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  “This doesn’t look like my regular grilled cheese,” Polly said, looking at the sandwich, then me, then the sandwich again.

  “No, ma’am,” I replied from my side of the counter. I picked up half of my sandwich, and a string of ooey gooey fontina followed.

  Fontina, layered with mozzarella and English cheddar, topped with thin slices of Granny Smith apple, and the barest hint of fresh sage. The bread? Thickly sliced caraway rye, buttered on both sides and blackened with grill marks. I took a huge bite, rolling my eyes up to the heavens as I enjoyed the fuck out of my sandwich.

  “What’s that sticking out of the side?” Polly asked.

  “Apple.”

  “On a grilled cheese?”

  “Oh yeah.” I nodded through a mouthful.

  “My dad always says you’re not supposed to talk with your mouth full.”

  I shot right back, “My mom always says to eat what’s put in front of you.”

  She thought about that a moment, head tilting to the side in the spitting image of her father. “My dad says that too,” she agreed, and picked up her sandwich. She sniffed it, wrinkled her nose, then took a tentative bite.

  I noticed that Leo wasn’t breathing. I noticed this because I was also not breathing. Which is why when Polly’s face lit up with a huge grin, her bangs were ruffled in the breeze as we tandem exhaled.

  Rather than make a big deal out of it, I just picked up my sandwich triangle, clinked it with Leo’s, and the three of us ate lunch together. But every time he caught my eye, his eyes were smiling. By the end of the meal, I’d learned that Polly loved the color blue, she wanted to be a horse trainer or a meatologist (aka someone who did the weather on TV) when she grew up, and that the Roxie Special was her new favorite sandwich. It was “lots more grown-up than the sandwich Daddy makes. His favorite cheese is string. Mine was spray can but not anymore!”

  Oh for God’s sake, this kid was making me a little funny around the edges. By the time the sandwiches were just crusts, Maxine offered to let Polly pick out the next few songs on the jukebox, and Leo and I were left alone.

  “So that went well,” he said, reaching across the counter and stealing the last pickle from my plate.

  “Yep, grilled cheese is my specialty,” I said.

  “Not just the grilled cheese; I meant—”

  “Oh, I know what you meant,” I interrupted, feeling a little funny around the edges now for a different reason. “You just happened to be in town, and just happened to come in here for lunch.”

  He dropped that slow grin on me, and I wobbled slightly. “Hey, we had to eat, right?”

  Rolling my eyes, I nodded yes, they had to eat.

  “You going to Chad and Logan’s housewarming Saturday night?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Of course.” I started clearing the plates, bending down to put them in the plastic tub under the counter.

  He leaned across the counter a little. “Want to go together?”

  I popped back up. “Wow—bringing his daughter around, inviting me to parties . . . look who’s making things official all of a sudden?” I gave him a toss of hair over my shoulders to soften my words slightly, but no matter, the words landed.

  “Hell, yes, a housewarming party makes it official,” he said lightly, pretending to toss his own hair over his shoulder. He’d peeped my game, and wasn’t having it. “It’s a party, Rox. I’m just asking you to go to a party; it’s not till death do us part.”

  Have you ever been in a room filled with ambient noise, and you know can have a private conversation that no one can possibly overhear, because of all the background chatter? But then suddenly—usually during the juiciest part—all the side noise falls away, and everyone hears what you’re saying?

  Now imagine that in a small-town diner, when there’s a break in the jukebox playlist exactly as Leo Maxwell, the town’s most eligible bachelor, says till death do us part to Roxie Callahan, runaway daughter and least eligible bachelorette?

  Maxine and her cohorts had a banner day at the condiment station. A banner day.

  Chapter 20

  That week went from weird to weirder. I stayed super busy at the diner, was baking cakes after we closed for the orders that were pouring in, and was starting to realize that even with the artisanal bakeries, the mom-and-pop joints, and the local locavore diet, people were flat-out clamoring for cakes made the way their grandma used to make them. I was knee deep in red velvet, up to my eyes in bourbon cream, and more often than not, went to bed at night with coconut in my hair.

  What I wasn’t going to bed with was a certain farmer whom I’d become used to having at my disposal whenever the need (which was always) arose (which on him was always). But when you add a kid to the mix, especially one as precocious as Polly, it became less summer lovin’ and more summer talkin’. And textin’. And oh my goodness, could Leo sext.

  It wasn’t like I’d seen him every night before Polly popped onto the scene. But more often than not, sometime around six I’d get a call asking if I’d eaten (code for “can I come over and will you feed me your delicious food”), or a text around ten asking what I was up to (code for “can I come over and will you feed me your delicious puss”—strike that, I’m keeping that code under wraps). And eventually, after the rocking and the rolling, he’d fall asleep and I’d fall asleep, tucked into his side or enveloped entirely, as he liked to do.

  He didn’t spoon. He ladled.

  And I liked it. No, what’s more than like? I adored it. And what’s more than adored? That four-letter word that I was loath to use, but it was the only way to truly capture the way I felt about Leo. About sleeping with Leo, I mean. After years and years of insomnia, I was finally sleeping through the night, wrapped up in a cocoon of Almanzonian Awesome.

  But now adjustments had to be made.

  Because now, the calls and texts were to check in and chat about the day, and always ended with, “As soon as her nanny is back in town, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll be over to fuck you and tuck you in.”

  But no actual fucking or tucking was happening. Consequently, no sleeping was happening—I was back to averaging three hours a night. Which I’d done for years and years, but I’d loved having more. And I was missing the ladle.

  I saw Leo a few times that week, around town, for his regular delivery, and for what was becoming a daily lunch trip for grilled cheese. But alone time with him? Not so much.

  I was adjusting to the idea that Leo had a kid. I mean, kids happen, right? What I was having more trouble with was adjusting to how I was adjusting to the idea. As the night of the Polly reveal . . . revealed, we had moved into some kind of in-between territory with no map.

  I’d rallied when he’d brought Polly to the diner the next day, and rallied pretty well, based on her reaction to the sandwich, now proudly her favorite. But still, there was something about it that I couldn’t put my finger on. An uneasiness, almost like the feeling you get five seconds before a lump forms in your throat.

  You’re pre-lump? Jesus Christ, is that the best you can do?

  And speaking of the best I can do . . .

  It was Saturday night, and I twirled in the mirror upstairs in my bedroom. I’d brought only one nice dress back with me this summer, and I finally had a chance to wear it. A deep bloodred linen shift, it was softened by a sprinkling of pale pink flowers here and there. V-neck and sleeveless, it was cool but quite elegant. Eschewing my usual twin braids or top bun, tonight I left my hair down and curly. I’d tamed it with a bit of coconut oil, and it shone a burnished copper. And though I’d applied sunscreen liberally every day, my skin was a rosy bronze, my nose and cheeks freckled.

  But more than that? I looked relaxed and happy. The worry lines that had begun to appear between my eyes and across my forehead had smoothed out this summer, making me look young and fresh. Leo was like Botox.

  I slipped into my lacy gold high-heeled sandals, then hurried downstairs to put the finishing touches on my house
warming gift. Tiny crème brûlée cupcakes, soaked in orange-scented brandy and covered with a crackly sugared crust, they were bites of heaven. I’d made some for the guests and a separate container for Chad and Logan to enjoy after everyone had departed. Cupcakes at midnight—not a bad way to ring in a new house.

  I was just placing the last few in the container when I heard a car pull up outside. It didn’t sound like Leo’s Jeep, so I looked out the open door and saw a big black Mercedes in the dusty driveway.

  It took me a moment to realize that it was Leo. With his vintage tees and his rusty Jeep, he flew under the radar so well that it was easy to forget that he was rich. And the guy, the man, getting out of the car was more than I was expecting too.

  Clad in a white button-down, black blazer, runway worthy jeans, and some kind of adult shiny shoes, he was stunning. And . . . oh!

  He’d shaved.

  Hiding under that hipster beard? Cheekbones cut by Da Vinci. A jaw chiseled by Michelangelo. His green eyes were set in the most handsome face I’d ever seen. His sandy blond hair was swept back, tousled, but under new management. Pomade? Wax? It was perfection.

  His gaze swept across me hungrily, taking in the dress, the heels, the legs. I knew how much he liked my legs. As he approached the porch, I could feel my skin pebble everywhere his gaze touched.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said as he stopped below me, one foot resting on the bottom step.

  “You’re . . . what’s better than beautiful?” I asked, going down one step, bringing me closer to him.

  “Luminous? Radiant? Sexy beyond rational thought?” He stepped up once more, bringing me within pouncing distance.

  I nodded. “You’re all those things.”

  Before I could take that last step and pounce, he pulled me down to him, suspended in midair, crushing me into his chest and kissing me breathless. After five days of sexy texts and a lonely bed, this man had me in his arms, with one hand creeping up my thigh, and my heart nearly beat out of my chest.

  When he finally let me catch my breath and I opened my dizzy, dreamy eyes, he nudged my nose with his. Dropping one more sweet kiss on my mouth, he set me back on my feet and winked.

  “Let’s go warm that house.”

  With his hand resting on my knee, his pinkie traced circles over my skin as we drove through town. Tiny, imperceptible circles that were firing me up so much that I nearly vaulted over the center console and sat on his. . . lap.

  “If you don’t stop that, sir, you’re going to have to pull the car over,” I warned, setting my hand on his to stop the motion.

  “I fail to see the problem with that.” He carried on, ignoring my request.

  Smiling back, I volleyed the one threat that I knew would get his attention. Leaning over, I brushed against his arm and whispered into his ear, “The faster we get there, the faster we get back home and I get to try out your clean, close shave.”

  He suffered through a full-body shudder. “You’re not playing fair, Roxie.”

  No, I wasn’t. But he wasn’t either, picking me up and looking like the Wolf of Wall Street.

  “What can I say? It’s been a long and lonely week,” I admitted, giving him a quick kiss while we were stopped at a red light.

  He lifted my hand and kissed it gently, smiling and making my heart do a thundering flutter. “I missed you too.”

  Bomb dropped, he stepped on the gas as the light turned green.

  Meanwhile, I was a bundle of holy shit. Breathe in. Breathe out. He missed me. He missed me!

  Summer lovin’, holy fucking shit . . .

  Tonight felt like there was a lot riding on it. I wasn’t nervous, per se. More like confused, excited, and a little apprehensive—this was an official coming out of sorts. He’d been much more open, more touchy-feely, more all-out-grab when others were around lately. A brush across my cheek here, a pinch and a tickle there, drawing every eye to us.

  I wondered if it would be more of the same tonight. Judging by the cinema-worthy kiss he delivered . . . I would wager that would be a yes.

  As the car crunched over the gravel driveway, I barely felt a bump—a testament to the amazing craftsmanship of the Mercedes. Lines of cars were already here, and the driveway was lit up with solar lights that led the way to their newly painted bright red door.

  When I came here for the painting party, Leo and I weren’t a thing. Now we were, and were announcing it to the town. Shit, wait, what were we announcing? Were we a thing?

  Leo pushed a button to shut off the car. This was some serious techno stuff—no key, just a button.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, turning toward me. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, he twirled the end between his fingers.

  “As I’ll ever be,” I answered. I moved in and gave him, one, two, three pecks on the lips.

  He groaned when I finally pulled away, his lips chasing me halfway back across the console. “If I don’t get out of the car now, I’m taking you into the backseat, and I don’t care who witnesses it.”

  I looked at the number of people milling about the driveway. It appeared that most of the town would be getting quite a show. “Later. I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Satisfied, he adjusted himself and hopped out of the car, then circled around the front to open my door. He held out his hand and helped me out, his eyes never leaving mine.

  They said so much, held so many filthy promises, that I was tempted to toss him onto the front of the car and mount him like a hood ornament.

  “You’re here!” Chad shouted, coming down the stairs with two mason jars in his hands. Beautiful, fitting, and charming, they held some sort of punch with raspberries, mint, and ice floating around.

  “We’re here!” I answered, as full of enthusiasm as he was. I welcomed the interruption, before we were tempted to put on an X-rated movie of Old MacDonald Had an Orgasm. A movie that, based on how good Leo was looking tonight, I’d be proud to star in.

  Chad led us into the house, taking my hand as we walked through the front door. But no one was looking at his hand. No, ma’am. They were all looking at the hand that Leo had placed firmly and succinctly in the small of my back, announcing our relationship more publicly than if we’d arrived with his tongue down my throat.

  Eyes widened, hands covered open mouths, and elbows jabbed to alert others. And I’m fairly certain that those who couldn’t attend were alerted via Facebook and Twitter, since people were snapping pictures of the happy couple.

  The happy couple being us. Or at least one of us.

  Don’t get me wrong, it was great, feeling so wanted. And Leo had no problem letting me feel just how much he wanted me. He came up behind me while Archie Bryant, fifth-generation son of the Bryant Mountain House, was telling me how much he’d enjoyed the coconut cream cake one of his chefs had purchased the other day from the diner, and he wondered if there might be an opportunity for us to work together.

  An opportunity to work with the Bryant Mountain House? The place was legendary, iconic!

  I nonchalantly told him yes, I’d be interested in talking about it, trying to keep from squealing. It was also hard to keep from squealing as Archie was incredibly cute. Wavy auburn hair, dancing blue eyes, and a quick smile made him easy to squeal over.

  But beyond the squealing, I also had to keep from swooning, as Leo was behind me, announcing his presence with a very specific and very hard part of him pressing into my backside.

  Fighting a blush, I thanked Archie for his interest and promised to go see him sometime.

  Leo was good at this. I’d go left, and he was right next to me with the hand brand on my back. I’d go right and, you guessed it, he fell right into step with me. And no one was the wiser that he was rocking a silo in his pants while he was shaking hands and laughing at jokes.

  This all should have annoyed me. I waited for the prickly sensation at my neck or between my shoulders when he’d run a finger down my spine . . . but it didn’t come. Only a deep desire to hav
e him naked and underneath me at the earliest possible moment. And yeah, there was a part of me that liked being claimed so publicly too.

  Feeling hot, almost feverish, I finally separated from Mr. Happy Hands to visit the ladies’ room, which was designated by chalkboard saying No Dicks Allowed. Cooling the back of my neck with a wet towel, I looked at myself in the mirror. Flushed and wild-eyed—oh, Lord, I had it bad.

  And when I exited the bathroom, I stepped right into my own John Hughes movie.

  There stood Leo, leaning against the wall across from me, one leg bent at the knee. His head was down, and he did a slow, knee-bucklingly sexy look up to see me. Then he kicked off from the wall and walked—no, stalked toward me like the sexiest predator you’ve ever seen.

  He pinned me to the wall. To the wall! His body covered all of mine, his hips positively owning me. Just around the corner, the rest of the party was just a canapé away from finding us up against a wall and out of our minds. But with this much Leo pressed against me, it stayed on the edge of my mind. Lost in a fog of hormones and pure carnal need, I focused on Leo’s lips running up my neck as he whispered the filthiest promises I’d ever heard. Lick. Suck. Bite. Lift. Spin. Turn. Spank. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  A glass dropping startled us both and we turned our heads at the sound, the tinkling of glass followed by a muffled giggle. It was enough to snap us out of it, and we peeled ourselves off the wall and headed back to the party, where everyone seemed to know exactly what we’d been doing.

  “I need a drink. You need a drink?” I asked, flustered. I needed a moment without the intoxicating Mr. Maxwell so close and under my skin. And very nearly under my dress.

  He licked his lips, grinned at me, and headed into the fray to get our drinks, smiling and chatting like a pro.

  Then I heard a voice that had haunted my high school days.

  “Well, well, look whose back in town and turning all the heads.” Krissy Jacobson—Class President, Prom Queen, and Most Likely to Succeed at Being a Bitch for the Rest of Her Life—clicked over to me. Behind her trailed her faithful four lemmings. How many years since high school, and they still followed her like baby ducks?