him in the eye. “I want a promise that you’re going to behave.”
“All right, I promise,” Sam grudgingly said.
“Good deal.” Mr. Graham let go of Sam’s shoulders and stepped back as he wiped the water from his face, though he’d probably have to change clothes, Jenna thought. His short-sleeved light blue polo shirt and jeans were soaked.
Sam skittered sideways, out of the man’s reach, but otherwise stayed put and kept his promise. For now. She knew better than anyone that Sam had a hard time staying out of trouble.
Relieved that the garden hose crisis had passed, Jenna stepped forward and extended her hand to Mr. Graham. “Belatedly, I’m Jenna Flaherty, owner of the Sweetheart Inn.”
He wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out, engulfing her hand in his large grip. “Yes, we talked last week. Nice to meet you. As I said before, I’m Curt Graham.”
“I recognize you,” she said, details coming together in her mind.
He cocked his head to the side. “Really?”
“Yes, you used to live in Moonlight Cove, right? I spent summers here at the Sweetheart with my grandmother and grandfather, Jean and Silas Marton.” Every teenage girl in town had been aware of the Graham brothers. Though she was a few years younger than Curt, she’d eventually been old enough to appreciate him when she’d seen him in town during the summer. Of course, she’d been much too shy and awkward to ever speak to him.
“I remember your grandparents,” Curt said, nodding slowly. “Your grandpa drove a big black Caddy, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did. He loved that car.” It had just about killed Jenna to have to sell it to a collector a year ago to pay for a new roof for the inn.
“They ran this place for years, didn’t they?”
She nodded. “They started it back in the sixties.” They’d put years of hard work and sweat into running the inn. Her chest clutched a bit. “My grandpa died three years ago, and I moved down here to help Grandma with the place.” A massive heart attack had killed Gramps instantly. Grams had never really been the same—losing her partner after so many idyllic years of marriage had devastated her.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How’s your grandma doing?”
“Not so well.” Jenna sighed shakily. “She has some pretty severe dementia, and I had to move her into a nursing home three months ago.” The horrific disease had robbed Grams of the ability to care for herself, and with the inn to run, Jenna had had no choice but to move her to a skilled-care facility.
“Oh, that’s rough,” Curt said, his eyes soft. “My grandpa died of complications from Alzheimer’s.”
“So you know how difficult it is.” Putting her grandma in a home had been the hardest thing Jenna had ever had to do. “But she’s happy there, and gets excellent care. I visit every Sunday.” Thankfully, due to Gramps’s careful investing, Grams had the money to pay for her care. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the head or the heart for maintaining the inn in the past few years, so that responsibility had fallen to Jenna when Grams had signed over the deed to the inn a little over a year ago.
“I’m sure you did the right thing.”
“Thanks.” Jenna wasn’t so sure, but she was trying to deal with all that had happened, and was determined to make a success of the Sweetheart.
Shifting gears, she moved her gaze to Sam, who stood nearby, fidgeting. She gave him a stern look. “Sam, is there something you need to do?”
Sam blinked, looked around, then glanced down at his wet T-shirt. “Change clothes?”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “How about you apologize to Mr. Graham?”
“Oh, yeah.” Sam hunched his shoulders and looked at the grass at Curt’s feet. “Sorry I got you wet.”
“You need to look him in the eye when you apologize,” she reminded Sam. She did her best to instill manners and respect in Sam.
He huffed but complied, looking up—way up—at Curt. “I’m sorry I got you wet.”
“Mr. Graham,” Jenna reminded.
“Who else would I be talking to?” Sam said.
Jenna held on to her patience with a thin thread. “No, you need to say, ‘I’m sorry I got you wet, Mr. Graham.’”
Sam rolled his eyes, then stopped himself and looked at Curt again, a smidgen of contrition shining through. “I’m sorry I got you wet, Mr. Graham.”
Curt smoothed his damp hair back. “Well, I was a boy your age once, so I know all about being wild.” He smiled at Sam. “And a little water never hurt anyone. But you need to listen to your mom when she talks to you, okay?”
Sam scrunched his face up. “She’s not my mom.”
Jenna stepped forward. “I take care of Sam after school.”
“Ah, I see,” Curt said.
“Why don’t we go inside, and you two can change and we can get you checked in, Mr. Graham.”
“Call me Curt.”
“Okay.” She gestured to the house. “If you guys want a snack, you can have a slice of— Oh, no! My pies!”
She took off at a run, went up the back stairs and flung open the screen door that led to the kitchen. The second she entered the house, a burning smell drifted her way.
She raced across the kitchen, noting that the oven timer had gone off while she was out on garden hose patrol. Praying she could salvage the desserts, she grabbed an oven mitt off the counter and yanked the oven open. Hot, acrid smoke wafted out.
With a muttered exclamation, she pulled out the rack. The trio of pies sat on the cookie sheet she’d baked them on, only they looked more like blackened lumps of dough than anything remotely edible. She should have known better than to leave the ancient oven unmonitored. The appliance was touchy about maintaining an even temperature, and until she could afford to replace it with a newer, more reliable model, she had to keep a close eye on everything she baked. And a new-model oven would come after a new porch, fresh exterior paint and a new furnace. The list was endless. The money was not.
Sighing, she set the cookie sheet on the stove. She regarded the ruined pastry, shaking her head. She’d followed Grams’s dog-eared recipe to a T, and had wanted these to be as sigh-worthy as Grams’s pies had always been. Instead, Jenna had ended up with ugly blobs of black dough that were far from the ideal she wanted to uphold.
Her grams’s pies always turned out bakery perfect.
She threw the mitt on the counter, then turned and saw Sam and Curt heading into the kitchen, Sam in the lead.
Curt’s eyes went to the pies. “Oh, wow.” He came over and stood next to her, gazing at the burned mess, his hands on his narrow hips. “Guess you didn’t catch them in time.”
“Nope,” she replied, trying to ignore how his damp hair was drying all wavy and touchable. “They’re ruined. Guess I have some more baking to do.”
He furrowed his brow. “They look fine to me. Nicely browned, in fact. That just adds flavor. I’d eat them, no problem.”
“You would?”
“Sure,” he said, shrugging. “Pie is pie.”
She liked his laissez-faire attitude, but too much was at stake for her to share his outlook. “While I appreciate your willingness to eat burned dough, these aren’t up to snuff.” She sighed.
He regarded her, his long-lashed brown eyes steady.
Her heartbeat skipped and she stepped back automatically.
“Hmm. I know what