a cat. And he thought of Emma. And he went home and did some yard work, during and after which he thought of Emma. And he tinkered with his bike, and he thought of Emma even more, spending a fair amount of time on the classy little mint green dress she’d sashayed out of the apartment in. She’d looked like a Mad Men–themed wet dream. How did anyone concentrate on celebrating when she was around? He sure as hell couldn’t concentrate on his Sunday.

Not until he’d brought her Chinese food for dinner. Then he’d found all sorts of things to concentrate on. Like getting to remove another one of her impossibly sexy dresses.

The woman was like a drug. On some level, it worried him. At least, when he wasn’t busy just enjoying her company. It wasn’t just the sex, though, that was mind-blowing. She was funny. And sweet. And clever. He felt
comfortable with her in a way that should have taken far longer to achieve, if it happened at all . . . and even the thought of her made him smile.

Of all the things that might have made him feel like Harvest Cove might really be home, a woman was the last thing he’d expected. The cynical part of him insisted that this couldn’t end well. Once the shine wore off, once they really had to start dealing with each other’s baggage, the magic would end. But it was tough to concentrate on potential trouble when a beautiful woman was making him breakfast and wearing nothing but a fuzzy bathrobe that kept slipping off one slim, lovely shoulder.

Seth sat at Emma’s little two-person table, mouth watering at the scent of sizzling bacon, and decided he felt about as good as he had in his entire life. Maybe it was the sleep. Maybe it was the sex. Or maybe it was just Emma, the whole gorgeous, neurotic package. That possibility was going to make his “let’s take this day by day” strategy for handling relationships a little more difficult, but he felt so damn
good
for a change. Why try to fix what wasn’t broken?

The cat leaped into his lap, fixed Seth with a look that dared him to try to remove him, and then settled down into an enormous furry lump, waiting to be petted. Seth obliged him and was rewarded with immediate and very loud purring.

“What kind of a name is Boof, anyway?” he asked, scratching the cat behind his big furry ears. Emma turned her head to look at the two of them, and Seth caught her amused smile before she went back to tending her scrambled eggs.

“Well, originally I wanted to name him Galahad.”

Seth angled his head to look at the cat. “And Boof won out how, exactly?”

She laughed. “Well, Galahad was voted down, and he wouldn’t respond to Henry—I mean, granted, he’s a cat, so I took that into consideration—and it didn’t seem to suit him. Even as a baby he had a habit of jumping onto my chest when I was lying down and either headbutting me or batting me in the face. Gently, at least, which was good because his claws are something else. Jake, Sam’s fiancé, saw it one day and thought it was hilarious. He decided sound effects were in order, and then he started calling him ‘the Boof,’ which I told him sounded like the name of a bad professional wrestler.”

“I guess it stuck anyway.”

“Immediately. He answered to it from the get-go. Not that he’ll necessarily come when you call, but he at least looks at the person calling him. So Boof it was, whether I liked it or not.”

“Boof,” Seth said. The cat blinked at him and twitched the end of his tail. “It’s fun to say, at least.”

“It’s an original, just like him.” Emma carried two plates to the table, each covered in bacon and scrambled eggs. She set one down in front of Seth, the other at her own place, and then went to get herself another cup of coffee before settling in across from him. He tried not to get overly distracted by the amount of skin the deep V of her robe revealed, but it wasn’t easy. Considering the weekend the two of them had had, it seemed like he ought to be able to quit thinking about sex for a
little
while. Especially because he had to work in a couple of hours. So far, though, no luck.

Seth shoveled some of the eggs onto his fork and popped them in his mouth. Immediately, he knew he’d discovered something else about Emma. She could cook. “What did you put in these?” he asked, digging in.

“Garlic, onion, turkey, cheese, salt and pepper . . . and
whatever else seemed like a good idea when I opened up the spice cupboard.” She shrugged. “Sam and I can both cook. We’re not gourmet chefs or anything, but Mom decided it was something we needed to be able to do.” She picked up a strip of bacon and bit off an end. “What about you, Chinese takeout guy? You don’t look like a fast-food junkie, but I’ve been wrong before.”

“I don’t cook much,” he admitted, “but I try to eat the healthy stuff that comes in boxes. Usually.”

“Hmm. You’re thirty, right? That’s a lot of years to live by the grace of Chef Boyardee.”

“Yeah, well, I had somebody else feeding me for most of them.” He realized his mistake when he saw her interest sharpen, and he regretted it immediately. Quietly, he braced himself for the onslaught.

“That’s true. I guess you would have. You said you were in for . . . six years?”

“Six.”

“What did you do?”

“Shot at things.” When her eyes narrowed, he amended that to, “I was a captain. Infantry.”

“You went to college, then?” she asked. The surprise in her voice made him surlier than he might have been when he answered.

“Yeah, why? Did you think I didn’t?”

He saw her jaw tighten and knew they were headed into unpleasant territory. He wanted to avoid that if at all possible, and he began grasping around for way to defuse the situation. He’d been prickly about the subject for so long, it had become habitual, but he knew it had been the wrong reaction to have with her.

“I didn’t know if you had or hadn’t,” Emma said flatly. “In fact, I’m starting to think it’s a little weird that I know nothing about you. You’re a cop. You’re around my
age. You’re from Florida and New York. You’ve mentioned a family, so I guess you didn’t magically appear on earth out of thin air. And that’s it. The end.”

“That
is
the end, though. It’s just not that interesting, Emma,” he said, wishing she’d let it alone but knowing she wouldn’t. “I did ROTC. Got a criminal justice degree. Did my thing in the army, got out, and after a while I found my way here.”

She breathed in deeply, and he could see her trying to decide whether to press him further. What else could he say? The idea of divulging more made the hair at the back of his neck stand up. That six-year period hadn’t been all bad, but it was a chunk of time he had such mixed feelings about—and that he’d been asked about so much whenever he’d gone home—that he would rather just let it be. She didn’t need to think he was perfect, but he wasn’t into showing off his scars. He didn’t know if they would matter to her. More, he still didn’t know whether they should. And in any case, it was too early to dump all that on her.

The chemistry they had together had been one of those unpredictable things, taking him completely by surprise. There was attraction, and then there was . . . this. It was damn near explosive. It also made trying to take the rest of it slowly a lot harder. Seth sighed, wishing the woman didn’t like words so much. He’d much rather stick to physical expression when it came to how he felt.

Flustered, and feeling guilty both for putting uncertainty in Emma’s eyes and for creating this sudden distance between then, Seth cast around for something he could say to close the rift again. It wasn’t wrong, he told himself, to want to keep his time with her enjoyable. To hold off on the heavy stuff that might permanently change the way she looked at him.

“So, I got to make an interesting traffic stop the other day. Forgot to tell you.”

He saw the momentary hesitation, then the acceptance in her small smile. “Really? What was that?”

Relief hit him hard and fast, leaving him almost light-headed. He tried to keep his expression neutral. “Yeah, that guy you supposedly went streaking with? Al Piche?”

“We just call him Big Al, but okay. You pulled him over?” He’d caught her interest, and that was good. Just enjoying the moment was good. So much better than another tense conversation about what he’d been through, how he’d dealt with it. He couldn’t erase the past, but he was awfully tired of the many ways it had found to keep him in its shadow. Pushing his frustration aside, Seth kept his voice light, knowing this would entertain her.

“I had to pull him over. He’d borrowed his friend’s ice-cream truck.”

“Borrowed.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, which was even better. “Did the friend know this?”

“No.” He grinned at her, watching her eyes light, and something that had knotted up tight inside began to loosen again. “Mike Woodard owns it, you know, to make some extra money in the summer. He didn’t want Al arrested, just wanted the truck back. I guess this has happened before?”

“Probably. His family has money, you know. So he has a lot of time to indulge his love of fun and his complete lack of shame. Someone told me he’s a Mensa member, which is terrifying if it’s true. Anyway, was the truck okay?”

“The truck, yes. The ice cream . . .” He lifted his hand and made a seesawing motion. “I found him covered in sticky wrappers, cruising along at about ten miles an hour and being chased through a neighborhood by a herd of disgruntled kids.”

Emma burst out laughing. “What. The hell.”

“He didn’t seem to have a problem with being caught, so there’s that, at least. Mark swears it’s a rite of passage, having to take care of a Big Al problem. Guess I can officially join the club now.”

Emma pumped her fist. “One of us! One of us!” Then she collapsed into laughter again, and the sound was like music. When she looked at him, her eyes danced with humor, and he knew everything was right between the two of them again. For now.

“You’ll be a townie before you know it, Seth Andersen,” she said. “Just watch.”

“Could be,” he replied. Suddenly he knew it was what he wanted. More, he realized, than he’d actually dared to hope for. Until now.

Until her.

And though he tried, the spark of hope that gave him was impossible to put out.

B
y Thursday, the weather had turned warm and muggy, and her brain had gone to complete mush. Emma didn’t know whether to blame it on her nagging feeling that Seth was keeping her at arm’s length, the humidity, or the fact that Boof had horked up three hairballs this week, all in places she’d be sure to step in them. But for the first time in months, she found herself struggling through the day instead of cruising efficiently along.

It had made her unfocused, which made her cranky. And though Brynn had gone to get them caramel frappés for lunch, the afternoon didn’t show much improvement. By the time the bell above the door rang and a familiar, incredibly tall redhead walked through it, she was considering bailing out early and putting herself in an adult time-out with a box of cookies until she felt like herself again.

“Hey, Henry. Got a minute?”

She looked up, saw Shane Sullivan darkening her doorway, and sighed. Of all the people she didn’t want to have to find some patience for today, he had to be near the top of the list.

“Hi, Shane. What can I help you with?” She could hear Brynn fiddling with the coffeemaker in the back
office and knew her assistant would find an excuse to stay there until Shane had gone. She’d mentioned more than once that she found him both intimidating and seriously attractive.

Emma supposed there was no accounting for taste.

“Heard you saved the day at Max and Elaina’s engagement party,” he said. “Nice one. I was supposed to be there, but we had that stomach thing go through the office.” He grimaced. “Definitely would rather have been at the party.”

Emma blinked, unsure where he was going with this. “Well, it was a good one. Sorry you had to miss it.”

He was an acquaintance, not a friend, and trying to make small talk with him felt seriously odd. She expected he wanted something. His continued rambling just confirmed it.

“This is nice in here,” he said, looking around. “Have you ever done one of the firm’s annual parties?”

“No, your father handles those himself.”

“Which explains why they’re so boring. I’m going to push for him to hire you this year.”

Emma watched him wander the shop, looking at the framed photos, picking up cards, and putting them back down. He was well over six feet tall, built like an NFL quarterback, and yes, Emma supposed, very handsome. But he wasn’t her type, and she had better things to do than stand here watching him beat around the bush.

“Did you want something, Shane? I’m kind of busy.”

That got his attention, at least. “You’re not as nice as your sister.” He looked absurdly pleased by this.

“No, I’m not.”

“Okay,” he said, and incredibly, her bluntness seemed to relax him. “Here’s the thing. I need a date for Sam’s wedding.”

The question was so out of the blue that it took her a few moments to process. Once she did, it still didn’t make any sense.

“What?”

He grinned, dark blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “No, not you, don’t worry. I heard you’re into uniforms these days.”

“You want me to find you a date?” She stared at him, wondering whether she’d dozed off and was dreaming this.

He nodded, and the pain when she pinched herself was real enough. “Basically, yes.”

“Shane . . .” She paused, trying to understand what on earth might have driven him to ask her, of all people, to help him with this, and decided it had to be extreme desperation. “I’m your best friend’s fiancé’s sister. I barely know you. You
have
to have better resources than me.” The dejected look on his face, however, said otherwise. “Have you really annoyed every eligible woman in the Cove to the point that you have zero date prospects? Is that even possible?”

“Maybe.” He looked around. “The eligible ones I know well enough to talk to, anyway.” He returned his gaze to Emma, and the determination in his eyes was a little unnerving. He really meant this.

Oh God. Why me?

“See, this is what I figure. You work with a lot of women, right? The baker. The florist. That cute redhead who’s your assistant or whatever.”

“Could you try not to be a pig while you’re asking me for a favor? Please? Her name is Brynn. The other two you mentioned are Larkin and Annalise. And I’m not sure I’d inflict you on any one of them, since I’d like to retain my relationships with them.”

He sighed heavily. “I’m trying. I’ll try. Okay?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Anyway, I’m pretty sure those are the last three good-looking women in the Cove I’ve never talked to. Which means none of them has ever told me to go to hell. And two of them are from out of town, plus the cute red—er, Brynn’s family moved away for a few years, so I have a fighting chance.”

“You know, if you were going to stay here, you might have wanted to consider how being a serial dating jock with a big mouth and minimal empathy would affect your dating prospects later in life.”

He winced. “Ouch.”

“Well,” Emma said, “it’s true.”

“I know. I just . . . I didn’t actually plan on staying here. That’s just sort of how things worked out.” The expression that briefly flitted across his face was something far deeper than dejection, and Emma found herself feeling something unexpected for Shane: sympathy. Sam had warned her that he was like a big, slightly dense, mostly untrainable puppy sometimes, which made him tough to hate. How a guy could be bright enough to be a lawyer and dumb enough to get himself into his current predicament was beyond her, but Sam was right. Shane didn’t seem very hateable.

Of course, she doubted he was dateable, either, good looks and desperation notwithstanding.

“I’m not a matchmaker.”

Shane waved his hand dismissively. “You’re a problem solver. This qualifies.” He fixed her with that pleading look again. “I’m the best man. I just want somebody there to dance with when my best friend gets married. Come on, Henry.”

It was hard to argue with that. Emma tapped her foot,
suddenly certain than Sam had heard about this harebrained plan of his. It would have been nice to get a warning. And now here he was, with his big sad eyes, being weirdly endearing. She’d never set someone up in her life. This wasn’t the way she would have preferred to start. In fact, not starting at all would have been good.

“Can’t Sam hook you up? What about Zoe? She’s single.”

“Already been shot down there. She says she has a date.”

“Oh.” She frowned, considered her options—which at the moment amounted to letting Shane try to argue her into submission or just giving it a shot—and sighed. She wanted that quiet, peaceful box of cookies, not a lecture on the relative merits of finding Shane Sullivan a wedding date. “Well. I guess I could tr—”

“Great, excellent, you’re a lifesaver,” Shane rushed on, his miserable expression switching to a big grin in the blink of an eye. “Hook me up and I’ll owe you big. Make me sound good, okay? Discounted legal fees if you ever get in a situation. Whatever you need. Awesome. Later, Em!”

He strode out, looking like he was on top of the world, and Emma stared after him, feeling like she’d been had. And what was with everyone calling her “Em” now? How had she attained “casual nickname” status with so many people?

You acted like an idiot in public, dumped beer over your head, and told people to call you Em—that’s how. The stories might fade, but the nickname’s going to stick.

Brynn emerged from hiding almost immediately after Shane left, holding her coffee mug in both hands. Emma looked at her, knowing that she’d heard every word. Maybe they could get this over with quickly and painlessly.

“Well?” Emma asked. “I know you like him.”

Brynn shook her head. “I want to, but . . . no. I’ve got a family reunion that weekend, and if I blow it off to have a one-night stand with Shane Sullivan, I will never stop hearing about it.”

Emma would have argued, except that she knew it was true. She did give her a halfhearted “It wouldn’t
have
to be a one-night stand,” but Brynn just smirked and shook her head.

“I wouldn’t pass up a chance to take a bite out of him, so . . . yes, it would. But I really do need to go to that reunion. They deliberately planned it around the one weekend we’re off for Sam’s wedding.”

“Damn.” Emma put her hands on her hips and blew out a breath, glaring into space. “This is exactly how I wanted to spend my afternoon. Pondering who to inflict Shane Sullivan on.”

“Ask Larkin. She’s really easygoing.”

Emma shot her a skeptical look. “I know. But that’s not the same thing as being a glutton for punishment.”

Brynn’s lips twitched. “No, but she can handle herself. You know this. Annalise would suffer through it for you, but Larkin will just make a party of it. Schedule’s clear for the rest of the afternoon, so you could maybe possibly go take care of that and get yourself some goodies at the same time. If you felt like it. Goodies might make you feel better.”

Emma rubbed at her temple. “I’m that fun today, huh?”

Brynn moved her head back and forth. “You just seem a little . . . tired.”

“You mean grouchy.”

“I mean tired,” Brynn said, but her laugh ruined the attempt to be diplomatic.

“Yeah, okay,” Emma finally said, accepting defeat. Then she managed a smile, already feeling slightly better at the prospect of getting out in the sunshine and hopefully out of her own head a little. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem,” Brynn said. “I’m not being completely altruistic, you know. I’m putting together a proposal for the Jamison wedding, and I’ll be less nervous working on it if you’re not around hovering.”

“I don’t hover!” Brynn only raised her eyebrows, so Emma amended that to “I don’t hover
much
. I—I try not to hover much. Okay, I hover. What do you have so far?”

“Ah-ah.” Brynn held up a hand when Emma tried to scoot around the desk to look. “You told me to do my thing with this one and then show you, which is what I’m going to do. Get thee gone. Go get a pastry and earn Shane Sullivan’s undying gratitude. Let me create my masterpiece.”

“Hmm.” Emma screwed up her mouth, but she backed off. “Fine. I’ll go see if Larkin has any of those little strawberry tarts. You want me to bring you one?”

“Yes, but I’d just get goo on the keyboard,” Brynn said. “I’m fine.” She typed silently for a few moments, then looked up at Emma, her eyes wide and questioning. “Emma? Hovering.”

“Okay.” Feeling dejected without knowing why, she clipped back to her office, grabbed her purse, and then headed for the front door. “I’m leaving, I guess.”

“Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m holding it in so you don’t get jealous.”

Brynn snorted and lifted her hand in a half wave as Emma walked out the door. A breeze drifted past to ruffle her hair, and she breathed in the fresh air. It smelled like spring outside today, green and alive and a nice reminder
that there was, in fact, a world outside of her office. Boof would be up in his window perch, no doubt, either sleeping or watching the birds. He could spend hours doing that.

She wished she was as easily entertained.

Feeling completely at loose ends, she walked slowly down the sidewalk of the tree-lined square, wondering what the hell to do with herself. She reached into her purse without thinking, doing a quick check of her messages. There was nothing, of course. Now that her status as a
taken
bar-dancing party freak had gotten around, all her texts were either work or family related, Brynn, or Seth. And all of those potential texters were busy right now.

Strawberry tart and matchmaking. Joy.
Well, it was something to do, at least. Emma turned and headed up away from the harbor, walking until she got to the cheery pink lettering that announced she’d reached Petite Treats. Not that she hadn’t smelled it beforehand. It was like breathing spun sugar, with the added visual of customers relaxing at pink-and-white iron tables outside, enjoying Larkin’s handiwork. Her mouth started to water. She couldn’t help it.

A bell rang as she stepped inside, getting in line behind four other people while they all perused the offerings in the long glass display counter. The day’s offerings and prices were written in brightly colored chalk on a blackboard hung behind the counter, and a girl with a curly mop of dark hair waited on everyone with a smile. Her smile brightened when she saw Emma.

“Hi, Ms. Henry! I’ll be with you in a sec. Are you here to see Larkin?”

“If she’s around. But I mostly came for one of those strawberry tarts.”

“Excellent choice.” She took care of the other
customers with charm and efficiency, and Emma watched her, amused. Aimee worked after school most weekdays, and most weekends as well, by choice. She was a junior in high school, and made no secret of her worship of the town’s most celebrated pastry chef. Larkin put that worship to good use, and told anyone who would listen about her protégée. Emma had watched long enough to know that Aimee was bound for culinary school once she graduated, no question. She knew where her passion lay. That was a gift, that knowledge, as long as it was put to good use. And apart from all that, she was a good kid.

“Do you want it in a box, or are you going to eat it here?” she asked.

Emma considered that, and then an idea struck her. “Actually, give me two. Separate boxes. I want to drop one to a friend.” She owed Seth for the cupcakes he’d brought her. And it was a way to connect, even in a small way, after a few days of not seeing him.

“Nice. He’ll love it.” Emma arched a brow, and Aimee blushed. “Um, he or she. Sorry.”

“Oh, you know very well it’s a he. Everyone seems to.” Emma sighed. That made Aimee laugh, and she got the tarts into their little pink-and-blue boxes before ringing her up. The door to the kitchen opened, and a head poked around the corner.

“I knew I heard you! Who set you loose? That slave driver you work for never leaves, I hear.”

“Very funny. I blame you. I swear I can smell this place from inside my office.” Emma watched tall, thin Larkin O’Neill emerge fully, wearing striped pants and an apron. She had flour on one cheek and mischief in her bright green eyes. Her honey blond hair was piled on top of her head in a bun, apart from the long, thick bangs that covered her eyebrows. At six feet tall, she would
have been impossible not to notice even if she hadn’t already been drop-dead gorgeous. Emma had sort of wanted to hate her when she’d first opened the shop, but Larkin made that tough. She was earthy, kind of messy, and she loved food.