I’d never wanted someone so badly before and I knew it wasn’t just the kiss that did it but the press of his dick (sizable by the way) against my stomach. The urge to pull him on top of me right there in the foyer had been almost undeniable.
I was more than a little breathless by the time I reached the bottom of the staircase, and I was relieved that the house was quiet. I was hungry and desperate for coffee, and while it was possible Noah was in the garden, I wasn’t going to risk a run-in with him by heading for the kitchen. I wasn’t sure I could hide the truth of what had happened between Beck and me (oh god, had BecktoldNoah about it?).
Instead I grabbed my bag off the coatrack by the door and stepped outside.
It was like stepping into a fairy tale. The sun shone from a cloudless sky and the blossoms in the flower beds along the porch basked in the warm light. Birds chirped from the trees around the house. A spring breeze caressed my bare arms and legs, and I sighed with happiness as I walked down the driveway. Spring was nice in the city but it wasn’t like this.
I hit the sidewalk, hooked a right, and headed toward Main Street.
Bastien wasn’t hosing down the sidewalk — probably too late in the morning — but another man sat on the porch, one elegant leg crossed over the other in neatly pressed trousers. His posture was impeccable, his black-and-silver hair swept back from his angular face.
Despite the warmth of the day he wore a patterned sweater vest over a button-down shirt, and his polished loafers gleamed even in the porch’s shadows.
That must be Gabriel, Bastien’s husband. He wasn’t at all what I’d expected after chatting with the earthy guy in jeans and work boots who’d been washing down the sidewalk the morning before.
I lifted a hand in greeting and he did the same. I was relieved that he didn’t call out. I hoped to meet him eventually but I really needed some coffee before I did any serious socializing.
I turned onto Main, then hesitated. I was committed to a caffeine hit but I wasn’t at all ready to face Beck at the bakery. I went the opposite direction — toward the lake — instead.
I lifted my gaze to the distant water as I walked, tracking the boats gliding along its surface: no motorboats today, just a handful of sailboats, their sails rising toward the clear blue sky like white towers in the distance.
I passed the Brass Key where a woman with long black hair and an array of dramatic scarves draped over her shoulders rearranged a tableau in the window. She was moving a dainty writing desk closer to a tapestry-upholstered armchair when she glanced up to meet my gaze.
She met my smile with a mysterious duck of her head, then turned away.
Ooookay then.
A few steps farther and I was opening the door to the Common Ground.
The tinkling of a bell on the door announced my arrival and two young women about my age looked up as I entered a large wood-paneled room, soft jazz playing from unseen speakers. Clear pendent lights cast a cozy glow over the baked goods in the glass case, and I recognized Beck’s lemon-lavender cookies bythe dusting of sparkling sugar on top, a tiny lavender flower at the center.
There were a few other pastries too: chocolate croissants and pistachio muffins studded with chunks of chocolate and mixed-berry turnovers. I recognized them all from the Golden Crumb, which meant we — and byweI meant Beck — were supplying the Common Ground with their pastries.
I filed the information away with everything I’d learned about Evelyn’s business the day before. Eventually I’d have to confront the sale of the bakery just like the house, but I was dangerously close to overwhelm, which seemed understandable considering all that had happened in the last two days.
I tried to stay grounded (no pun intended) in the moment, inhaling the scent of coffee greedily, like I might be able to get an energy boost from the smell alone.
I’d only taken two steps toward the counter when a flash of black fur careened around the corner from the back of the shop. The fur ball sped toward me like a runaway train, barking madly, then jumped on my legs with surprising force for such a small dog.
I stumbled back and tried to regain my balance as a small woman with curly red hair emerged from the back room on the dog’s heels.
“Mayor Biscuit!” She clapped like a kindergarten teacher trying to get her class’s attention. “You know better than to greet a new guest that way!”
The dog sat in front of me, playing innocent, and looked up at me, dark eyes pleading under bushy eyebrows that gave the dog an elderly, dignified air.
I lowered my hand for him to sniff. “Hi, Mayor Biscuit. I’m Avery.”
“Oh, you’reAvery!” the woman said, her eyes shining with something that seemed weirdly like anticipation. She was in herthirties, bright pink glasses resting on a pert nose. She wore a dark green apron over jeans and a graphic T-shirt with words and a logo I couldn’t read. “We’ve been waiting for you to get here!”
“You… have?” I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or creeped out by the thought that someone I didn’t know (multiple someones? who waswe?) had been waiting for me. And did she mean here at the Common Ground or in Blackwell Hollow?
She smiled like a one-woman welcome committee. “Totally! Mayor Biscuit!” The dog spun on his heels as she barked his name. He trotted after her as she headed for the counter, keeping up a narrative patter. “Although not at first. But that was Lyle’s fault. He said Evelyn had sold the house — and the bakery — to Hearthstone before she died. But I knew that wasn’t true. Evelyn would never have sold to Hearthstone.”
I approached the counter, my caffeine-deprived brain struggling to keep up. “Nope, she left them to me.”
“I knew she would.” The woman rolled her eyes. “Lyle’s wrong at least sixty percent of the time. I’m Rosie by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.”Tell her you want coffee!“Who’s Lyle?”