Sandra Steffen – A Bride Until Midnight / Something Unexpected: A Bride Until Midnight (страница 11)
“It was nice meeting both of you,” he said to Abby and Chelsea. “Take care of yourself, Madeline.” At last he spoke to the woman he couldn’t seem to stop looking at. “Summer. I guess I’ll see you at the inn.”
Summer swore the temperature lowered ten degrees the minute the men left the room. She heard three collective sighs from the other women on the bed. Pleased to discover that her hand was still steady, she took a sip of tea.
“Holy moly,” Madeline declared.
“What was that?” Abby whispered.
“That,” Chelsea declared, “was one amazing example of pure masculine appeal.”
“That,” Summer qualified, “was Kyle Merrick being supportive.”
Madeline was looking at Summer, one eyebrow raised. With a point of her finger, Summer said, “Don’t start.”
Madeline grinned knowingly. And Summer thought it was going to be a long week.
“He wants you,” Chelsea said matter-of-factly.
“Film at eleven,” Abby piped in.
Arguing that they were wrong would have been futile, and Summer had a feeling she needed to save her strength. For a few moments, she’d almost forgotten that Kyle was in a profession she mistrusted. For those few blessed minutes, he’d simply been someone who slept too soundly and lost track of time and made her lose track of it, too. He was someone who took a bouquet of lilacs to a kind old lady, someone who brought out yearnings Summer hadn’t expected to feel. It was too late to chide herself, for Chelsea was right.
He wanted her.
He hadn’t tried to hide it. She hadn’t expected that any more than she’d expected him to show up here tonight or arrive last night during that thunderstorm. But he had, and he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.
Being wanted by a man like him was heady. It was tempting, and normally Summer didn’t tempt easily. What she didn’t know was what she was going to do about it.
Kyle tossed the crime novel he’d been reading onto the bed. It landed facedown on the rumpled pillow beside him. Picking up the remote again, he aimed it at the small television on the nearby wall, adjusted his pillows and tried to get comfortable. He’d already caught the beginning of a comedian’s act, a portion of the race Braden had qualified for in Europe, and the end of a black and white war movie. He’d watched an infomercial selling kitchen knives, a lot of garbage, and a piece about the disappearing rain forests in South America.
He stayed away from the news.
Powering off the television, he sat up on the edge of the bed. By the light of a small lamp in the alcove that distinguished the bedroom from the living room, he padded quietly to the window. He stood in the shadows looking up at the sky. There, in the west, was Pleiades. According to an ancient Greek legend, the bright cluster of stars represented seven sisters who’d been openly pursued by a relentless hunter named Orion. Zeus, the ruler of the gods, took pity on the beautiful maidens and changed them into doves before setting them free into the heavens.
Those ancient stargazers sure knew how to tell a story. They must have spent a lot of time studying the night sky. Kyle wondered if they’d been insomniacs, too.
The inn settled around him. Somewhere a car downshifted. The air outside his window was still, the night so quiet he could hear the river flowing over the rocks in the distance. The dark windows of the neighboring houses reflected the crescent moon. Old post lamps lined the driveway and lit the inn’s front lawn. The only illumination in the backyard was a square patch of yellow stretching onto the grass close to the inn. He couldn’t see the origin of that light but he could tell from the angle that it was coming from the first floor.
He wasn’t the only one awake at this hour.
Summer swirled the pale wine in her glass. After enjoying a generous sip, she returned to the stove where she stirred hot cream into a bowl containing beaten egg yolks and sugar. Humming with the radio, she then poured the mixture into the saucepan, adjusted the flame and began to slowly stir.
She loved cooking at night, loved the rhythm, the aroma and the steam. The process of measuring and mixing, folding and stirring was soothing. It cleared her mind, which helped her contemplate solutions to problems.
Take Kyle Merrick for instance. He was an investigative reporter. Of all the legitimate professions in the world, his had the potential to be the most damaging to the new life she’d built. That made this attraction anything but safe.
No wonder she’d been genuinely
She’d fairly melted in his arms when he’d kissed her in this very kitchen. She couldn’t very well pretend indifference now without raising his suspicions. Besides, she wasn’t that good an actress.
As she stirred the mixture in the saucepan, it occurred to her that having Kyle under her roof might not be so terrible after all. She needed to set some boundaries, for sure, but having him in close proximity meant she could keep an eye on him.
She took another sip from her fluted glass and turned down the flame under the front burner. The stove was forty-five years old and was often cantankerous, but tonight it was cooperating beautifully. Her crème brulee would be a masterpiece. She stirred and hummed, and hummed and stirred, her mind on the sweet concoction and the little oasis of light she’d created in the otherwise dark inn.
She liked nearly everything about her life as an innkeeper. Keeping this place running smoothly and in the black brought her a sense of accomplishment she hadn’t known until she’d taken on the responsibility shortly after coming to Orchard Hill. She enjoyed serving breakfast and especially liked meeting new people and hearing all about their lives and dreams. She’d come to appreciate the steady progression and the one hundred and one tasks from check-in to checkout. She didn’t mind the daily punctiliousness of freshening rooms and shopping and seeing to her guests’ needs. The daylight hours belonged to them.
The night was hers.
Tonight the air was unseasonably warm. Thanks to the apple trees in the nearby orchards resplendent with blossoms, it was also wonderfully fragrant.
Turning off the flame beneath the thickened concoction, she sniffed the rising steam. With a moan, she closed her eyes.
When she opened them, she was no longer alone.
Kyle stood in the doorway where the light was faint, one hand on his hip and an easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Am I interrupting?”
Always with that lilting sensuality. Deciding there was no time like the present to implement the boundaries she needed to set, she gave him a friendly smile and said, “You’re welcome to come in, on one condition.” She scooped up a spoonful of the hot mixture and gently blew on it. “Try this.”
He sauntered to the stove wearing loafers, faded jeans and a T-shirt with wording in French. Bringing his nose close to her spoon, he took a trial whiff.
There was a certain level of trust involved as he touched his lips to the still warm dessert. It was his turn to moan.
She reached for another spoon and sampled some, too. “That’s not half-bad, is it?”
“Half-bad? Are you kidding? It’s magnificent.” Kyle moved slightly to make room for Summer as she went to the sink and washed her hands. She was wearing a white tank top and those knit pants that looked so damn good on women. Hers rode low on her hips and were held up by a string tied in a loose bow.
“Do you always cook when everyone else is sleeping?” he asked.
“It’s when I enjoy it the most, and when I have the most time for it. The first strawberries of the season are ripe,” she said as she dried her hands on a yellow towel. “I thought I’d spoon the crème brulee over them and offer a bowlful to my guests with breakfast which, by the way, is served every weekday between seven and nine.”
Her movements were fluid, her voice quiet, as if in reverence to the night. She must have seen him looking hungrily at the crème brulee, for she took a bowl from the cupboard, filled it, added a clean spoon and handed it to him.
The bottom of the dish was warm in his palm, the aroma wafting upwards so sweet smelling his mouth watered. He didn’t dig right in, though.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Aren’t you going to have any?”
It didn’t take her long to make up her mind. Soon they were leaning against opposite cupboards, ankles crossed, bowls in one hand, spoons in the other.
“So,” she said between bites, “are you going to see Harriet again?”
Kyle didn’t know whether to laugh or scoff. Everything about Summer Matthews was a contrast. The way she’d ladled her concoction into bowls and daintily ate it was refined. Her reference to his date bordered on brazen. Earlier she’d been sipping tea. Now her wine glass was empty. She was as regal as royalty, and yet she seemed to run this inn single-handedly. It couldn’t be easy to keep up with the repairs of a building this old—floors pitched, doors didn’t close, pipes rattled. And yet every item in the house had so obviously been