“Have you already had breakfast?” he asked.
She thought about the slice of toast she’d eaten two hours ago while the bacon was frying and answered simply, “Yes.”
“A cup of coffee, then?” he asked.
Summer had hit the snooze button once, and then she’d hit the floor running. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, and, after only three hours last night, sleep deprivation was catching up with her. Caffeine sounded wonderful. In fact, she could have used a direct IV line of the stuff. She went to the sideboard and poured herself a piping hot cup.
It wasn’t unusual for her to have a cup of coffee with a guest. Her boarders all happened to be men this month, but that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes families stayed here. Throughout the year, groups of women came for girlfriends’ weekends of wine tasting and shopping and marathon chick flick rentals. Summer’s mainstay came from sales reps and other men and women employed by companies with projects too far away for a reasonable commute.
She sipped her coffee while Kyle dug into his breakfast. They talked about everyday things. He told her about a book he was reading, and she relayed a funny story from a former guest. Out of the blue, he asked her if she’d ever been married.
She looked him in the eye and with complete honesty said, “No, have you?”
He offered her a pancake before he drizzled the stack with syrup. She took it and daintily ate it with her fingers while he explained why he’d never married.
She was laughing by the time he summed it up. “Women are complicated.”
“And men aren’t?” she asked.
Cutting into his stack of pancakes, he said, “I’d be happy to explain the differences to you, but I have to warn you, it’s not a topic for sissies.”
Somehow she believed he was only half joking. In a like manner, she said, “I’m fairly certain I can handle it.”
He seemed to be enjoying the opportunity to share his expertise. The man obviously had a playful side to go with his voracious appetite. The pallor she’d glimpsed yesterday was less noticeable this morning. His eyes crinkled at the corners, as green and changeable as the weather. He hadn’t bothered to shave. The stubble on his jaw was a shade darker than his hair. The collar of his shirt was open at his throat, the green broadcloth a color and style that would fit in anywhere.
“Basically there are five classifications of men,” he began as he spread jelly on his toast. “The butt heads are by and large the worst. Normally I would refer to them as something more crass, but I’m going to try to do this delicately, so we’ll stick with butt heads. These are the guys who make promises they have no intention of keeping. They’re hard and heartless. These are the liars, stealers, cheaters, politicians, CEOs, anybody with no conscience. They give all men a bad name.”
She was listening, for she’d once known a few of those. Intimately.
“Next are the sorry-asses. Forgive me but there’s no delicate way to describe this category. They’re the drunks, the guys who mean well but are too lazy to bring home a paycheck, get their own beer or mow the lawn. You know, your basic losers.”
She couldn’t help smiling again.
“Third is the—let’s call the third category the dumbbells. If sorry-asses are your basic losers, dumbbells are your basic users. This is the guy who doesn’t have any money with him on Pizza Friday, who has to be shown repeatedly how to use the business system at work but can navigate every search engine for his personal use on company time. He’s more obnoxious than harmful.”
She made an agreeable sound, which earned her an appreciative masculine grin that went straight to her head.
“The last two categories are the smart alecks and the wise guys. At first glance you might think they’re one and the same. They’re both on the mouthy side, but smart alecks are irritating and wise guys are charming and entertaining.” He took a big bite of his pancakes and smiled smugly, as if his work here was done.
“You’ve certainly cleared that up,” she said over the rim of her coffee cup. “Tell me this. Why do women put up with any of you?”
Those green eyes of his spoke a full five seconds before he said, “Because some of us are irresistible.”
“You don’t say.”
They fell into a companionable silence. She finished the plain pancake and sipped her coffee, and he made a good-sized dent in his breakfast.
Thunder rumbled overhead. Kyle felt an answering vibration that was more like the pulsing beat of a distant drum than weather. It started deep inside, radiating outward. This was desire, the kind that burned slow and got hotter. There was only one way to appease it, and she was sitting across the table from him.
Summer’s dress was the color of pecans today. When was the last time he’d met a woman who wore a dress every day? He wasn’t referring to buttoned-up suits with pencil-thin skirts and stiletto heels with toes so pointy they could draw blood. Summer wasn’t out for blood. Was that why she drew him?
No. There was something far more elemental at work here.
Her dress was sleeveless, and the neckline covered all but the inside edges of her collarbones. It wasn’t formfitting or tight and had no business looking sexy. He wanted to push his plate away and reach for her, but burning off this hunger with her wasn’t going to be that simple.
Luckily Kyle was a patient man.
When his plate was empty, she came around to his side of the table and took it. Pausing at the kitchen door, she glanced back at him and said, “Which type are you?”
He wiped his mouth on his napkin and stood. “If you have to ask, I’m doing something wrong.” With that he sauntered out the front door.
In the kitchen, Summer turned on the hot water and squirted in dish soap. As suds expanded over the dishes in the bottom, she placed one finger over that little indentation at the base of her neck. Feeling the pulse fluttering there, she thought, a wise guy, definitely.
Since there were no parking spaces in front of Rose’s Flower Shoppe, Summer parked in front of Knight’s Bakery and Confectionary Shoppe a block away. The steady pitter-patter of raindrops on her umbrella muffled the click of her heels as she started toward Rose’s, but it didn’t dampen her mood. Betty Ryan smiled from the window of her daughter and son-in-law’s bakery when she saw Summer walking by. Looking up from the newspaper he was reading in his barber chair, Bud Barkley wiggled his fingers at Summer. She couldn’t help returning his classic wave.
She hurried past two clothing stores that had survived the ongoing feud between their owners and the recession. The big chains had drained the life out of the old drugstore on the corner. Now the building was home to Izzy’s Ice Cream Parlor. Summer loved that she knew the stories and the struggles of the courageous, tenacious people who called Orchard Hill home. Being accepted by them was an honor and a gift.
As if on cue, her phone jangled in her purse. Sliding it open, she began talking the moment she put it to her ear. “I’m on my way, Chelsea. How’s Madeline this morning?”
“She’s going stir-crazy and Riley’s hovering.” Chelsea’s voice in her ear was clear and concise. “I don’t know who I feel sorrier for. Let me know what Josie says about Madeline’s bouquet, okay? I know you can’t be away from the inn more than absolutely necessary, so somebody from Knight’s Bakery is bringing four samples of wedding cake to the inn later.”
Flowers. Check.
Wedding cake. Check.
There was something Summer was forgetting, but Chelsea was on a mission, and, when that happened, there was no stopping her. “Reverend Brown has agreed to go to Madeline’s house after services on Sunday to talk to her and Riley about the ceremony and vows. That’ll take us to the final five-day countdown. Can you believe