Wild Kisses (Wildwood 2)

Then again, he didn’t exactly hang out with a normal cross section of the female population. He, admittedly, liked his women young, easy, energetic, knowledgeable, and ready to move on in the morning. Preferably sooner. In short: slutty. Which only made this semi-virginal fantasy playing in his head even more bizarre.

A headache throbbed at the center of his brain by the time he turned onto the drive of the bar-turned-café. With fatigue stinging his eyes, Trace didn’t notice the Jeep parked near the kitchen door on the far side of the building until he’d pulled to a stop and shut off his engine.

With his hand still on the keys in the ignition, his mind pinged from one thought to another, in no order, making no sense. “What the hell is she doing here now?”

She should be at Phoebe’s with her nose to a sketch pad, planning out Tiffany’s wedding cake. Or researching recipes for her opening lineup at the café.

“Dammit.” He’d come to get his mind off her, and now . . . “God, I hope she changed out of that dress.”

He sat back and stared at the café, illuminated in the exterior lighting and situated on a private corner of the property’s five acres. His eyes took in the smoky-green siding of the two-story, turn-of-the-century building, the crisp white trim around windows and doors, and the gingerbread at the roofline, but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

“Maybe I liked it. Maybe I wanted it to happen again.” If she’d developed a crush on him, he hadn’t noticed. She had probably been drunk. One glass of champagne was all it took with her.

But whatever was happening, he had to deal with it. He had to get it out from between them. He needed this job. He needed her recommendation. But even more, he missed her easy friendship. He wanted things to go back to the way they were before his restraint had slipped and he’d sucked icing off her fingers.

A shiver of lust traveled down his spine, and his mind veered toward other places on her sweet little body he’d like to lick . . . and suck . . . and bite . . .

“Stop, dumbass.”

Trace stood from the truck, took a deep breath of the cool fall night air, and let the driver’s door close quietly. Lights from the kitchen area glowed through the double front glass doors.

After Delaney had realized their father’s ramshackle bar was the perfect location for Avery’s bakery and café, she’d abandoned her plan to restore and sell the building as a bar. Instead, she’d used her experience as a historical renovation specialist to rede

sign the interior to accommodate Avery’s every need, setting her sister up to grow Wild Harts into any size café or bakery Avery wanted.

Looking through the doors now, past the dining counter and the open plastic drapes, into an open baking area beyond, Trace didn’t see Avery. What he did see was one colossal mess. Baking supplies littered the stainless steel countertops, mutilated fruit lay abandoned on the cutting block, bowls and measuring cups and utensils lay haphazardly on every surface or resting in dirty bowls.

“What the hell?”

Something was very wrong. Avery was an absolute perfectionist when it came to her profession. An utter clean freak in her kitchen—even if her kitchen was still only half-finished. Not only did Avery never cook like that, but she would never, ever, not in a million years, leave her kitchen like that.

His stomach knotted with apprehension. He jerked the door open, stepped in, and scanned the space, calling a worried, “Avery?”

“Go away.” The irritated return bark came from the other side of the eat-in counter.

Relief rolled through him first, instantly followed by confusion. Trace strode to the counter, squeezed between two barstools, and planted his palms on the shiny surface to lean over.

He found Avery sitting on the floor.

Sitting on the floor.

She’d thrown her hair up into a messy bun, and her back rested against the center island, facing the wall to Trace’s right. She was still wearing that sex kitten dress that sent Trace’s mind in a million inappropriate directions, and those sparkling heels that turned her legs into a curvy, toned, mouthwatering display of perfection. She had the leg closest to Trace bent at the knee, her sparkling heel planted firmly on the floor, causing her skirt to slide all the way to her hip. Her other leg was bent underneath the first and lying against the floor, half cross-legged.

One arm curved protectively around a pie pan with a baseball-size hole missing from the center of the pie; the other hand held a fork mounded with some kind of creamy, whipped-cream goodness. And a bottle of open red wine sat at her hip.

Trace couldn’t comprehend what he was seeing. “What in the hell are you doing?”

Avery’s heart was still racing from Trace’s sudden appearance. The disbelief in his voice only raked fingers across a chalkboard. To add to her irritation, shame ramped up her body temperature. Of all the people to catch her in this unholy state, sitting on the cement floor of her unfinished café in Delaney’s expensive dress eating a hole in the middle of a pie, Trace Hutton was the absolute worst.

Just perfect.

“Are you blind?” she bit out, embracing her complete loser status. “I’m eating pie. One I made from scratch for no one but me. So go away.”

She dropped the fork into the pan with a clank. She grabbed the bottle of wine and took a big swig, so she would be drinking when she heard Trace walk out. But he didn’t go anywhere. Avery set the wine down on the cement with a clank, hoping if she ignored him, he’d get the message.

Ah, but no. His footsteps came around the counter, and she took another drink of wine. She didn’t want it, but she knew she needed it. At the island, standing beside her, he checked out the disaster she’d left, which only made her cringe.

“Well,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “This is definitely an Avery I haven’t seen yet.”