This was exactly why he needed to keep his hands off her.
She was way too good for him.
“When I dropped lunch off for George last week and you were at the lumber yard,” she said, “I stayed and talked with him awhile. He said he used to play piano in a choir?”
Trace felt a little shift deep in his chest. One that only this woman could create. He nodded, trying to realign all his thoughts and feelings into the appropriate places, but nothing wanted to fit where it should. “That’s where he and my mom met.”
“I figured it might be worth a try.”
Trace folded the papers and pushed them into his back pocket. “Thanks. I’ll read it tonight.”
Now he felt awkward and lecherous, so he reached for another cupcake. And got another hand slap. And laughed as he headed for the door.
Equilibrium restored.
When he took one last glance back on his way out, he found her gaze on his ass instead of the cupcakes she should be frosting.
Forget the adorable foot-stomp. Ditch the delicious cupcake. Her eyes on his body—that was undeniably the high point of his day.
TWO
Avery Hart had one goal in life: to create pastries that were better than sex.
But not just any sex. Avery aimed to make her sweets as satisfying as the wicked, sheet-fisting, back-arching, throat-closing, religion-altering kind of sex she’d heard about in conversations among fellow army wives at their monthly Sisters’ Sanity Night, back when she’d been an army wife.
Her gaze blurred over the smooth, thick ivory ribbons of icing swirling around the beater in her KitchenAid’s stainless steel bowl. She forced her mind off her recent divorce and onto her bright future. Free. She was free to do whatever she wanted, the way she wanted, because she wanted. No more pining over a silent phone or an empty e-mail in-box. No more heartbreak over another postponed homecoming. No more crushed expectations.
Only she didn’t feel free. In the last two days, Trace had progressed to working on the café’s cabinetry, and she’d been relegated once again to the tiny kitchen in her aunt’s home. She was staying with Phoebe until Trace finished the apartment above the café, but she tried not to bake here unless absolutely necessary. And as if the space weren’t cramped enough, Avery’s sister Delaney and her boyfriend, Ethan, had decided to spend their evening here, dominating the doll-size kitchen table and discussing Ethan’s most recent brew.
Covered in confectioners’ sugar and royal icing, and struggling to work around the lack of equipment and space, Avery still felt a lot like the ex-wife who’d been kicked out of her house, pushed away by her “friends,” and disowned by the army she’d so loyally loved for so long.
Now back home in Wildwood and facing old friends and acquaintances for the first time in eight years, she felt like the impulsive girl who’d run away at seventeen and ended up failing at love and life. She felt burdened and stressed and worried. And, yes, she also felt incredibly fortunate and infinitely grateful. On her good days, she even managed cautious optimism—quite a feat considering the risks she faced.
But “free”? No. She didn’t feel free.
If she did, she would have more self-confidence. The self-confidence to go after what she wanted personally. Then she’d be rolling in Trace Hutton’s sugar and slathered in his icing. Maybe then she’d feel free.
Memories of his tease at the café two days before made her smile. Wrestling in icing with Trace? In a heartbeat—if he were ever serio
us. But he was just a player, flirting. And that was okay. It gave Avery practice.
“Popcorn?” Delaney’s question pulled Avery’s gaze across the small kitchen to where her sister sat on Ethan Hayes’s lap.
“No,” he said, contemplative.
It seemed there was something amiss with Ethan’s beer. It was the one he planned to use in his starting lineup for Wildcard Brews, the brewpub he was opening in town with his grandfather and Delaney. Ethan and Delaney had been curled up together on that kitchen chair for half an hour, trying to figure out what didn’t taste quite right, while Avery baked stock for the shelves of her space at Wildly Artisan.
Ethan lifted his glass to peer at the amber liquid through the light. “Try some, Avery. Tell us what you think. You’ve got the best taste buds in the family.”
“Only for items containing sugar and butter.” Or Trace. “Sorry.”
“It’s really nice.” Delaney took another sip. “Especially for this time of year.”
Ethan agreed. “But if I don’t know how it happened, I can’t re-create it. Is it caramel?”
“Close, but no,” Delaney said.
Avery lifted her brows and offered, “World’s best cinnamon roll?”