Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (15 page)

“You mean, you don’t want it bad enough.”

Gabe flushed. He wanted Jane. Imagined having her in just about every way a man could have a woman.

But she wasn’t a fucking hill to be taken. He respected her, the way she raised her son, ran her business, fed strays and the elderly. She had made something of herself, something solid and fine and permanent.

“I need more to offer her than a motel room.” More than good intentions and great sex.

“Is she asking for more?”

No
. And maybe that stung, a little. “She deserves more.”

Luke grunted. In agreement? “Two years ago, I would have told you there was no way I was ready for a daughter. When I got home, I’d never had a relationship with a woman that outlasted a deployment. I sure as hell didn’t have a clue how to be a daddy. But good things come on their own schedule, not some timetable you set up in your head. I had to accept that.” His grin flashed. “And then I had to talk
Kate into accepting me. It took time to earn her trust. Taylor’s, too.”

Easy for Luke to say.
No clue?
His mother was strong, his father was decent, and his family was frickin’ perfect. He’d grown up with their example.

Gabe looked down at his father’s big hands at the ends of his thick, scarred wrists and slowly uncurled his fists.

He’d grown up with an example, too. Luke had no idea what Gabe carried inside him. What he was capable of.

“Jane’s got no reason to trust me. Hell, I don’t trust myself.”

“You always did step on your own dick,” Luke said with rough affection. “You want to walk away, that’s your business. Just make sure you understand what you’re walking away from. And where you’re going.”

Gabe nodded without speaking.

He was done with running away. He had a chance to build something here if for once in his life he was careful and smart, if he considered the consequences before jumping into action.

But when he was with Jane, when he kissed her, he lost his head. He just . . .
wanted
. She looked up at him with those big gray eyes and that full, sensitive mouth, and he forgot everything else he was supposed to be doing and thought about doing her instead. Spread out on a counter. Up against the wall.

That kind of desire was dangerous. Like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He couldn’t afford that loss of control.

The best thing he could do for both of them was to keep his distance.

*   *   *

T
HE
SOUNDS
OF
Gabe working pierced Jane’s kitchen, the whine of the saw and the whir of a drill gradually replaced by the rasp of a compound knife.

By seven o’clock, she was a mass of nerves, anticipation swarming over her skin like mosquitoes on a hot summer night, making her jump. Itch.

She opened the bottle of wine to breathe. It was a good
Italian red, with nice undernotes of smoke and spicy rosemary to cut through the richness of the meat, but what if Gabe didn’t like wine? Most of the men she knew were beer drinkers. Travis used to drink a six-pack every night. More on the weekends.

She set the bottle on the stainless steel counter with a little clink. She was
not
thinking about her ex-husband tonight.

If Gabe wanted beer, she could offer him a beer. She wanted wine. In fact, she could use a glass right now. Or two. Because if she drank enough, she could probably find the courage to go through with what she was planning. Alcohol lowered inhibitions, didn’t it?
I was drunk
, she could tell herself in the morning.
I didn’t know what I was doing.

Except she did. After days (years?) of denying her feelings, she knew exactly what she wanted. And she’d made a plan to get it, too.

She eyed the wine again. Nope. If she started drinking now, she’d burn the steaks. Then they’d never get to dessert, and all her hopes and efforts would be wasted.

The oven timer buzzed. She pulled out the Gruyère potato casserole and reset the temperature to three hundred fifty degrees. The steaks, stuffed with oysters, were ready for the pan. She’d reduced the amount of garlic in the compound butter and replaced the sautéed tatsoi greens she’d originally planned to serve with crisp haricots verts. A manly, meat-and-potatoes meal with enough fancy touches that she’d put something of herself in every bite.

Nothing subtle about this menu.

Or about her intentions, either.

She sucked in her breath, picked up the tray loaded with plates and flatware, and pushed through the swinging door.

Gabe was cleaning his tools, scraping the wide blade of the drywall knife against the rim of the bucket. His hair was tied back in a stubby ponytail. A few shaggy strands escaped, softening his strong profile against the stark white of the newly plastered wall.

Perfect timing. She exhaled, trying to ignore the jumping
of her stomach. “It looks good.” Her voice sounded almost normal. “Are you all finished?”

“For tonight. It needs another coat.” He straightened (
So tall
. Her heart gave a little bump.) and wiped his hands on his thighs, leaving white streaks against the denim.

Outside, the rain ran down the double glass doors in streaks and spatters of light, casting a sparkling veil of privacy against the dusk.

Jane swallowed. In her fantasies, she said something witty and sophisticated now, something that would make her plotting unnecessary.

But faced with the solid reality of Gabe standing, waiting, watching her with dark, hooded eyes, she was struck dumb, dry-mouthed with nerves and desire. She gripped her tray tighter.

“Something smells good,” he said.

His voice released her from her unwelcome paralysis.

“Dinner.” The single word made her feel better. She might not remember her lines, but she could cook.

He looked down at the two place settings on her tray and then back at her face, his expression almost grim.
Not
the reaction she was going for.

She set down the tray and planted her hands on her hips. “You won’t let me pay you any other way. So you’ll eat my food and like it.”

His face relaxed, a smile starting deep in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am. Can I clean up first?”

Relief weakened her knees. “Is fifteen minutes enough?”

He nodded.

She beamed back at him and then whisked herself back into the kitchen before she could lose her confidence. Before he could change his mind.

What do you want?
Lauren’s words replayed in Jane’s head as the steaks sizzled in the hot iron skillet.
What’s the behavior that will get you what you want?

Of course, Lauren probably hadn’t been talking about seduction. Because that’s what this meal was—an invitation
to indulgence, a campaign against the senses. Jane might not be successful like Meg or smart like Lauren or confidently sexy like Cynthie.

But in her kitchen, she had power.

She slid the steaks into the oven to finish while she tossed the green beans in lemon butter. Grabbing the wine and two glasses, she returned to the dining room.

Gabe was standing by the table. He had washed his hands and arms and probably his face as well. Water slicked his shaggy hair, deepening its caramel color. His lashes were dark and spiky against his lean face as he studied the fat white pillar candle between the two place settings.

At her entrance, he looked up, his eyes intent. The wariness was back. “Worried the power will go out?”

Her cheeks heated. She stuck out her chin. “I like to be prepared.”

His gaze went to the wine in her hand. “So I see.” Was there a trace of amusement in his voice? “You want me to pour that?”

“Unless you want a beer.”

“No, this is fine. Good.” Their fingers brushed as he took the bottle. Her heart did a little jig in her chest. “You shouldn’t have gone to this much trouble.”

“I wanted to.”

Another long, assessing look while the rain drummed on the tin roof and her blood pounded in her ears. Okay, so he wasn’t falling on her like Lucky on a bone. But he hadn’t run away yet, either.

She held his gaze, everything zinging and tingling and trembling inside her. She could do this. She wanted to do this. She just needed to feed him first.

“Don’t go anywhere,” she said, and escaped back into the kitchen to check on the steaks.

The steaks were perfect, charred outside, pink inside, the melting compound butter mingling with the briny flavor of the oysters. The potatoes were creamy and fragrant, the edges crispy and golden.

Gabe ate a third of his steak and dug a sizable dent in the potatoes before coming up for air. “You cook like this every night?”

She gulped her wine. “Pretty much,” she lied.

“So what made you decide to be a baker?”

“I love baking.”

“Yeah, but this . . . this is amazing. You said you learned to cook because you wanted to make dinner. You could be a chef someplace.”

He actually listened when she talked. He remembered what she told him. A warm, golden glow settled inside her. Or maybe that was the wine.

She took another sip. “I don’t have the temperament to be a line cook.”

“What do you mean?”

“I worked for a little while at the Brunswick. Dinner shift in a restaurant kitchen . . . It’s chaos. Everybody’s yelling, rushing, trying to do three or five things at once. Cooks love that. They like working like crazy until midnight or two in the morning and then partying until four and then crashing and sleeping late and going into work to do it all again. They love the heat. The sweat.”

“The adrenaline rush.”

She blinked at him, surprised by his understanding. “Yes.”

“You get that on a mission,” he said. “It’s hard to come down from.”

“Do you miss it? Being a Marine.”

“I miss being part of something bigger than me.” His eyes were dark. “Having what I do matter. When I got out, I should have—” He broke off. “Water under the bridge.”

She reached across the table to touch his arm. “What you’re doing now, building things, that’s important, too.”

He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable or impatient with the turn of the conversation.

She tried again. “This addition is important to me.”

He raised his gaze from her hand on his arm to meet her
eyes. “Happy to help out. But let’s not kid ourselves, cupcake. Construction isn’t exactly life-or-death stuff.”

“Providing shelter? That’s satisfying a basic human need.”

His lips curved. “Like feeding people.”

She flushed and pulled her hand back, grabbing her wineglass. “I make cupcakes.”

“You make people happy,” he corrected softly. “I’ve been watching you boxing up birthday cakes, giving cookies to the kids, slipping extras to those old geezers in the corner.”

“A lot of the island seniors live on fixed incomes,” she explained.

“Whatever. You get off on helping people.”

“You make me sound unselfish. I’m not. I opened the bakery for me. Because it suits me.”

He watched her with flattering intensity. “Because of your son.”

“Because of Aidan and because . . .” She took a breath, her chest expanding, opening under his regard. His attention coaxed things from her, words, thoughts, feelings. “I like the quiet. In the morning, when I’m the only one here, and everything is under my control . . . I love that. I like knowing exactly what has to be done for things to turn out just right. I like the weighing and the measuring, the predictability of it all.” She broke off to take another sip of wine. “Well, you know.”

“Not really.”

She leaned across the table, resting her weight on her elbows. “But you need the same precision, don’t you? In building and in baking. ‘Measure twice, cut once,’ isn’t that what you say?”

“My Uncle Chuck said it all the time.” Gabe’s smile took a wry twist. “Especially when I screwed up.”

She grinned back at him, pleased to have found a point of common ground. “When you screw up on the line, you can usually adjust. Cooks can always tweak a recipe. It’s harder to recover from a mistake in baking. Well, unless you cover everything in fondant,” she added. “But the good thing
about baking is you can always start again. There’s no rush the way there is in a restaurant kitchen.”

“Isn’t that the problem? No rush,” he explained in response to her questioning look. “No risk. No fun.”

His gaze caught hers, snaring her like a fly in honey. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

“I have fun,” she protested. “Cooks dismiss bakers because we’re not ‘spontaneous.’” Her fingers made air quotes around the word. “But there’s an art to baking. You can take the same basic recipes, the same few ingredients—flour, sugar, butter, eggs—and transform them. It’s like magic.”

He leaned back and picked up his fork, releasing her. “If you say so.”

“I can do more than just say so.” She moistened her lips, dry-mouthed with longing, trembling with daring and indignation.
No risk? No fun?
She’d show him. She pushed back her chair. “I’ll prove it to you. Wait here.”