Every Little Kiss (5 page)

“Cupcakes?”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, a little flustered himself—not that he’d admit it. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t sure
what you liked, so I picked two. I’m not much of a judge. I’ll eat anything.”

Emma nodded as she examined the offerings. “Well, that’s not a bad way to be. You’ve got good taste, too, because believe it or not, one of these is my favorite.” She picked up the one sitting in a green paper cup, covered in shaved coconut and topped with a tiny slice of sugared key lime. “Key lime coconut. Yum.” She was looking at it with too much anticipation to be faking it—and so far, she hadn’t struck him as much of a liar. This was well worth the long minutes he’d spent agonizing over cupcake choices.

“What about the other one?” Seth asked, moving closer. “The one with the raspberries? I thought it looked good.”

“It is. Larkin makes the best black-bottom cupcakes. They’re little cheesecake-and-chocolate fat bombs.” Her eyes flicked up to regard him curiously. “What made you pick these two?”

“Honestly? I didn’t know things had gotten so much more complicated than chocolate or vanilla until I walked in that place. I just went with the prettiest ones.”

“That’s a risky selection method.”

“Seems to be working fine for me.”

“Oh.” Her blush, Seth noted, was as pretty as she was.

They stood only inches apart, and he had to incline his head to talk to her. She was the perfect height, just tall enough to tuck her head beneath his chin if he slid his arms around her. The strength of the compulsion to do just that had him flexing his fingers nervously. He thought she was beautiful, and she was certainly fun to poke at, but he wasn’t looking for anything beyond just that—light and fun. It shouldn’t be a problem, considering he was fairly certain it would take Emma months, if
not years, to get to where she’d even be interested in one of his arms around her, much less two.

Still, the attraction was strong enough to be distracting. She smelled good, too, like she had the other night beneath her “eau de spilled beer.” He knew he’d carry her scent with him when he left, along with the image of her the way she was right now, surprised and pleased about something as simple as a cupcake.

“What are you doing tonight?” The question slipped out before he could stop it, and he knew right away it had been the wrong thing to ask. Her smile vanished, replaced by the cool wariness that seemed to be her default. How the hell had she gotten so good at it? he wondered.

“I’m busy.”

Deeply ingrained stubbornness wouldn’t let him drop it there. “Is this the kind of busy where you’re actually doing something, or the kind of busy that lasts until I take the hint that you’re always going to be busy when I ask you out?”

“Look, Seth,” she said, closing the lid of the box and stepping back—safely out of touching distance, should he be so inclined. “I really appreciate what you did for me the other night, and you seem like a nice guy. I just have too much on my plate to be getting involved with anyone right now.”

The rejection stung, even if it was expected. It was his own damn fault for asking in the first place, he thought irritably. His good mood wilted like a flower left too long in the sun.

“That makes two of us,” he replied, and it was true. . . . Hadn’t he decided a long hiatus from outside complications was in order while he built a life here? So there was no reason for him to feel this defensive. Not that
knowing it seemed to help any. “I just thought you might want to grab dinner or something. I don’t know that many people here yet. People are friendly, but I’m not local. It’s taking some time.”

It wasn’t a play for pity, just the truth. He might not be interested in a whirlwind social life, but he missed having a few go-to people when he wanted company. There were a handful of candidates he thought might turn out to be good friends, but he didn’t tend to dive into things all at once. That was a great way to end up with people in your life who made you want to hide when the doorbell rang.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said, and the regret in her voice was clear. “It’s not you, really—”

“Don’t be sorry,” he replied, cutting her off smoothly. “It was just an idea.” She was having none of the interruption, though.

“You didn’t let me finish,” she said, an edge creeping into her voice. “It’s not you. It’s the situation. Even if I wasn’t busy, if I went out with you, all it would do is keep people talking. You’re not from here, so I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but rumors about people in my family tend to snowball.”

His eyebrows rose. “Snowball into what?”

“Small missteps become legendary screwups. For instance, the Henrys were one of the founding families of Harvest Cove. Guess which family has stories told about one of its female ancestors being a witch?”

Emma’s obvious annoyance about that surprised him.

“That’s just local color, though,” Seth said. “People never take that kind of thing seriously. Normal people, anyway.”

She looked at him intently, not even cracking a smile.
So serious
. He wondered why. He wondered a lot of things about her, for all the good it was doing him.

“How about this, then? One of the eighteenth-century Henrys married a Native American woman,” Emma said. “They were apparently happy and had a bunch of kids, but that Henry—George, I think; there were a lot of Georges—was, in his day, blamed for everything from crop failures to bad weather to the occasional hangnail. He’d married a heathen, didn’t make her convert, and so invited a good, old-fashioned smiting of the town from the powers that be.”

“Okay,” Seth said. “That’s time-specific superstitious weirdness, but I see your point.”

“Oh no,” Emma said. “You really don’t. There were Henrys who were famously unlucky, or famously stupid. Henrys who supposedly had a Forrest Gump–like influence on major events. If a thing went bad, a Henry had to have caused it. We’re known for marrying badly, making money we don’t deserve, and a general lack of dependability. We’re like the human cooties of Harvest Cove.”

That made him laugh, though he tried to stifle what he could because she looked so grim. “It can’t be that bad. I haven’t heard anything like that.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard that my mom is a tie-dyed hippie running a massive drug-dealing operation out of the house?”

“Um, well . . .” Okay, so he had heard that, and thought it was insane.

“Well, there you go. And my sister . . .” She trailed off, frowned, and then shook her head. “She had a rough time in school. Especially after Dad died. People can be really awful.”

“Yeah, I know how people can be.” He wondered what had gone on with her sister, but the look on her face said he shouldn’t ask. As far as he knew, Sam Henry was a talented, respected local artist who was about to
marry one of the town veterinarians. But the old stories and rumors were insider information. He was still just a curious outsider camping among the locals.

“What about you?” he asked, curious.

“What about me?” she asked. “I’m the boring one. I already told you that.”

“No, I mean, why do you stay if it’s so much harder for you here?”

She seemed surprised at the question. “It’s home,” she said simply.

“But if you don’t like it . . .”

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it,” Emma said, a faint smile curving her lips. “I just know how things work in the Cove. There’s plenty of good to go with the bad, like anywhere else. How can I change the bad things if I leave?”

He had to appreciate her hardheadedness, even though it meant he’d be dining alone. Again. He’d been joking when he’d called her a force of nature the other night, but the steely glint in her eyes made him wonder if he’d really been that far off the truth. Still, with everything she’d said, and some of what she hadn’t, Seth wondered if the town’s perceptions were the only thing she was fighting.

She had a father who’d passed away, a mother who was thought of as eccentric, and a sister who’d been absent, from what he understood, up until last year. And yet here was Emma, rock solid and working her ass off to create something that would last. A lot of people would have run. She’d sunk her roots in deeper.

Hell if it didn’t make her that much more fascinating. Not that off-the-charts stubbornness portended a healthy match, but she was so
different
from the women he was usually interested in. It occurred to him that this news
would thrill his mother, a thought he shut down immediately.

Overpriced cupcakes and a dinner-date rejection weren’t anything to call home about.

“So,” Seth said, “the upshot of all this is that I’m probably going to hear a story about you, a tiger, and Mike Tyson at some point in the next few days.”

Her eyes crinkled a little at the corners. “Probably.”

“Real life should be so interesting.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m really just as happy it’s not.”

He wondered if it was that awful to her, that people might think they’d spent the night together, and decided the answer probably wouldn’t do much for his ego. He also decided that it was time to cut his losses and head out, living to fight another day.

“Tell you what. If I start hearing any tiger stories, I’ll make sure to set the record straight.”

That finally earned him a laugh, soft but genuine. “Thanks.”

“Enjoy the cupcakes. And good luck with the wedding thing. I’ll see you around,” he said.

“Seth?”

He turned back to look at her just before he hit the door, already making silent promises to himself to just let this one go, to find some other way to occupy his free time. But the woman he saw, standing all by herself in her shop and looking a little like she’d lost her last friend, turned all his good intentions to dust. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was seeing the real Emma right now, not the image she’d so carefully cultivated and put on every day. If that was true, the real Emma was about as alone as he was.

It was just a single shared thing, one connection, but right that second, it felt like everything.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. Again.” She held up the cupcake box. “For these, and everything else.”

He smiled, even as he wondered what he could possibly do to clear his head of her, and decided he might need a longer ride than usual. Like maybe to Alaska. Out loud, though, all he could do was tell her the truth: He was at her service.

“Anytime.”

“N
o, I . . . No, I didn’t actually go streaking through the square. Where did you hear that? No, there wasn’t a flash mob, either. Yes, I’m sure. It’s . . . Wait, how is that disappointing?”

Emma pressed her fingers to her temple and rubbed gently while she held the phone to her ear with the other hand. Her mother seemed to think the tales of her daughter’s exploits were hilarious, which figured. Andromeda Henry was a warm, giving human being, but she had a twisted sense of humor. Especially, Emma thought, when it came to yanking her elder daughter’s chain. That was at least part of the reason why the beautiful old house Emma had grown up in was always sporting obnoxious colors on the shutters and mailbox. Last year they’d been purple for a while. Currently they were bright green, which was about the color Emma had turned when she’d seen them.

Sam thought it was funny. Of course, Sam would. And Andi’s well-to-do neighbors on the Crescent liked it about as well as they usually did, which was to say, not at all.

Emma walked up Hawthorne Street, heading away from the square and the little harbor just beyond, with
its rocky cove and strip of pebbled sand. The air was salty today, a strong breeze carrying the taste and scent of the sea. Emma breathed deeply, trying to focus on anything but the ridiculous story her mother was so amused by.

It wasn’t Mike Tyson and a tiger, but that was sort of a low bar to clear.

“Oh, honey, I can hear you brooding,” Andi was saying. “Come on. It’s too ridiculous not to laugh at. I’m just glad you had fun at your sister’s party. You ought to have fun more often.”

“People keep saying that,” Emma grumbled. “It’s not like I’m a hermit.”

“Not a hermit,” her mother agreed. “More like one of those warrior monks who spends all his time training or meditating and never really interacts with people unless he has to kill them. For the greater good, of course.”

“Mom,” Emma groaned. “That’s a horrible analogy! What have you been reading?”

“Things. And why is it horrible? Take away the shaved head and the body count, and I think it’s pretty close.”

Emma pressed her lips together as she walked past black wrought-iron fences and lampposts, past trees covered in leaves that were still the young green shade of spring. It was cool enough to warrant a light jacket, so she’d thrown on a plain gray hoodie, a piece of her wardrobe that she almost never took outside. Everything else had seemed too dressy for a simple walk—and she didn’t usually take walks, so her active-wear collection was the pits. She also wore the only comfortable jeans she had, which were ancient and dotted with paint, and the sneakers she’d bought one of the times she’d pretended she was going to work out regularly.

She felt vaguely uncomfortable with the idea of being
out in public like this, but the urge to get outside and escape her thoughts had been overwhelming. Now she just tried to move quickly enough that no one would be able to identify her.

Naturally, her phone had started vibrating just as she’d locked the apartment door.

“Mom, we’ve talked about this,” Emma finally said. “I’m fine. My life is fine. I’m not going to end up sharing dinners with Boof and crocheting doilies in my spare time.”

“I know you’re fine, Emma. I’d like you to be better than fine, but that might require some upheaval and you never did like much of that. I just wish you didn’t take everything so seriously. I was hoping to hear you laugh about all this.”

“I would if it were funny.”

“The idea of you and Big Al streaking through the square isn’t funny?”

“That’s not one of the many words that come to mind, no.” She was nearing the gallery where Sam worked and sold her pieces, a once-dilapidated little historic home that now shone like the gem it had been underneath the weathered siding and grime. The wooden sign that hung outside had
TWO ROADS GALLERY
etched into the wood and painted gold. A mud-spattered SUV was parked out front, a sight that piqued Emma’s interest despite herself. She knew what the truck meant, and she had a sudden itch to see one of the epic battles Sam had described to her.

The only sticking point was her outfit, but she didn’t think there would be many people milling around right before Zoe closed up for the day. Curiosity getting the better of her, Emma slowed.

“Mom, I’m going to stop into the gallery, okay? I’ll give you a ring later.”

“Are you actually outside? In the sun?” Andi asked.

“Yes. I haven’t even burst into flames yet.”

“Good. You know your sister isn’t working today. I think she and Jake were going out on his friend’s boat. The nice friend. Not the redhead.”

That did make her chuckle. “Fitz, then. She said something about that. The not-nice redhead is probably with them, you know. Shane gets pouty when he’s left out.”

“Shane might make it to nice someday. But he’s probably going to need a good ass-kicking to achieve it.”

Emma snorted. Shane Sullivan was built like an NFL quarterback and was not likely to have his butt kicked by anyone. That was at least part of his problem. To his credit, he did openly admit to being a jerk, though he also seemed to think that exempted him from doing anything about it. Still, Emma figured he must have a few decent qualities, since when Jake had dumped most of his tight-knit circle of friends last year over their refusal to accept Sam, Shane had behaved enough like a true friend for Jake to keep him.

It was hard for Emma to picture, but Sam assured her that Shane wasn’t always bad. Usually, but not always.

“I figured I’d stop in and see Zoe.”

“Oh.” Andi didn’t bother hiding her surprise. “Getting out, taking a walk, visiting people . . . This is actually so unlike you, it’s scary. Are you okay?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m f—”

“Fine, I know,” Andi finished. “I know. Okay, I’ll let you go. You’re still coming for dinner tomorrow night, right?”

“I told you I’ll try, Mom. The wedding I’m handling that day has an early reception, so it’s definitely possible, but I may be a little late. I’ll call.”

“Well, bring Boof so he can play with Peaches and
Loki,” she added, referring to her own cat along with Sam’s mischievous little black one.

“Yes, Mom.” She stopped at the head of the walk that led to the gallery door.

“I can hear you rolling your eyes. Keep it up and I’ll invite the Andersens’ nephew.”

It took Emma a few seconds to make the connection, but when she did, her mouth dropped open. “Don’t you dare! How did you even . . . Just don’t!”

“I’m your mother. I know everything. Have a nice afternoon, honey!” Andi did her best villainess laugh and hung up, leaving Emma to look disgustedly at her phone before stuffing it in her back pocket.
Great.
She knew her mother wouldn’t actually invite Seth, but that wasn’t the end of the teasing by a long shot. Andi was friendly with Ginny Andersen, because of course she was. And he’d obviously been woven into the lore developing around her. It was beyond thrilling.

She stalked up the walk to the gallery and opened the door. The sound of Zoe’s raised voice greeted her, along with the sight of an uncharacteristic amount of dirt on the wood floors.

“Jason, I realize you think you’re allowed to do what you like in here because you
occasionally
buy something, but I swear to God, if you think you’re going to continue coming in here once or twice a week just to spend ten minutes dumping the great outdoors on my clean floor, we are going to have a problem.”

Zoe Watson, hands on her hips, stood in the middle of the gallery’s large front room, staring down a six-foot-ten man as though she were an angry giantess instead of a diminutive five foot two. Emma stopped short, not wanting to interrupt—in fact, a little afraid to interrupt. Sam might have told her about the ongoing war between Zoe
and Jason Evans, Jake’s grumpy park ranger cousin, but she hadn’t properly conveyed the amount of tension the two of them gave off. The air was thick with it.

Jason scrubbed one hand lazily through his brown hair that was just long enough to show its loose curl. It would have added to his scruffy charm, if he’d been at all charming. “We don’t have a problem. You have a problem,” he said. “I’m just minding my own business. It’s not my fault you’re wound so tight that a little dirt makes your head explode.”

Zoe’s eyes flashed, the steely gray almost glowing. Emma wondered whether she really wanted to be a witness to whatever came next and took a step backward. Zoe’s hand immediately shot out, palm up, in her direction.

“No, don’t you go anywhere. I’ll be with you in just a second.” Her eyes never left Jason, but her tone was so commanding that even Emma knew better than to try to leave. Instead, she watched uneasily as Zoe took two steps toward the man glowering down at her. The contrast between the two couldn’t have been starker. Jason was in ancient jeans and a battered jacket, neither of which disguised the fact that the man was built well, and the scruff that covered his jaw did little to soften the handsome angles of his face. He looked like a surly woodsman . . . which he basically was. Zoe, meanwhile, could have stepped out of a magazine. She wore riding boots and leggings, a long shirt covered by a light cardigan, and a loose scarf draped around her neck. Her hair, with caramel highlights woven into the tight curls that fell past her shoulders, was pulled partially back to expose a heart-shaped face that was strikingly lovely even though it was wearing an expression almost as surly as Jason’s. Her chin was up—never a good sign.

“I’m putting my foot down. You bring a field in here on your boots again, you get to sweep it up.”

He snorted. “And my incentive to do that would be . . .”

“The ability to continue purchasing things in this establishment.”

Jason looked unimpressed. “You’d rather have a clean floor than my money, huh?”

“It’s not just your money. It’s your charming company I’d be without. And yes, I prefer my clean floor. Believe it or not, I like to have a life beyond vacuuming.”

They stared at each other for long seconds, and Emma had to give Zoe credit. Jason was intimidating—on purpose, no doubt—but she didn’t even blink. Finally, Jason’s voice rumbled into the tense silence.

“You don’t even have a decent mat to scrape my boots off on.”

Zoe’s eyebrow arched, but her voice stayed cool. “All right. I’ll tell you what. Just for you, I will personally put out a better mat. And if you don’t use it, that mat is going where the sun don’t shine.”

Jason stared a few moments longer, then gave a soft grunt. Emma could swear she saw his lips twitch, though he didn’t smile. “Deal,” he finally said.

“Shake on it,” said Zoe, her tone indicating this wasn’t optional. She put out her slim, well-manicured hand. Jason’s hand swallowed hers up, gave it a quick shake . . . and then lingered before he pulled away. The tension in the air, Emma thought as she watched them wonderingly, had just shifted to something a lot more interesting. She didn’t have time to gawk long, though, because Jason clomped past her.

“How’s it going, Henry?”

He didn’t seem to require an answer, since he kept on walking right out the door. Emma turned her head to watch him go, then returned her attention to Zoe, whose
mocha cheeks were stained a deep pink. She stared at the door Jason had just stomped through, then shook her head as if to clear it and blew out a breath.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I swear these arguments have gotten to be like a weekly appointment. He probably has me penciled in on his calendar.”

“He just might,” Emma replied. She hesitated, then said, “Have you ever thought that maybe—”

“No,” Zoe said, tipping her chin down to glare at her. “I get enough of that from your sister. Don’t make me boot your butt out of here, too.” Then her lips curved into a smile, banishing any impression of toughness. “So what brings you in, party girl? Sam said you’ve been in hiding.”

“Not hiding,” Emma said, joining Zoe when she moved to sit in one of a pair of carved wooden chairs, the handiwork of one of the local artists she worked with. “I’m just keeping myself busy.”

“Busy doing things other than appearing in public.”

“Exactly.” Emma smiled. “So far so good.”

“I wondered if you were undercover in your hoodie.” Zoe crossed one leg over the other, tipped her head back, and sighed. “It has been a
long
day. And as usual, I’m going to go home and find out Idris Elba hasn’t shown up yet.”

“Maybe he lost your address,” Emma said, slumping back in the chair. “I feel your pain. I’m looking at takeout, more work on my proposal for the Hardings, and my cat.”

“The babe-a-licious Boof.” Zoe chuckled. “I’m not big on cats, but he’s different. He’s like a big furry throw pillow.”

“He moves. Sometimes.”

“Pictures or it didn’t happen.” Zoe looked at her, curiosity evident in her storm-colored eyes. “So what
brings you in? You don’t usually pop in for visits. Not that I’m complaining.”

“I just needed to get out,” Emma said. “I’m a little sick of my own company. Brynn offered to close up, so I guess I was making her as crazy as I was making myself.” She screwed up her lips and studied her newish sneakers, and made the sort of admission she wouldn’t normally make. But this was Zoe, and it had been a long week. “I can be kind of a pain in the ass.”

Zoe snorted. “That makes two of us. I understand the affliction. I like things done a certain way. So do you. It makes me like you, even though we should probably never live together.”

“There would be blood over furniture arrangements,” Emma agreed. When Zoe continued to look expectantly at her, she relented. “I don’t know. I had a phone call.”

“From . . . ?”

“A guy I gave my number to last Saturday, apparently.”

Zoe’s brows drew together. “You mean like a threatening phone call?”

“Oh no, nothing like that! Just a quick ‘Hi, how you doing’ followed by an invitation to the movies this weekend.”

Zoe’s relief was written all over her face. “That’s good, at least. Are you going to—”

“No! God no.” Emma felt a chill race over her skin just thinking about the potential disasters that might invite. “I barely remember what he looked like. Not to mention, I wasn’t exactly myself at the time. I feel like he’s asking out an entirely different person. Not, you know . . .” She swept a hand down her ravishing outfit. “Me.”