Honey Pie

Book 4: Cupcake Club

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Southern; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Mocha chocolate chip...caramel fudge...strawberry lemonade...butter rum... There's no such thing as guilt when it's another delicious bitch and bake session with the women of the Cupcake Club.... When Honey D'Amouvell inherits property on tiny Sugarberry Island, she's prepared to start a whole new life. Her plan is simple - make a home, open a shop, and maybe, finally, find a place to belong. But the building she now owns is leased to none other than the owner of Babycakes, which means her spot is already occupied. Honey isn't sure how to put down roots when she has nowhere to plant them. Yet sexy, softhearted mechanic Dylan Ross seems determined to help. He's everything she never imagined she would find in a man, and each kiss is more persuasive than the last. Will Dylan convince her that what she craves most is his love?

Release date: June 24, 2013

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 368

Sample

Never underestimate the power of cupcakes. Or the women who bake them.

Honey D’Amourvell pondered that truth as she sat on the wooden bench behind Ross & Sons auto repair, trying to get comfortable. She’d long since passed any hope of civilized perspiration and had moved straight into actual sweating, so comfort of any kind was a stretch. She curled her fingers around the plastic water bottle and debated the merits of simply yanking her blouse open and rolling the cold bottle directly over her chest. Could anyone blame her? How did people live in heat like this? Much less feel like baking cupcakes? And yet, it didn’t seem to be affecting the cupcake ladies in the least.

She watched the action across the narrow back alley, as the happy baker bunch piled out of their cars and trooped through the service entrance into Cakes by the Cup, the local Sugarberry Island cupcakery. They were smiling, laughing, and boisterously chatting with each other as they carted in all manner of baking supplies and tools of the cupcake trade.

Honey knew from her stroll around the small town square earlier that the shop had closed to the public a half hour ago, so she wasn’t sure what, exactly, they were up to, but she doubted it was baking cupcakes for the next day’s trade. According to the sign in the front window of the shop, the owner prided herself on offering only freshly baked cupcakes. A bit of quick research on Honey’s phone had revealed the owner of the cupcakery to be Leilani Dunne. Wife to television star, Chef Hot Cakes himself, Baxter Dunne. Honey had even discovered a whole website devoted to their newest enterprise, Babycakes—a mail order and catering adjunct to the main bakery, located right next door.

Her gaze shifted to the narrow, whitewashed building that shared a common wall with the cupcake shop and she instinctively pressed the cold water bottle to the front of her blouse. It was a vain attempt to soothe the heat . . . and the twinge in her heart. It didn’t do much for either.

She’d already noted that a covered walkway had been erected between the rear doors of both shops. She supposed she should be thankful. The covered walkway likely meant they hadn’t busted through the common wall.

So, there was that.

Her gaze drifted upward to the two sets of windows on the second floor above the shop, and she pressed the water bottle harder as the twinge became a clutch. Oh, Aunt Beavis . . . what did you do?

Whatever her aunt had done, or had not done, it was going to take more than a few random internet searches to figure out how things had gone so horribly wrong.

I should go on over there right now, Honey thought. Just head on in, introduce myself, explain who I am, and why I’m here.

Yeah . . . that wasn’t such a great idea. Not right this second, anyway.

She was going to have to cross paths with the cupcake crew at some point, given the surprising set of circumstances she’d discovered upon her arrival on the island. But, whenever that meeting happened, it wasn’t likely to leave them wanting to welcome her with cheerful cupcakes and party sprinkles. So why rush things? She’d only been on Sugarberry for forty-five minutes, and already she had more immediate concerns. Like getting her car back up and running.

But they all looked friendly enough, and were certainly a joyful, peppy group. Maybe they were on a giddy sugar buzz high and wouldn’t hold against her personally the news she had to share. It wasn’t like it was her fault. Someone on Sugarberry, or at the law offices in Savannah, had clearly screwed up. Big time.

On the other hand, Honey had been on the wrong side of pack mentality types her entire life. She knew better than most not to take on a pack leader, especially when said leader was on her own turf, surrounded by her dedicated and loyal packettes. Don’t let the cheerful cupcakes fool you!

Honey plucked uselessly at the front of her damp blouse. During their frequent phone chats, her dearly departed aunt had often mentioned the lovely island breeze and how moderate the temperatures were all year round. Since Sugarberry Island was off the coast of Georgia, Honey had expected the summers would be on the warm side. But Bea hadn’t mentioned it turned into a veritable steam bath as early as April.

Not for the first time since packing up her entire life and hitting the road, Honey wondered if she should have stayed in Oregon. It had been silly, not to mention completely irrational, to think things would be different on the island, no matter how many times Bea had insisted they would be.

Honey missed her aunt terribly and would forever regret not getting to spend more time with her, face-to-face. Bea was the only other person on the planet who’d understood. The only person Honey had been able to relax with and completely let down her guard. Be herself. Along with all the lovely eccentricities that entailed.

Eccentricities. Honey smiled faintly, hearing her mother’s voice echoing in her mind, as that was the term she and Honey’s father had taken to using for their only daughter’s odd little “differences.”

Of course, growing up in the Pacific Northwest, being different should have meant she’d fit right in. After all, her own parents—God rest their unconditionally loving souls—hadn’t exactly been mainstream. Her father had grown up on a commune in northern California and become an herb farmer and wood carver, while her mother was a rug weaver who spun her own wool, straight from her own personal little herd of llamas. Her parents’ circle of friends had been equally . . . interesting. If anything, growing up, Honey had always felt like the normal one.

As it turned out, there was a limit on just how different one was allowed to be. And if she’d failed that litmus test in Juniper Hollow, Oregon, why on earth would she expect anywhere else to be more welcoming? Even though Bea had sworn she’d found just that place on Sugarberry.

Of course, Bea had always considered those same eccentricities to be a gift, rather than the curse Honey felt they were. But Honey was working on gaining a new perspective, or trying to, anyway. She was on the island, wasn’t she?

“And yet, the joke? Is still on me.” She finished her second bottle of water, staring at the building across the alley. “That’s a stunner.”

Honey was still there an hour and a half later, working on water bottle number four and starting to feel like a camel, when the same women exited Cakes by the Cup, boxed up goodies tucked under their arms. The rich scents of freshly baked cake, warm, buttery, and delicious, followed them into the little lot behind the shop, then wafted through the thick air, making her stomach grumble in appreciation.

She watched them pile into their cars, continuing to toss comments back and forth, still laughing and chatting, until they finally pulled out of the tiny lot in their various vehicles and drove off, leaving only the scent of buttery, sugary goodness in their wake. None of them had noticed her, sitting across the way. Maybe they were used to customers hanging out behind the repair shop, waiting for their cars to be ready. Or maybe she was as invisible as she’d been in Oregon.

She pushed up her prescription glasses—again—and scratched at the mosquito bite on her neck. She couldn’t imagine ever getting used to such humidity. Or the bugs. The sun dipping behind the row of shops had only seemed to increase that particular carnivorous hoard. And, again, it had to be said . . . it was only April.

At the moment, she was praying her poor old Volkswagen Beetle would be ready soon so she could stop thinking about the happy, peppy cupcake bakers and start figuring out how she was going to inform the Queen Bee of Cake about her inheritance.

Honey decided she was okay with not being noticed, thankful for it, in fact. She’d had no real idea how she’d planned on introducing herself to her new community, but was well aware how crucial first impressions could be. She’d figured she’d settle in, get the lay of the land, start with plotting and planning out her new enterprise, then see where that might lead. Gradually integrate herself. Given her personal demons, it would be best to take folks on a few at a time, rather than en masse. At least until she felt comfortable, after such a long time spent . . . well, hiding.

Confronting the owner of what appeared to be a very popular island establishment with news that was definitely not going to go over well wasn’t exactly the best way to kick things off.

For a very long time, Honey had convinced herself that being a social pariah was a blessing. If she didn’t deal with folks, then folks didn’t have to deal with her and her “eccentricities.”

But as life marched onward for everyone else, while she hung out, safely tucked away on the perimeter, watching . . . she’d finally been forced to admit what she’d known all along: no matter how rich or fulfilling a life she’d built for herself out on the fringes, not being around people pretty much sucked.

Otherwise, she’d still be working in her barn out in Middle of Nowhere, Oregon, and not sitting on a hard wooden bench in Georgia, swatting bugs, watching the cupcake ladies . . . and allowing herself to wonder what it would be like to be one of them. To just . . . hang out, to chat, laugh, and share.

It wasn’t hard to imagine how much she’d enjoy it. She wasn’t awkward, socially or otherwise, or even particularly dorky. Sure, she wasn’t a stunner in the looks department, but she didn’t make babies cry, either. Her body might not turn heads, but it was functional and didn’t let her down. She’d always been a fairly confident, self aware, decently sharp-witted person. But being confident and self-assured didn’t automatically equal fitting in.

Not when all she had to do was touch someone to suddenly know all sorts of things about what was going to happen or what had already happened, good or bad, to that person. Unfortunately, the bad often far outweighed the good. Neither the party in question, nor Honey herself particularly wanted her to know about those kinds of things, but once she did know, she couldn’t exactly ignore them. To her, it was sort of like a moral imperative. If you knew bad things were going to happen to someone, you had to warn them. Right? You had to at least give them a chance to change the outcome.

Otherwise, what was the point in having the stupid “gift” in the first place?

To top it off, folks were rarely grateful for her warnings. Like the bad news was somehow her fault. But she couldn’t just sit there and watch the otherwise inevitable thing happen and not say anything. She’d tried that, but couldn’t live with the guilt of not saying anything, and then watching something horrible, even tragic, befall the person. Who could live with that? It left her . . . where, exactly?

“The equivalent of Juniper Hollows’ Fifth Horse of the Apocalypse, forced to hide out in the family barn, that’s where.” She’d spent her time carving from wood and creating from clay whimsical, happy little garden and woodland critters that filled her personal world, as well as the charming and amusing mail-order catalog that had turned a childhood hobby she’d started with her father into her livelihood as an adult. It was easy to pretend everything was fine when she was surrounded by whimsy, cuteness, and the always adorable. Easy to believe she was happy enough and blessed to be doing something she loved.

As long as I don’t get close to anyone. Ever again.

She was happy. She was. In all the limited ways she could be, anyway. She loved her work, enjoyed her customers, and had built a successful, fulfilling, if very secluded life for herself. It was a lot more fun making people happy than sending them running, hiding from the very sight of her. She simply wanted the same things everyone else did—friends, acceptance, a sense of belonging. She’d actually found a way to have that, too. Just . . . at a carefully controlled distance.

With the launch of the new year—the last one before she turned the big three-oh—coupled with the loss of her last remaining family member, and a newly acquired inheritance, Honey had found herself unable to shut out the niggling thoughts and desires she’d tried to talk herself out of.

The real truth was, she wanted what the cupcake ladies had—community, partnership, family, and friends. The up close and personal kind. Watching them, knowing she was finally going to reach for what they had, the desire had become almost a physical ache. God, but she was lonely. Thriving business or no, communicating all day long with people via the phone or e-mail was a far cry from laughing, chatting, and baking in the same kitchen . . . together.

Bea’s letter she’d received from the lawyer after her aunt’s death, along with the packet detailing the rest of her inheritance, had been, in the end, what had dissolved her carefully constructed defenses. Honey held that letter in her heart as her real inheritance. Of far more value than the physical possessions Bea had left to her only niece had been her words of wisdom. One part, in particular, stayed with Honey always.

Honey heard her Aunt Beavis as clearly as if she were sitting beside her.

“Well,” she murmured, pushing her glasses up and wiping at the corners of her eyes. “I’m here. So . . . now what?”

Bea had been right about one thing; Honey couldn’t reinvent herself or turn over a new leaf in Juniper Hollow. So she’d set out for the east coast.

Bea would be proud of her. Hell, she was proud of herself. She’d made it all the way to Georgia. To Sugarberry Island. Albeit barely. Her car had started coughing and spitting—more like gasping its final death rattle—as soon as she’d crossed the causeway to the island. A sign? She didn’t know. Her curse didn’t include knowing things that would happen to herself—which she’d long since determined was a definite blessing.

She’d barely managed to get her car to the garage before it sputtered and died right in front of the island’s only repair shop. She prayed it would survive this latest bout of operational ennui. A new car wasn’t in her tightly detailed budget. Nor was an old one, for that matter. She needed the one she already had to hang in there.

Fortunately, the mechanic—Dylan Ross of Ross & Sons—hadn’t seemed to think her car was a complete lost cause, though that might have been wishful thinking on her part. It had been somewhat hard to tell what he’d been thinking, actually. He gave new meaning to tall, dark, and brooding. James Dean could have taken lessons from that guy. Truth be told, Dylan Ross had it all over the movie icon in the looks department, too. He was the poster boy for every broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, six-pack toting, pouty-lipped hunk of modeling clay who’d ever slid a pair of perfectly faded jeans over muscular thighs and very fine ass to pose, all smoldering intensity, in front of a camera lens.

Only hotter. He wasn’t some smug, young dude. More like . . . well, it was hard to tell how old he was, but he was no kid. He was all man, and . . . seasoned. Experienced. Grooves at the corners of his eyes and a pouty-lipped mouth lent character to the chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones. His gray eyes had that wise-beyond-his-years look as if they’d seen far too much already and would be perfectly happy to tune out what came next. It made her wonder what the story was behind the attitude . . . although she quite honestly hoped she never had the opportunity to find out.

He was the polar opposite of the cheerful young man—Dell, he’d said his name was—who’d greeted her at the desk and taken her keys and information, before taking off on his motor bike to run an errand. Conversely, Mr. Ross had been rather abrupt, almost bordering on rude, while asking a few more questions to help determine her situation. She’d been thankful for that, though. Mostly. A little less curt wouldn’t have killed the guy. Or her.

She’d heard so many stories from Bea about the goodwill of the island denizens that she’d spent the last two states of the drive bracing herself for the physical onslaught that could quite possibly envelop her upon her arrival. Dell had certainly lived up to those standards, although thankfully without the hugging, but it was only after Mr. Ross had been so abrupt, with minimal conversation and little or no eye contact, that she’d realized how grateful she was for his brevity. And his distance.

She would handle whatever was coming at her, but she wasn’t ashamed to admit it would help enormously if she could get a good night’s sleep first.

Unfortunately, nothing was going according to plan. She’d anticipated curling up in Bea’s old apartment, which, as emotional as that was likely to be, would also be a haven of sorts. She hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on that safe and secure landing pad . . . until it had been quite unexpectedly yanked out from under her.

“Miz D’Amourvell?”

Her head jerked up at the sound of her name. Spoken the way he said it, in that deep, southern drawl . . . well, it did surprising things to her insides. She pushed her glasses up again, tugged on her sticky blouse, and shoved the strap of her satchel up over her shoulder, all while trying not to look directly at him. Or his chest. Or his hips. Or his mouth, for that matter. And definitely not those eyes. Oh boy.

“Is it ready?” she asked, making a big show of checking and double checking that she wasn’t leaving anything behind. Though she’d never taken anything out of her satchel other than her phone.

“Afraid not. Needs a few parts, amongst other things. There’s more wrong with it than right with it. You stayin’ on the island?”

She nodded, trying not to feel more defeated. “I’m . . . not sure where.”

“Barbara Hughes has a B&B a couple blocks off the square, heading toward the docks. I imagine she probably has a room.”

“Okay. Thanks. Is it walking distance? I have a lot of stuff.” She thought about the suitcases—none of them on wheels—and all the tools and supply boxes presently crammed into her car. Not that she needed much for the night, but some of her work things wouldn’t do well sitting in this kind of heat overnight. Much less however many days it might be until her car was fixed.

“Shop’s locked up at night,” he said, apparently reading her concerns from her expression. “Not that anyone around here would take anything.” His voice was deep, gravelly, and oh so sexily Southern. The kind of voice that vibrated along the skin. Hot, slick skin.

She shook that image off—could her thoughts be more inappropriate?—and tried to relax. Terse or not, he was trying to help her out. Yet it was almost impossible to ignore the tension that seemed to emanate from him. That, combined with the heat, the fatigue, the massive screw up she hadn’t even begun to figure out how to fix, and her suddenly perky hormones made her feel jumpy . . . and restless.

“It was more the heat I was worried about. Some of the things in my car probably shouldn’t be left—never mind. I can deal with that tomorrow.” She sent another pensive look in the direction of the work bay. “How long will it take to get it fixed, do you think?”

She hitched the satchel strap up again—even her shoulders were sweaty—and resisted the urge to scratch her neck. Not that she cared how she looked—good thing—but she was a woman, after all. Standing in front of a guy who looked like . . . well, who looked like Dylan Ross, she imagined any woman would want to feel at least marginally not disastrous. She was pretty sure she fell short of even that low bar.

“Two or three days. Could be a week. Parts for your car don’t run in stock anywhere local. Have to order them, then get them sent over from Savannah.” He turned around and headed back inside, leaving her to follow him or . . . walk down the alley and out into the square, presumably to find the Hughes’s place on her own. He didn’t seem to much care either way. Of course, he had her car and a goodly part of her worldly possessions, so it wasn’t like he had to worry she’d take off and not pay him.

She sent another look across the back alley at the cupcakery, her gaze lingering on the whitewashed brick building next to it.

It was every bit as perfect as Bea had claimed it would be. She couldn’t deny she’d felt a buzz of excitement when she’d taken that short walk around the square after her car had been pushed into the service bay. It had been something of a thrill, more than she’d anticipated feeling, spying the tiny shop on the corner for the first time.

Honey had assumed Bea had romanticized the little town, the island, but Sugarberry was exactly as she’d described it. It had all the charms of every Southern town she’d ever read about . . . along with the added twist of a more bohemian island vibe, which was just eccentric enough to appeal to her Aunt Bea . . . and to her. Enormously, in fact. Despite the swelter. And the bugs.

Don’t ever settle for less when there could be so much more. Life is not meant to be lived in the shadows. Bea’s words had been on her mind as she’d crossed the square.

Don’t assume there is no welcome mat out there for you. There is one right here . . . waiting for you. Honey had embraced that benediction, had allowed herself to truly believe that maybe, just maybe, Bea had been right and this was her very real chance at the life she’d wanted so very badly, but had been too afraid to reach for.

It had made the blow that much worse as she’d gotten close enough to see the GRAND OPENING sign in the window of her newly inherited, supposedly empty building. The same whitewashed brick building that had once housed Aunt Beavis’s tailoring shop and the apartment she’d lived in above it. The building Honey had planned to transform into her very own, very real, storefront business where customers could come in and browse, to see and touch her work firsthand. More important, to see and talk to the owner and artist firsthand. No more hiding behind her mail-order catalog and computer screen. The same building was now Babycakes, the mail-order and catering adjunct to Cakes by the Cup, right next door.

Yeah. It had been such a special day. Oh so very . . . special.

She clamped down on the fresh wave of frustration and anxiety that had started a vicious little whirl in her gut. She still had the farm. It hadn’t sold yet. She could simply turn around and go home.

Home.

Instead of feeling reassured, the idea of driving all the way back to Oregon and out to Juniper Hollow, to the old farmhouse and the barn . . . felt like, well . . . it felt like failure.

She glanced one last time over her shoulder before following Dylan into the building that housed Ross & Sons.

She found him in the small office tucked in the front of the shop. It was surprisingly tidy and clean for an old-time, family-owned auto repair business. In fact, the whole place had a rather . . . fresh feel to it. The bench out back had been brand new, too. But Dylan Ross was too young to have sons working for him so she assumed he was one of the sons.

“Want to get anything?” he asked, head bent over a clipboard on his desk, not bothering to look up. “From your car,” he elaborated, when she didn’t respond.

She’d gotten kind of caught up looking at his hands. Broad, strong, capable. Beat up a bit, but given his profession, no more so than could be expected.

“Yes? No?” he asked, finally looking up.

She jerked her gaze to his, then realized that for the mistake it was, and immediately looked toward the front of the shop, anywhere, really, but into those eyes. Eyes that met hers quite directly. Unflinchingly. With a gaze that probed, assessed, and summed up, without even trying.

She could feel the . . . beginnings of things. Stirrings. And not just those kinds of stirrings. Skittering around the edges of her consciousness were the kinds of things she’d spent many long years suppressing. Feeling them rattled her, adding to the jumpiness she already felt around him. Though she knew by leaving her barn and Oregon, and coming out into the world, she’d given those stirrings carte blanche to resurface—but she wasn’t going to allow them to do so now. And, God help her, not with him.

Danger, danger, Honey Pie. Look away. Look away fast.

“Just . . . a suitcase,” she managed when he lifted an eyebrow. “I’ll . . . figure out the rest tomorrow.”

He shoved back his chair and stood, and she realized too late that she was far too close to him, almost crowding him in the small office space, standing between him, his desk, and the only door out.

He was tall, towering over her as he looked down with an expression that clearly asked if she was going to move out of his way sometime in the next millennium.

“Sorry,” she said, moving at the same time, in the same direction he did, which had the unfortunate consequence of brushing her up against him, which had the even more unfortunate consequence of making her gasp.

His eyes widened momentarily; then he gave a short shake of his head. When she remained standing there, frozen, staring, he bodily—if gently—took her by the arms with those broad, strong hands of his, and set her aside.

She locked up at his direct touch and had to clench her jaw to keep from screaming. It had been a very—very—long time since anyone had put their hands on her. She’d made damn sure of that. And though he probably already thought her a bit of a fruit loop, she didn’t much care at the moment. “Let me go,” she said—begged—almost strangling on the words.

He looked momentarily stunned, then scowled and lifted his hands away, palms out. “Just trying to get out of my own office so I can go home.” He gestured to the open doorway. “After you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, mortification and resignation fillin. . .