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“The Culinary Institute of America is an amazing school—one of the best. But it was here, and I wanted to be there.”

  “California specifically?” he asked.

  “Yes and no. I was intrigued by the West Coast because it was on the other side of the world, kind of. And I really liked being out there—liked the weather, the people, especially in Santa Barbara. But I think mostly it was because it was not here.”

  “But it’s so great here,” he said, looking puzzled. “It seems like the perfect place to grow up.”

  “Spoken like someone who’s actually gotten to live a little,” I said with a chuckle. “Where did you grow up?”

  “Manhattan, mostly. I was born there, went to school there through eighth grade, then I went away.”

  “To prep school?”

  He nodded ruefully, rolling his eyes a bit.

  “Let me guess, Andover?”

  “Exeter.”

  “Ooooo, you rowed one of those boats, didn’t you!”

  “You mean crew?”

  “Crew! Yes!”

  “I did,” he replied, his face reflecting confusion and delight at my obvious enjoyment. But before I had a chance to ask him about anything else, he swung the subject back to me. “So, was there a reason you wanted out of here so bad?”

  “Let’s just say my mother had a lot of boyfriends, and leave it at that.”

  He looked a bit horrified. “Wait, you mean— did they—”

  “No, nothing like you’re imagining! It was just . . . my mother believes in love at first sight.”

  “Well, that’s . . . romantic?”

  “It’s exhausting,” I said, holding my head in my hands and peeking at him through my fingers. “It meant every new guy was the one and only, her soul mate, her be all and end all. And if, in the middle of this new exciting romance, she forgot to pay the electric bill and the lights got shut off by the power company, true love would conquer all, right?”

  “True love versus electricity?”

  “Well, that only happened once. But there was always stuff like that. Missing a school play because Bob had a tractor pull, or no cupcakes to bring to school on my birthday because Chuck ate them all at midnight. But the worst was the break-ups. She met her Prince Charming over and over again, and when Prince Charming inevitably left, there was the aftermath. She’d be emotionally decimated. And yet, ready to go when the next guy in shiny armor showed up.”

  “Sounds like she’s what they call a—”

  “Crazy person?”

  “I was going to say hopeless romantic,” he said, arching an eyebrow at me. “So I take it that gene wasn’t passed down to you?”

  “Not so much,” I answered, shaking my head. “Love is messy, painful, and emotionally draining. It hardly seems worth it.” He was studying me carefully: time to lighten things up a bit. “But blah blah blah, boring boring boring. Let’s talk about crew some more, because now I’m imagining you on a boat without a shirt on, and hello, I’m enjoying that image!”

  He grinned. “You are, huh?”

  “Yeah, tell me all about your oar. What position did you play?” I asked eagerly, wanting to flesh out this fantasy with some real-life details.

  He laughed. “You know nothing about crew, do you?”

  “I know there’s a guy at the end that chants or something.”

  “The coxswain?”

  “Now you’re talking.” I sighed, playing at swooning. Emboldened by his chuckle, I hopped out of my chair and right onto his lap. He was surprised, but also seemed delighted. “Please keep saying more words like coxswain.”

  “You’re besmirching one of the oldest traditions in American prep schools, and I won’t have it,” he scolded as I wriggled a bit, prompting him to push back from the table a bit to give me more room. Which enabled his arms to wrap around my waist, his thumbs tracing little arcs on my skin.

  “Besmirch isn’t nearly as good as coxswain,” I teased. “Give me more pretty preppy words, like Izod or Perrier.”

  “What year do these preppies live in?” he asked, watching me with an amused grin as I played with the buttons on his shirt.

  “The Year of the Coxswain has a wonderful ring to it.” I leaned in and rubbed my cheek on his beard. “Did I mention how much I like this beard?”

  “You haven’t, but thanks. I was thinking of shaving it off, though.”

  “Don’t do that yet, there’s something I want to try first.” I let my hands come up to his beard, roughing it up a bit with my fingertips.

  “What might that be?” he asked, scooting the chair back a bit more. I took the opportunity to rise up a bit, throwing one leg over to straddle him.

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up.

  He held my face in his hands. “Look at you blush. I wonder what you’re thinking about,” he teased, happy.

  “Shush,” I said, laughing. I rocked forward a bit, tipping my hips and arching my back, and his face went from amused to instantly focused. “Why aren’t we kissing yet?”

  “Hell if I know,” he replied, then kissed me strong. He kissed me hot. And when his tongue teased, my lips parted—hell, my thighs parted . . . more . . . And he kissed me wet.

  And he kissed me . . . slow. Agonizingly, maddeningly, painfully slow.

  I loved kissing. I also loved what it usually led to, but I was especially loving this part with Leo. The beginning, when everything is new and exciting, and everything in the entire world boils down to sweet feathering lips and quiet sighs. When the stars fade and the earth ceases to turn, its axis forgotten in the wake of things like: which way will you lean and which way will my neck naturally turn, and is it possible that I can actually detect your fingerprints, because my skin seems so alive right now and my nose just brushed yours and the tiny groan that just rumbled from deep in your chest is the most erotic sound imaginable, and gee your hair smells terrific.

  I kissed him and he kissed me, and in that country kitchen we kissed for a thousand years. Or at least fifteen solid minutes. That’s a long time for just kissing . . . or not nearly enough. No above-the-shirt or below-the-buckle action, no thrusting or grinding. Just kissing. My hands stayed on his shoulders. And a little bit in his hair. His hands stayed on my waist. And a little bit on my bum. Except for that glorious moment when they came up to cup my face in his hands, tracing his thumbs over my cheekbones and turning my face so that he could tickle my neck with his lips.

  Slow and lazy, unhurried and some kind of wonderful, his tongue dipped against mine again and again, and I could feel little prickles and tingles all along my spine. And by little prickles and tingles I mean Katy Perry–sized fireworks, my body waking up under his hands and wanting more, needing more. If his mouth alone could do this, what might happen when other parts were involved? I felt lust tug low in my belly, pooling in my blood, threatening to run wild across my body.

  I pulled back from him, my lips swollen, the area around my mouth tickled hot from his beard. My head tipped back a bit, seeming to float along, my body knowing what to do even if my mind didn’t quite understand exactly what I was feeling. The feeling underneath all the swimmy and silly and tipsy from the farmer, the feeling that something epic and unusual was happening. Leo followed me back, his lips tracing a path down my neck, licking and sucking and groaning as his hands now came up to carefully thumb open one button on my shirt, and then the next.

  He looked up at me, his eyes heavy and dark and thrilling. He raised an eyebrow, I nodded, and he began to peel the edges of my shirt back, revealing an edge of lace. And as he bent his head back to me, his lips barely brushing the tops of my breasts, I knew exactly where I was hoping this would go—and exactly the conversation I needed to have before it went there. Losing myself, and my fingers, in his hair, I murmured in a low voice, “Leo?”

  “Mmm?” he replied, his lips tickling my throat.

  “Remember what we were talking about earlier, about love at first sight, and relationships
and Prince Charming and all that?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, turning those blazing eyes up toward me. “Prince Charming, sure. Were you going to ask to see my sword or something?”

  I could feel his grin; it was wide enough to touch the tops of both my left and right breasts. I giggled in spite of myself, then tried to use my big girl voice. “You know I’m only here for the summer, right?”

  “I’m aware. Were you aware you had a freckle in between your—”

  “I’m aware,” I said, groaning, my skin buzzy and tight. “But, the summer—”

  “Yes, you’re here for the summer. And only the summer. You mention that a lot. Do you turn into a pumpkin in September or something?”

  I grinned, but then turned serious again. “I mention it a lot because I like things to be clear-cut and aboveboard, with no messy misunderstandings later on. So, you should know I don’t really get involved. Actually, I don’t at all get involved.”

  He stopped the kissing and the awesome, and lifted his face to look at me. Really look at me. He seemed to be studying me, trying to figure out what I was thinking, and what I wasn’t saying. And even though I’d had this conversation with men before, this time I felt a . . . curious sort of twinge. But before I could marinate on it, he nodded. Then he returned his lips to my collarbone, and I twinged no more. And as his mouth grew heated across my skin again, as I felt my hips begin to move against his, my phone rang from across the room.

  I groaned, leaning back against the table as he looked across the kitchen.

  “Do you need to get that?” he asked, his hands slipping back down to my waist and tugging me against him, holding me closer. Yes, closer!

  “No, I don’t think so,” I replied, sinking my hands into his hair. Thick and silky, it curled naturally over my fingertips. We played a silent waiting game as the phone rang three times before finally going to voice mail. And in that time, we breathed together, my chest rising in time with his.

  I bent over to kiss the top of his head, and he moaned. “You should do that again,” he murmured into my skin.

  “Do what?” I asked, repeating the motion.

  “That,” he answered, kissing the top of my breast. “It lets me see all the way down your shirt.”

  Laughing, I smacked his back, letting my nails dig in a little as I dragged my hands up toward his shoulders. In retaliation, he squeezed my waist a bit harder, his fingers digging in to a borderline tickle.

  And the phone rang again. Oh, for the love . . .

  I tried to reach my phone without leaving his lap, but couldn’t. I huffed as I lifted myself off Leo, taking two steps forward then one step back for one more kiss. He leaned in hungrily, and one kiss became eight. Eight became thirteen. My phone stopped ringing.

  Thirteen was on its way to a very magical twenty-seven when my phone rang for the third time. I literally had to pry my lips from his, using my thumb as a crowbar. “There better be something on fire,” I said, finally retrieving my phone. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Is this Roxie Callahan?” a man’s voice asked.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is the fire department.”

  Nothing was on fire. The local fire department also fielded calls from the alarm company, and the back door on the diner was open, bells going off like crazy. By the time I had my shoes on and was ready to go down there, they’d gotten hold of Carl, also on the call list, and he’d headed down to check it out. A sticky lock and a stiff breeze had worried it open, but the crisis was over. Leo volunteered to head over to the diner with me to follow up, but Carl assured me everything was okay, and I’d call a locksmith in the morning to make sure it didn’t happen again.

  We walked out toward his truck, his hand on the small of my back heavy and warm and . . . comforting? Hell, comfort felt a lot like horny, so I’d go with that.

  “Thanks for having me over tonight. I’d say the scallops were the best part, but I think it was—”

  “If you say the beets, I’ll—”

  “Obviously it was getting to peek down your shirt,” he said deadpan. “But the beets were pretty great.”

  “Just wait till I get to work on your zucchini,” I said with a wink.

  “You’re a little bit dangerous, aren’t you?” he asked, catching me into a loose embrace and gazing down at me. The moon was full and bright, making shadows across the lawn. And in the moonlight, he was the dangerous one.

  Instead of answering, I brought his head down to me and kissed him. Once more, with feeling.

  Chapter 11

  A few days later, Chad Bowman came waltzing into the empty diner just after the lunch shift.

  “What’s up, Teen Dream?” I asked as he swung himself onto one of the counter stools.

  “What’s up with you, Teen Dreaming of Me?” he replied, and I laughed.

  “You got me there—I think I had your schedule memorized sophomore year. I knew exactly what halls to be slinking down at exactly the right time to catch a glimpse of you,” I admitted, exaggerating a beating heart with my hand.

  “I did that too, sophomore year,” he said. “But I was hall slinking for Coach Whitmore.”

  “Oooh, that’s a good crush,” I replied, thinking of the varsity basketball coach who wore the tightest, whitest athletic shorts he could find. I wiped down the counter, noticing the time on his watch. “Yes! Closing time!” I fist pumped and headed for the front door. “High school crushes get special permission to stay, so you’re good while I’m cleaning up.”

  “It won’t take that long; I just came in for some cake. I heard a rumor that after a thousand years, this diner was serving something other than cherry pie?” He craned his neck to see into the dessert display. It was empty.

  “You heard right, but I’m totally sold out of everything except”— I hurried back into the kitchen—“this.” I held a plate with the last two pieces of southern caramel cake.

  “Oh my God, that’s gorgeous,” he whispered, and I had to agree. Impossibly tall, the cake towered at three layers high. Fluffy, puffy ivory layers of butter cake, slightly tangy with buttermilk and flecked with Madagascar vanilla. Hidden between the layers was a slowly boiled homemade caramel glaze, which I’d also poured over the top and dripped down over the sides, the top crisp and shiny sweet.

  “I was taking these home with me tonight, but I’d rather sit at the counter with my favorite high school crush and watch the fork go in and out of your mouth.”

  “I’d say that made me feel a little creeped out, but not until you give me that cake,” he said, eyes not leaving the plate.

  “Want some coffee to go with it?” I laughed, setting the plate down on the counter and grabbing two forks.

  “What’s coffee?” he asked, charmed like a snake.

  “Noted,” I said with a laugh, handing over a fork. I loved watching people enjoy my food. I needed coffee to go with my sweet treat, however. Before I’d finished pouring my cup, half of his cake was gone.

  “What do you call this?” he asked, his mouth full. I leaned over and wiped a crumb off his chin with my thumb, brought it to my lips, and licked it off. He looked sad that I’d stolen a crumb.

  “Triple Layer Southern Caramel Cake.”

  “Now it’s the Chad Bowman Special.”

  “Understood,” I answered, and dug into my own slice.

  When I’d baked these the night before, I had no idea they’d be such a hit. I’d made four cakes, and these two slices were all that was left. I’d started thinking about other cakes I could make, wondering how Italian Cream Layer Cake would go over. I was used to constantly testing recipes, changing and adapting them, and now I was stuck making the same spaghetti and meatballs recipe that had been on the menu since before I was born. I’d be bored out of my gourd if I didn’t try something new on the menu soon.

  I sighed as I tasted the caramel cake. This was an instance when an old recipe was still just as good as the day it was written down. The only thing I�
�d changed? I added buttermilk for a little extra tang, and used actual vanilla bean instead of just grocery store extract. Same recipe, slightly elevated. I sighed once more, tasting the sweetness of the caramel, the richness of the brown sugar.

  “This is good,” I admitted, and Chad nodded in agreement, his mouth full of cake. It was quiet, just the clinking of our forks as we finished our cake.

  “So, how are things going with the farmer?” Chad asked, after literally licking the plate clean. I’d done the same thing to the bowl when I made the frosting.

  “What farmer?” I asked innocently, taking our plates back to the kitchen so he didn’t see my blushing cheeks.

  “What farmer,” he said with a snort. “Aren’t you cute.”

  “Oh, that farmer,” I answered. “I assume he’s doing just fine.”

  “I heard a rumor he was seen driving away from your house a few nights ago. Care to comment?”

  I snapped my dish towel toward him. “Where are these rumors coming from? First the cake, now this.”

  “My husband likes to think of himself as a small-town newspaper reporter—very His Girl Friday.” He laughed, pretending to type furiously. “ ‘I’m gonna break this story wide open, see?’ ”

  “I’m the least interesting person to gossip about,” I said, wiping off the crumbs from our snack. Then I grabbed the last few sugar containers from the counter stations and began refilling them from the giant sack.

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all. Shy little Roxie Callahan comes home from La-La Land with her ladle in hand to rescue the family diner, and finds something other than a ladle to grab on to at night?” he said, still in his newspaper voice.

  “You are so twisted. Were you always this twisted?” I asked, handing him a container of salt and pointing him at the shakers.

  “Always. I just hid it under a football helmet back then,” he answered, going to work.

  “You sure were cute under that helmet. And without the helmet too.” I sighed, giving him my best eyelash batting.

  “True, all true. But enough deflecting—what’s up with the farmer?”