Hot Buttered Rum: Standalone Romance (Silk Stocking Inn Book 4) (5 page)

Chapter 9

Turner had given me a ride to the beach before heading back out to sea. He’d seemed disappointed to see me go and once I got back to the inn, I wished that I hadn’t insisted on returning so soon.

I hadn’t seen Coco upon my return. I’d gone straight up to shower. A few moments of the terrifying canoe expedition tried to creep back and put a shadow over an otherwise amazing afternoon. I pushed back the memories and concentrated on Turner.

I smoothed the velvety liquid soap over my skin, happy to wash away the smell of the salty sea but not as keen to wash away the lingering scent of the man. My hands pressed against my pussy, and I thought back to Turner’s mouth and hands on me. He seemed to know my body as if he existed purely for my pleasure. But I knew too well that his skills came from a great deal of practice, and that notion tugged at my heart.

A heavy feeling pressed against my chest, and I let the soap drop as the warm water washed over me. Silly Ginger, I told myself. I thought I could allow myself this wild weekend with a complete stranger. Then I’d just drive back to town with only the fond memories. But Turner just wasn’t the type of man you could drive away from without giving him another thought. It had only been twenty minutes since I watched his fishing boat sputter out of the cove, and I already missed seeing him. I actually had no idea if and when he’d be back.

I stepped out of the shower and dried off. It was still a few hours before dusk, but my stomach growled with hunger. I wrapped myself in the robe, and naturally, my mind went right back to Turner and the night before when I’d dropped the same robe for him.

“Stop, Ginger. Since when do you obsess about a man? This isn’t you. Talking to yourself isn’t you either.” I clamped my mouth shut.

Maybe this weekend wasn’t such a good idea after all. That notion was quickly put to rest when I stepped out of the bathroom and was met with a delicious tray of snacks and hot coffee. An adorable emerald green dress was hanging on the back of the door with a note pinned to it. I walked over and unpinned it. “Hope you’re enjoying your stay and since the canoe came in on its own, I’m going to assume you had a wonderful high seas adventure this afternoon.” Just reading the note covered my cheeks in a blush. If I didn’t know any better I’d think that Coco knew I’d been with Turner. But how on earth would she know that? Unless he’d returned.

My heart raced as I quickly pulled on the dress. Coco, the five star hostess, had even left a brand new pair of silk panties and sandals to go with the dress. I glanced in the mirror on my way out. The color and style were perfect for me. The woman was truly magical.

My stomach protested loudly. I walked to the tray of goodies and picked up a cranberry scone. It was sitting on a white linen napkin with the words Silk Stocking Inn embroidered in pink across the top. As hungry as I was, I was too nervous to eat the whole scone. I took a few delicious bites. I picked up the napkin and rubbed my fingers over stitching on the back. I turned it over expecting again to see Silk Stocking Inn. Instead, someone had taken the time to hand stitch a phrase. I blinked in surprise at the words as I rubbed my finger over the pink thread.

“Every story needs a happy ending,” I read aloud. 

I was no longer the writer. I was part of the story, and Coco seemed to be the author. And I was standing alone in my room while my hunky hero was downstairs. I used the napkin to wipe the crumbs from the front of my dress.

On my short journey to the door, I reminded myself not to act like a star-struck teenager when I saw Turner. I made myself stop and take a deep breath. “You are a professional, an award winning automotive engineer, Ginger. Don’t forget that.” Then I reverted straight back to a gushing teenager and raced down the stairs like a girl running down to her first date.

I reached the landing and glanced around. I couldn’t find Coco anywhere. My nose directed me down the hallway to the kitchen. Aside from a wonderful aroma seeping out of the oven, there was no sign of the cook.

As I turned to leave, I caught a glimpse of a pink note tucked underneath a rolling pin. My name was written on the note.

I picked it up and recognized Coco’s swirly, fancy script.

The oven timer is on for the pot pies. The apple cobblers are in the refrigerator. Just heat and don’t forget the ice cream. It’s in the freezer. I left a bottle of wine in the dining room. I’ll be back late tonight.

Enjoy,

Coco

I walked to the oven and saw myself, in my perfect fitting dress, in the reflection. All dressed up to eat dinner completely alone in the dining room of an inn, which, at the moment, was as quiet as a morgue.

I headed into the dining room, figuring I’d make fast friends with the bottle of wine. Maybe it would appreciate how amazing I looked in my new dress.

My earlier erratic heartbeat had slowed to a dull thud. I’d rushed down like a silly love smitten girl, hoping to run into Turner, but it seemed that had been wishful thinking. He was, no doubt, out on his boat, or docked in some faraway marina, or, I thought glumly, at home with his beautiful girlfriend. After all, I knew nothing about the man other than that he was incredible to look at. He owned a rather rusty fishing boat named
Pickled Pepper
. He had a flirtatious parrot. His spectacular teeth were the result of growing up in a family of dentists. And, now that I’d thrown all caution and reason to the wind, I knew that he was nothing short of masterful between the sheets. Other than that, I knew nothing. I didn’t even know if I’d ever see him again. That possibility darkened my mood.

The dining room had been furnished with a beautiful Victorian era table and chairs. The wallpaper and colors were all a perfect representation of an era long gone but still admired. I loved reading and writing about the nineteenth century. The old house, with its creaky bones and whispered secrets of the past, made the whole stay worth it. Even if I’d stupidly allowed myself to fall for a tall dark stranger during my short stay. It was all so out of character for me to make such a rash decision. But then the entire weekend had been so extraordinary and hard to explain, I decided I could forgive myself and blame it on the good food and romantic ambience of the inn. The fact that Turner was a hard man to resist was another worthy excuse. Even the most steadfast and rational woman would have a hard time saying no to him. At least that was my final rationale, and I was sticking with it.

After a long struggle and a string of cuss words, I finally managed to get the cork out of the wine bottle. I pulled out the ornately carved chair and sat down. I filled the glass and leaned back to sip my wine. Not only was I dressed for fun, but I was going to be good and tipsy along with it. It seemed a darn shame that I was going to be completely alone.

I drank my wine and stared out the dining room window. It had a nice view of the cove. The sun was setting. It seemed once again, angry, brooding clouds were rolling into the otherwise peaceful setting. They were still a good distance off shore, but the trees and bushes surrounding the inn had started to sway back and forth with an on shore breeze.

As I gazed outside, a flash of pink caught my eye. I stood and walked to the window. I took another sip of wine as my eyes surveyed the yard. Just like the picture on the website, plump pink roses bloomed like tufts of cotton candy on the vines clinging to the facade and the porch.

“Impossible,” I muttered aloud and then took another big gulp, deciding it was called for. I looked again. I hadn’t been imagining the roses. The day before, when I’d arrived at the inn and stomped up the porch steps ready to give the owner a piece of my mind, the vines had looked as if they’d been dead for years, just the skeletal remains of century old rose vines. How did I miss the big pink blooms?

I drained the glass and returned to the table and the bottle. There was so much to ponder and wonder about that I had to push it out of my head or risk a tension headache. I wasn’t in the mood for a headache.

I glanced down at the green dress. The material shimmered like emeralds beneath the warm lights of the dining room chandelier. “What a waste of a pretty dress and a good wine buzz,” I lamented. My voice echoing through the cavernous room was the only thing to answer me back.

The timer on the oven rang. I got up with some renewed enthusiasm for the evening. All was not lost. At least there was lobster pot pie and apple cobbler. Thank goodness for tasty food and its innate ability to fill in any of the holes left behind by life’s little disappointments.

On my way back to the kitchen, I tried hard to imagine what Turner might be up to on a Saturday night. A man like him surely wouldn’t just sit alone on his boat drinking beer. Then the image of a beautiful girl sitting cozily under a blanket with him at the stern of his boat dropped into my head. I shook it like an Etch-a-sketch to erase the image. Even if he was out with a beautiful woman, I certainly didn’t need to envision it.

The aroma coming from the oven was nothing short of heavenly. I plucked the oven mitts off the hook by the stove and opened the oven door. Hot air blasted my face. Once the initial shock of heat had dissipated, I could once again open my eyes. There were two individual pot pies, complete with golden brown crusts and buttery liquid bubbling through the knife holes on top. It seemed strange that Coco would have made herself a pie before leaving for the night.

I reached in and cupped one pie in the mitts. I carried it to the kitchen island and returned for the second one.

I turned around just as the kitchen door opened. It seemed as if Coco would be joining me for dinner after all. I lowered the hot pie onto the counter. “As usual, your timing is perfect.”

“Thanks,” a deep voice said from behind.

I spun around and had to work hard not to show how ridiculously thrilled I was to see Turner. He had cleaned up from his day at sea. His long, dark hair was still wet. He’d brushed it back behind his ears so that his gray metal plugs glittered under the kitchen lights. With the dark hair, suntanned skin, heavy black stubble on his chin and the crisp black t-shirt pulled tight over his muscular shoulders, he looked every bit the dangerous rogue. Especially standing in the center of Coco’s white marble and stainless steel kitchen.

“If I didn’t already know you, I think I might have swooned with fright at the sight of you.”

He walked around to my side of the counter. “Do I really look that scary?”

“No,” I said too loudly for the amount of space between us, “not scary. Maybe just a touch menacing.”

He stepped closer. I could smell the soap on his skin. “Menacing? Since you do know me, in fact, I’d say we’re way past ‘know’, maybe you like that idea. A touch of menace, I mean.” He reached for my hand and held it up. Then he twirled me around as if we were on a polished dance floor. “Just so you know, that dress works on you.”

I felt my cheeks warm and could do nothing to stop the blush. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d blushed this often.

He pulled me and I fell against him. Turner stared down at me with dark blue eyes. “That dress has got my mind reeling about just what kind of panties you’ve got on underneath.”

I smiled up at him, my body already reacting to just being in his arms. “How do you know there are any panties at all?”

“Fuck, woman, what are you trying to do, make me take you right here on the kitchen island?”

I laughed. “Too bad you don’t know of a real island, preferably a deserted one. Then I might even be inclined to tell you exactly what I’m wearing under this dress.”

“I don’t have that kind of patience.” He reached down and pushed his hand under my dress. His finger hooked around the band on my panties. He pulled it back, and I chirped in surprise as he let it snap back against me.

“Disappointed that I’m wearing panties?” I marveled at how quickly I’d fallen into heavy sexual flirting. It was like Turner had found some invisible switch that only he knew how to turn on.

“Nope. In fact I’m looking damn forward to taking them off.”

“I might let you.” I motioned with my head toward the pot pies. “Should we eat first?”

“We can try. Not completely sure how far we’ll get though.”

I walked to the cupboard for two plates. Knowing full well that Turner was watching me, I made sure to lift my hands up extra high. The flirty hem of the dress slid up my thighs as I took hold of the plates. I turned around and met his hungry gaze.

He was still staring down at my legs. “Yep, that dress works on you just fine.”

I put a pot pie on each plate, and we carried our food out to the dining room. “There’s wine too.”

“What? No barrel of rum?”

“That reminds me? Where’s your winged friend?” I laughed. “I guess you really could call him your wingman.”

Turner put down his plate and pulled out a chair for me.

“Wingman, hell. He’s much better at stealing the hearts than I am. I left him on the boat. I didn’t need him trying to horn in, or should I say beak in, on my date.”

“So this is a date?” I poured myself another glass of wine and filled a second glass too.

“Good food, a beautiful woman and that dress? I’d categorize it as a date.” He picked up his glass and clinked it against mine. “And a damn fine one too. Especially considering what I have planned for dessert.”

I took a sip of wine. “How did you know about the apple cobbler?” I teased.

“Apple cobbler? Well, hell, why didn’t you say so? Forget the dress and the panties.”

I couldn’t hold back a smile as I took my first bite of lobster pot pie. The buttery, flaky crust melted in my mouth. “Hmm, I’m having a food orgasm, and I’m only at the crust. Coco is nothing short of magical.”

“You noticed that too?” he asked before filling his mouth with food.

We enjoyed a few moments of silent eating, both of us lost in the incredible taste of the food.

I followed a bite with another sip of wine and decided to find out a little something about Turner. It was all a little after the fact, considering the amorous afternoon we’d spent on his boat, but I was curious to know more about the man who had somehow turned me into a shameless flirt. Before I could get out my first question, he proved to be just as curious about me.

“Coco mentioned that you are an engineer.” He swirled the remainder of wine in his glass before shooting it back.

“I am. I work with a team designing cars.”

“Very cool. I don’t think I’ve ever been with a woman engineer before.”

“You don’t think? I guess it’s safe to assume you’ve been with
so
many women, you can’t keep the catalog straight in your head.” I tried to use an airy tone while teasing him, but the truth was, I was pretty miffed and frankly, a little, jealous. I quickly chided myself for being so silly. Jealousy wasn’t in my nature. Or at least it hadn’t been until I met Turner.