Summers' Love, A Cute and Funny Cinderella Love Story (LPC Romantic Comedy Series) (9 page)

He took a sip of wine. “It’s settled. Now stop talking. We’re about to miss the best part of the day.”

Indeed, that evening’s sunset was splendid. The western sky had turned black where thunder bumped and muttered. Below the bank of dark clouds a narrow band of orange glowed so bright it made the Pamlico Sound appear as if it were on fire. Kate rested the wine glass on her thigh, holding it by the stem. Slowly the nervousness she’d felt began to melt. Neither of them spoke for several minutes; only the sound of a creaking board beneath the rockers interrupted the silence. At last the sun winked off and dusk enveloped them in a dark cocoon. The first fat drops splatted onto the tin roof and the hiss of rain rushed toward them.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kate snuck a peek at her host. Maybe her brother was right; perhaps miracles can happen. Even to her.

Stu rose from his chair. With his hand extended toward her he said, “Time to put the soup on. Join me?”

How could she resist? He still hadn’t signed those books and until he did, she needed to keep him wrapped around her finger. “I’d love to.”

Taking his hand, she stood and walked with him into the kitchen.

Chapter Ten

While Kate buttered the rolls, Stu opened the large can of chowder. She still could not believe she was cooking dinner with Stu Summers. Especially not after how she’d reacted when the girls at her stun gun party had brought up his name.

She turned on the oven, slid the rolls in and smiled. “How do you want the peas prepared? Any seasoning?”

“There’s a spice rack in the pantry. Surprise me.”

She collected several containers and set them on the serving island. “How did the thing at the bookstore go? You didn’t look like you were having a lot of fun.”

She saw him grimace from across the room. “My editor phoned right before you walked up. It wasn’t a great conversation, which is why I reacted the way I did.”

“Didn’t he know you were in the middle of a book signing?”

“She. And yes, but editors can be that way.”

Kate uncapped a jar of pepper and poured pellets into a grinder. She dusted the peas and said, “Can I ask you something?”

He adjusted the stove temperature and placed the pot of chowder on the burner. “Sure.”

“What are we doing?”

He looked at her as if confused, then picked up a spoon and stirred the soup. “What do you mean?”

“You’re Stu Summers, a best-selling author. I’m just a random woman who wanted to buy your book.”

“Fourteen.”

She glanced toward the small table. “Right, fourteen. What I mean is, how did I end up in your kitchen?”

She handed him the pot of peas and, again, their fingers briefly touched. Once more Kate felt an electric shiver surge through her.

He remarked, “You drove here, remember?”

Kate blushed. Not because of the way she’d bungled her question but from the thrill she felt when they touched.
What is wrong with you? Get a grip.

“I’m serious,” she replied, trying to slow her heart rate. “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find out you’re dating some woman with six-inch stilettos and acrylic nails who wants to rip out my eyeballs and shove them down my throat.”

“Relax. I’m single and unattached, as advertised.”

His voice sounded warm and disarming, but the way he looked at her with those deep blue eyes made Kate wonder if he felt it—the electrical shock—too.

“But the girls in my … ” she paused, unsure if she should mention her stun gun party “… book club, they said you’re seen out all the time with actresses, and famous singers, and fashion models.”

“When I go out, and I go out a lot, it’s always for a specific purpose. My PR gal, she reads the tabloids and news sites and studies the trends to make sure I’m seen with the right people at the right time in the right place.”

“So would your PR agent approve of us? Like this?”

“I do not know.” His smile caught her off guard. “Maybe.”

He put the peas on the burner next to the chowder and pointed her toward the cabinet with the place settings. She cleared the table of her bags and purse. Kate couldn’t get over how easy he was to talk to. For a famous author he displayed none of the ego she’d expected—or accused him of when they’d first met. Thinking back now, she regretted her comment about the letter U and how the book signing was all about him. What a heartless thing to say.

“You can leave those books where they are,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “We’re going to eat on the side porch.”

Kate felt it again, a warm sensation shooting through her chest that left her momentarily dizzy. She pictured him trailing his finger across the top of her shoulder, following the neckline of her blouse: his palm gently cupping her cheek and turning her face toward his until their lips met.

“But you will need to wipe off the porch table.” His voice yanked her back to reality. “I’m sure it hasn’t been touched since the last renters were here. Placemats are in the drawer by your leg. I’ll get the bowls and plates.”

As she walked through the open French doors she could still feel the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, and it left her unsettled. She stepped into the sudden coolness of the night air. The thunderous rain had turned to a steady drizzle. Crickets joined a chorus of frogs, their night sounds echoing across the back lawn. Warped dock planks shimmered as the solar lights on pilings winked on. Far off, lightning flashed.

When the meal was ready, they served themselves from the stove. Stu carried two bowls onto the porch while she brought the basket of rolls. A final trip for the peas and wine and the table was set.

Almost.

Reaching over her shoulder he placed a candle in the center of the table and lit the wick; his face hovered close to hers. Kate felt his warm breath on her neck. The scent of his cologne lingered. She wanted to turn her face toward his, to see if he was feeling the same thing she was, but before she could, he eased around the table and took the seat across from her.

“What’s your position on grace?”

She studied him, unsure of the question.

“In my books,” he continued, “the characters usually say a blessing.”

“Oh, that. If you want to, that’s fine.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “How about if we each say one thing we’re thankful for. You first.”

“Okay, well then, I guess I would say I’m …” she smiled around her words, “ …thankful for a place to spend the night and to be in Ocracoke, again.”

“Again? This isn’t your first time on the island?”

“No, but it’s a long story. What about you? What are you thankful for?”

“I’m grateful for today’s sunset, the rain, a roof that doesn’t leak and the company of a new friend. Amen.”

He passed the basket of rolls across the table. “Okay, now I’m curious. What’s the story about you and Ocracoke?”

“I was in junior high the last time I was in the village so it was a while back. But from what little I saw driving in, not much has changed.”

“On vacation?”

“Something like that. I came with my father. We stayed on his boat.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I wouldn’t call it fun. But being with Dad made it special. How about you? Do you get down here much?”

“Hardly ever. That’s why I made the comment earlier about the cupboard being bare.” He tore a roll in half and dipped the edge in his soup. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long have you been divorced?”

The question stunned Kate. “Come again?”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.”

“What makes you think I’m divorced?”

“While you were in the bathroom, I had my research assistant do some digging. He came back with a brief but interesting bio on you. How’s the soup? Good I hope.”

She hadn’t touched it. Now, to give her nerves time to settle, she did. “Wow, this is really good.”

“A Summers’ Place house specialty,” he said. “Canned soup.”

“I can’t believe you checked up on me.”

“You’re the one who chased me down the sidewalk, remember?” He stirred his soup. “And followed me here. I had to make certain you weren’t crazy.”

Again, his smile left her unsettled.

She returned it with a grin. “Who says
you’re
not the crazy one?”

“Point taken. So how ‘bout it? You were married, but now you’re single which makes you … ”

Kate looked up from her soup. “What? Desperate? Damaged goods? Deranged?”

“I’m thinking …” He swirled his glass of wine. “… A rare find. Like a precious pearl discarded by a Māori diver.”

Kate nearly spewed her wine. “Oh, my goodness. Please don’t tell me that sort of pick-up line works with the models and actresses you date.”

He laughed easily. “Why, too over the top?”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Okay, if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand, but I am curious. From what I could find you were only married one day. How does someone do that?”

Kate worked on her soup and allowed herself time to think about her response. She wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss her previous marriage; certainly not with someone who made his living writing love stories. What was to say her story wouldn’t, one day, end up in one of his books?

She took a bite of peas, then dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “We got married straight out of high school. We were both attending the same college. He made it sound so idyllic. Like living in couple’s housing off campus made us more mature than the rest of the freshman class. As if we had it all together. Boy, did I ever misread that. On my wedding day everyone is going on and on about how beautiful I look and how happy we’re going to be. The perfect couple.”

“Let me guess. The two of you were quarterback and head cheerleader.”

“Second string tight end and majorette. After our wedding dinner and dance, while everyone else was having a good time, I looked around trying to figure out why my new husband wasn’t by my side. It was just me mingling with our guests in the middle of this huge banquet hall.” Kate placed her fork next to her plate and bowl. “Meanwhile my new husband and my maid of honor were in a coat closet.”

“Ouch.”

“He ended up giving her some skank disease. Serves her right.”

“But not you?”

For a moment she didn’t get what he meant. Then it hit her. “No, thank God. We never—that is, I was making him wait until … ” She felt her cheeks grow hot. “ I can’t believe I’m telling you this. Please promise me you won’t use this in your next novel.”

“You have my word.”

“I mean, it’s humiliating.”

“I bet. For him, I mean.”

She laughed softly. “Daddy saw to it that the whole thing was annulled. I returned the presents. What a headache
that
was. But you know, I had to. People were investing in our happiness, believing in us. It didn’t feel right keeping their gifts.” Including the Waterford, which she’d really,
really
liked. “This is good soup, by the way. I need to get the recipe.”

“Remind me and I’ll give you the label from the can.”

“I meant what you added
to
it,” she said with a chuckle. Kate took a sip of her wine. “Okay, your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“You weren’t always a best-selling author. What did you do before you hit it big? I heard Stephen King tossed his first manuscript in the trash and his wife had to fish it out. How many rejections did you get before you landed your first contract?”

“Oh, wow, talk about a long story. We better save that for another time.” He cut his eyes toward the lightning flashing across the marsh. “I should probably move my things to the boathouse before that next rain band moves through.”

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to stay here? I feel bad making you sleep outside.”

“I’ll be fine, really. Besides, there’s no place I’d rather be right now than in that boathouse knowing that you are safe and dry.” He drained the last of his wine and leaned across the table toward her. “And about that ex-husband of yours?”

“What about him?”

“He was an idiot.”

Chapter Eleven

"Hattie, you’re a genius.”

“Stu?”

Stu sat on a swayback cot with a musty pillow tucked behind his back. In the distance, thunder boomed; overhead, rain pelted the tin roof of the boathouse. Stu watched through a rain-streaked window as lightning splintered the black night.

With his Bluetooth cupped around his ear, he continued. “I’m sorry, Hattie, I should have asked if you are still up.”

“I was just about to turn off the light. Is something wrong?”

From the other end of the phone Stu heard the gravelly voice of his handyman ask his wife, “Who in the world is calling so late?”

“Stu,” Hattie answered.

“Who?”

“Stuart!”