Sweet Stuff

Book 0: Cupcake Club

by Donna Kauffman

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

Synopsis

Reprinted Edition Double Fudge. . .Toasted Coconut. . .Key Lime. . .Strawberry Cream. . . Every bite is a mouthful of heaven. And the women of the Cupcake Club are bringing their appetites. . . Riley Brown never imagined she would find her bliss on Georgia's quiet Sugarberry Island after years of Chicago's city life. With a new career and fantastic new friends, she's got it all--except for eligible men. But a gig staging a renovated beach house delivers a delicious treat--six feet of blue-eyed, gorgeous writer as delectable and Southern as pecan pie. Quinn Brannigan has come to Sugarberry to finish his latest novel in peace, and suddenly Riley has a taste for the bad boy author that no amount of mocha latte buttercream or lemon mousse will satisfy . . .

Release date: September 1, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 353

Sample

Later, she would blame the whole thing on the cupcakes.

Riley glanced through the sparkling windowpanes of the hand-stained, sliding French panel doors to the extended, multilevel tigerwood deck—complete with stargazer pergola and red cedar soaking tub—straight into a pair of familiar, sober brown eyes. “I know that look,” she called out, loud enough so he could hear her through the thermal, double-paned glass. “Don’t mock. I can too do this.”

She turned her attention forward again and stared at the electronic panel of the Jog Master 3000. “I mean, how hard could it be?” A rhetorical question of course. Anyone, probably even the sunbathing mastiff, could figure out how to push a few buttons and—

“Ooof!” The belt started moving under her feet. Really fast.

Really, really fast.

“Oh crap!” She grabbed the padded side bars, an instinctive move purely intended to keep from face-planting on high-speed rubber, with little actual athleticism involved. Okay, not a drop of it, but if she could keep pace long enough to get her balance, she could relax the death grip of just one of her hands and smack—press, she meant press—the electronic panel of buttons on this very—very—expensive piece of leased equipment. At which point her ill-advised, unfortunate little adventure would end well.

Or at least without the local EMTs being called. Or a lengthy hospital stay. She was way too busy for stitches.

“Yeah,” she gasped. “Piece of cake.” She managed a smirk at the irony of that particular phrase, but quickly turned to full panic mode as she realized she wasn’t exactly gaining ground. Rapidly losing it, in fact, along with what little breath she had. “Crap, crap, crap,” she panted in rhythm with her running steps. It had only been a few minutes—three minutes and forty-four seconds, according to the oh-so-helpful digital display—and she was already perspiring. Okay, okay, sweating. She just wasn’t sure if it was from the actual exertion, or the abject anxiety that she wasn’t going to get out of this latest catastrophe in one piece.

Where were those big, strong, Steinway deliverymen when you needed them, anyway? Surely they could race right in and save her, in blazingly heroic, stud-monkey fashion. And she’d let them, too. Just because she prided herself on her total I-Am-Woman independence thing A.J. (After-Jeremy), didn’t mean she wasn’t above a little Rapunzel fantasy now and again.

She’d been awaiting delivery of the elegant baby grand for over an hour. So, technically, it was all their fault. The baby grand in question was the final component, and the pièce de résistance, of this particular staging event. With every other remaining detail attended to, she’d foolishly given in to the urge to run a test check—all right, play—with some of the toys she’d had installed. Once again, she had managed to get herself into a bit of a pickle.

Enough with the food analogies, Riles. Eight minutes, twenty-three seconds. At a dead run. The only way she could have ever pulled that off was if she were being chased by zombies. With machetes. And the world as she knew it would end if she didn’t get to the edge of the dark, scary forest in time.

Instead, all she had was her mastiff and his baleful stare. Not exactly adrenaline-inducing.

Ten minutes, thirteen seconds. She was well past sweating and deep into red-faced overexertion. She glared back at Brutus, who kept faithful watch, but otherwise appeared unconcerned with his mistress’s current distress. “No gravy on your kibble tonight,” she called out. Well, in her mind, she called out. She was so winded it was all she could do to think the words. But her expression hopefully conveyed the message to her mutant, one-hundred-fifty-pound dog . . .

Who looked completely unmoved by her menacing glare. He knew she was a pushover. She’d taken him in as a rescue, hadn’t she?

The sweet sound of the cascading entrance chimes echoed through the room, indicating the deliverymen had, indeed, finally arrived.

“Thank God,” she wheezed. She didn’t even care what they thought of the situation, or how horrible she must look. She’d bribe them with a few of Leilani’s decadently delicious Black Forest cupcakes, featuring raspberry truffle filling, and topped with fresh, plump, perfectly rosy raspberries. There were two dozen of them, carefully arranged on the three-tier crystal display dish in the beautifully appointed breakfast nook. That, and maybe throw in a few bottles of imported lager presently chilling in the newly installed, stainless-steel Viking fridge with handy bottom freezer, and surely they wouldn’t say anything to Scary Lois about Riley’s less-than-professional activities.

Lois Grinkmeyer-Hington-Smythe was easily the most intimidating person Riley had staged showcase houses for thus far, or worked for in any capacity, for that matter. Given her former career as head food stylist for Foodie, the number one selling food magazine in the country, that was saying something. Even the most intimidating chef had nothing on Scary Lois, highest performing Realtor for Gold Coast Properties, and Riley couldn’t afford to annoy the source of her best bookings.

The chimes cascaded again. Oh, for God’s sake, come in, already! She tried to shout, but all she could muster was a strangled, guttural grunt. Why weren’t they just coming in? Open house meant the house was open!

She could see the headlines now.

Meanwhile, poor, dead Riley Brown probably wouldn’t even warrant a hunky CSI investigator, who—clearly moved by her still glowing, cherubic face and bountiful blond curls—would posthumously vow to go to the ends of the earth to find out who was responsible for this terrible, terrible tragedy.

Of course, you couldn’t exactly arrest a Jog Master 3000.

Right at the point where she knew her sweaty palms couldn’t grip the rubber padding one second longer and her gaze had shifted to Brutus out on the deck for what could likely be the very last time, someone with a very deep voice that carried the warm caress of a slight Southern accent said, “Beg your pardon. I thought this was the house being leased. My apologies, I—”

Riley jerked her head around to look at the intruder. That was no Sven. Or even a Magnus. He was way—way—better than any Nordic fantasy. Framed by what she knew was a nine-foot archway, he was a rugged six-foot-four at least, with shoulders and jaw to match. Even in his white cotton button-down shirt, faded jeans, and dark brown sport coat, he looked like he could have delivered a baby grand with his left hand, while simultaneously saving the world with his right. Thick, dark hair framed a tanned face with crinkles at the corners of the most amazing bright blue eyes . . . Wait—she knew that face! How did she know that face?

Her jaw went slack the instant she realized who was standing, live and in the amazingly more-gorgeous-in-person flesh, right there in her Florida room. Well, not her Florida room, but . . . that didn’t matter, because unfortunately the moment her jaw had gone slack, so had her hands.

She let out a strangled shriek as the rapidly spinning rubber track ejected her from the back end of the machine as if she were a clown shot out of a circus cannon. Sans the acrobatic skills. Or clean landing.

The good news? The tastefully arranged indoor/outdoor cluster of salt-air tolerant baby cabbage and saw palmettos, cockspur prickly pear and Adam’s Needle yucca kept her from being ejected straight through the sparkling clean, thermal double panes she’d spent a full hour on that morning. The bad news? Well, other than the part about saw palmettos and prickly pear not exactly being soft and cushy kinds of foliage? Yeah, that would be lying in a sweaty, red-faced, scratched-up heap . . . all while looking up into the breathtaking, turquoise blue eyes of the one-and-only Quinn Brannigan.

Dazed in more ways than one, Riley found herself thinking that if her life were ever made into a movie of the week, she sure hoped the screenwriter would give her some clever, witty line to say at that exact moment. One that would show her to be adorably spunky and utterly charming . . . despite her bedraggled, pathetic, utterly disastrous appearance.

Alas, she was more a visual person—which was why she was a stylist and a photographer, not a writer. Quinn Brannigan, on the other hand, was a writer. Of the number one with a bullet, New York Times best-selling variety. So, of course, he knew exactly what to say.

“I am sorry.” That hint of drawl in his voice made him sound inherently sincere, while the concern etched in every crease of his perfectly gorgeous face only underscored the tone. “I don’t know how I made such a mistake. I never meant to alarm you like that. Let me help you up, make sure you’re all right.” He extended a hand.

See? Perfect white knight, perfect amount of sincere contrition, perfect . . . well, everything. She’d always thought him handsome, staring back at her from the glossy book jackets of his many best sellers. What the photo didn’t convey was the magnetism and charisma that packed an even bigger wallop in person. Not to mention his voice. Deep and smooth, with a cadence hinting at warm honey drizzled all over a hot, buttery biscuit. If they could package that voice along with his books, he’d double his already enormous sales.

“You know”—her words came out in more of a post-marathon croak—“you really should read your own books.” She closed her eyes when his expression shifted to one of confusion. I said that, right out loud, didn’t I? Another rhetorical question, of course. “On tape,” she added lamely, as if that was going to clear matters right up. “You know, audiobooks.” Riley let her head drop farther back into the sharp fronds. “Never mind. I’m shutting up now.”

“Give me your hand.” When he crouched down, his handsome face and hot-sex-in-a-summer-hammock voice were even closer to her. “Are you hurt? Did you hit your head on the glass?”

Given her random commentary, his concern wasn’t the least bit surprising. It was an easy out that a lesser woman might have taken. No one had ever accused her, however, of being lesser. Too much, maybe. All right, definitely.

“No,” she managed. “Just a few scratches. I’m fine, I just—” She broke off, and, with a little sigh and a not-so-little huff of breath, tried to struggle her way out of the forest of serrated-edge foliage by herself. Then just as quickly gave up as the plants seemed to want to suck her in more deeply. She’d lost enough skin already.

She couldn’t lose any more of her pride, however. That was all gone. She rubbed her dirty, still-sweaty palm on her pant leg, then took the offered hand, steeling her already fluttering hormones against the feel of his skin on hers. Not that she was normally so overwrought about such things, but, at the moment, her defenses were abnormally low. As in, completely missing.

And . . . yep. Pow. Right in the libido. Wide palm, warm skin, strong grip.

He lifted her overly tall, less-than-lithe form out of the tangle of deadly blades as if she were nothing more cumbersome than a downy little feather. She’d never once been accused of being a feather. Of any kind. She had to admit, it felt rather . . . blissful. So much so, that, if he’d asked her, she’d have happily agreed to strip naked, have his babies, or anything else he wanted, right there. On the evil Jog Master, even.

Because, oh yeah, that’s what he’s dying to do, Riles. Take you, take you hard.

Not that it mattered. Even if she had somehow managed to look adorably spunky and utterly charming despite the scratched-up flesh and blotchy red face, she’d sworn off men. Nineteen months, ten days, and dozens of cupcakes ago.

Not that all men were stupid, lying, cheating, ex-fiancé bastards like Jeremy. She knew that. And she hadn’t held his actions against the rest of the male members of the human race. Most of the time. But given how thoroughly and completely duped and humiliated she’d been by the one person from that part of the population she’d most trusted with her deepest, truest self, not to mention all of her carefully guarded heart . . . yeah, she wasn’t in a mad rush to find out if her judgment in that arena had improved. Hence the switch to baked goods for personal comfort.

Men were complicated. Cupcakes, on the other hand? Not so much.

“You’ve got a few scrapes,” Quinn-the-hot-celebrity-savior was saying as he steadied her with a wide palm on her shoulder. Rapunzel, eat your heart out. Still working to get her heart rate back to some semblance of normal, she acknowledged that her studly savior was probably more to blame than the Jog Master.

After another moment passed, he carefully disengaged his hand from hers, which took a bit of doing as she’d apparently switched her Jog Master death grip to a Good Studly Samaritan one, but he kept the steadying hand on her shoulder for an additional moment before letting go completely. “Let me help you get cleaned up.”

Riley belatedly realized she was staring at Quinn with God only knew what kind of glazed, starry-eyed expression plastered all over her blotchy and battered face. She might have sworn off men and wrapped herself in fiercely guarded independence, but that didn’t mean she was quite up for inviting them to stare at her in abject horror. Or worse, pity. “I—uh, no, that’s okay,” she managed, finally pulling herself together. “That won’t be necessary. Just a few scratches. Really. I can—I can take care of it. I’m . . . really sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” His eyes truly were the definition of piercing.

“To give you a scare like that, I mean. I was just . . .” She looked behind her at the Jog Master, which was still churning away. “Never mind. Not important.” She turned and casually bent down, trying not to overtly wince at the parts of her that rebelled at being bent at that moment . . . and jerked the cord from the wall socket, using a wee bit more force than was actually required. Or perhaps a lot more force, as the plug snapped back and stung her ankle. Right in that tender, vulnerable spot that brought instant tears to the eyes. She dropped the cord like a live snake as she somehow managed to suck in every single one of the very unladylike, but totally appropriate-to-the-moment swear words, then forced herself to straighten, slowly, while giving herself a quick, silent talking-to. She could fall apart later, and swear to the heavens if she wanted to.

Right now, she had to salvage the few remaining bits of professionalism that hadn’t been shredded along with the foliage. Only then did she turn back to face him, trying for a sunny smile, though that was likely ruined by the way the stretching of her lacerated skin made her flinch. “So, you’re here for the open house?”

He was still frowning. The concerned, Good Studly Samaritan. It made her feel ridiculous and pathetic, though she was certain that wasn’t his intent. Not that he needed to try. She could feel ridiculous and pathetic with no help at all.

“I really think we should give those scratches some attention, and you might want to sit down. At least for a few minutes. Get your balance. Again, my apologies for startling you like that.” His frown eased into an abashed half smile that kept her pulse humming right along. “What in the world you must have thought, a strange man walking right into your home. I guess it’s good you recognized me. I can’t believe I got the number wrong. The island’s not that big—wait.” He paused, the half smile turning back to a look of confusion. “Did you mean to say that this . . . is the house that’s up for lease?”

For the briefest moment, Riley entertained the wild thought of pretending she was also there for the open house and had just made the unfortunate decision to give the Jog Master a try. But she ditched the plan almost as fast as she thought of it. Even if he bought the story, at some point, if he ended up leasing the place—which would be just her luck—he’d no doubt run into her around the island. Sugarberry was the smallest of the inhabited barrier islands and the only town on it was hardly big enough to be called a town. They couldn’t help running into each other.

He’d quickly find out she was hardly in any position to lease the newly renovated and exceedingly high-end beach bungalow. The houseboat she lived on might give the impression of a decent annual income, but it was a loaner, and while nice, not exactly yacht club material. Not that Sugarberry had a yacht club. The Seaduced was presently tied up on the south end of the island alongside a bunch of commercial fishing trawlers, as it was the only pier that could take her.

For that matter, Sugarberry didn’t have any other high-end beach bungalows. The old Turner place—bought at a bank auction by a pair of Atlanta investors looking to mine new Gold Coast development opportunities—was the first of its kind. And, if Sugarberry residents had anything to say about it—and they had plenty to say—the last.

Unlike Quinn Brannigan, who was exactly high-end, upscale bungalow, yacht club material.

“Yes, this is the one,” Riley answered him, making a grand gesture to the room around them. Anything to take his concerned gaze from her face. “It’s truly a gem. I’m so very sorry your first impression of the property was well . . . you know. Hugely unprofessional of me. Not the hoped-for introduction, I’m afraid.” She deliberated a brief moment on asking him not to mention her little adventure to Scary Lois, but ditched that idea, too. Not a good idea to beg favors from the guy who’d just saved her life. Inadvertently, maybe, but still.

“You’re not Lois of the multi-hyphenated last names, are you?”

That earned a real smile and a wince before she could control it. “No. No, I’m not.”

Quinn gave her that ridiculously charming half smile again. “I didn’t think so.”

“You mean I don’t look like the Gold Coast’s most successful A-List Realtor?” she said dryly. “I’m stunned.”

His half smile grew to a full smile and if she’d had any doubt her heart had fully survived her Jog Master marathon, that fear proved unwarranted. It was pumping just fine, thank you very much.

“I’ve not had the privilege of meeting her as yet,” he said, a bit more of that honey-coated-biscuits-and-melted-butter tone flavoring his words. “But what communication we’ve had, well, let’s just say you seem far more . . . approachable.”

“You mean less scary?” Riley looked down at herself and sighed. “I don’t know about that. I don’t want to see myself in a mirror anytime soon.”

“Come on. Let’s find the kitchen and get you cleaned up a little.”

A gentleman’s way of saying, yep, super-scary-looking. Not that it would have made a difference either way.

“That’s okay, really. I’ll go take care of it. Why don’t you have a look around? Lois has all the literature with her, but once I’m cleaned up, I can give you a tour. I’m familiar with all the upgrades and should be able to answer most of your questions, at least as they pertain to the house itself.”

In actuality, Riley knew every last inch of the place, before renovations and after. She knew every gizmo and upgrade that had been installed, as well as what parts of the property had been preserved, and why. Not because she had personal knowledge of Sugarberry history—she’d only been living on the island for a little over a year. This was actually the first project she’d done on the island itself. She normally worked farther down the barrier island chain, where the money was. She’d simply made it her business to know everything there was to know about the Turner place, just as she did with all the projects she was hired for.

In many ways, staging an entire home or condo wasn’t any different than styling food for an elaborate magazine layout. She used to learn as much as she could about the cuisine being presented, including the history, the traditions, and, in many cases, preparing the dishes herself, or as close an approximation as she could, in order to come up with the most unique, authentically detailed settings possible. Knowing the history and setting of the property she was staging was as important as all the more glamorous, flashy details.

Not that every client, or even most clients, were interested in half of what she took the time to find out. They might not care, specifically, about the fact that the refinished, hand-carved sliding panel doors were original to the house, or that she’d purposely matched the colors of the pottery and doorstops throughout the house to the terra-cotta shingling on the roof, but she knew it was that attention to detail that ended up selling them on the place. It didn’t matter that they didn’t appreciate why they loved it, just that they loved it enough to write Lois a big fat check. And, in turn, Scary Lois kept signing hers.

“Why don’t you start with the . . .” She’d been about to say the deck, pool, and gardens, but remembered the sunbathing Brutus. Crap. Normally she and her faithful companion were no longer on the premises when the actual event began. That she occasionally brought Brutus with her while staging various properties was also a teeny-tiny detail she’d neglected to tell Lois. This project had been so close to home, and she’d known he’d love lolling out on the deck. And, frankly, she enjoyed the company. Obviously not for protection purposes.

“Uh, bedrooms,” she improvised, careful to keep her gaze averted from the sliding French doors. “Just up the stairs from the foyer entry. You’ll love the master suite.” Too late, she remembered it had a second-story deck that looked right down on the first-story deck. “Though you might want to begin with the guest bedrooms along the front of the house. The, uh, lighting, right now . . . they have the morning sun. Truly spectacular.”

If he sensed the slightly panicked edge in her tone, his affable expression didn’t show it. “And risk my dearly departed Grams coming back to chase after me with her wooden rolling pin for being anything less than the gentleman she raised my pa and me to be?” The easy grin returned. “No, ma’am. Especially considering I caused the calamity in the first place.” He gestured for her to lead the way to the kitchen. “Pretty sure she’s capable of it, too,” he added with a touch of dry reverence, as he followed her from the room.

Riley smiled, and didn’t mind the wincing so much. It was impossible not to be charmed by him. But she needed to get him poking around upstairs as swiftly as possible. Not that she had any place in particular she could quickly stash a dog the size of a subcompact car, but she was due for a little luck.

She entered the kitchen, and if Quinn was impressed by the newly installed, state-of-the-art appliances, the marble-topped center island, or the array of terra-cotta-toned Calphalon pots and pans hanging from the hand-hammered silver overhead rack, he didn’t mention it. Nor did he seem to even notice them. Of course, things like that were probably par for the course for his lifestyle.

He was opening cupboards and pulling out drawers, but she doubted he was taking inventory. “Not much to work with here,” he murmured.

“I’ve got it.” Riley stepped around the center island and walked over to the small breakfast nook table and the three-tier crystal cupcake display. She grabbed a few of the color-coordinated napkins that were artfully arranged next to the themed paper plates and plastic forks, then edged back around the center island to the twin stainless-steel sinks. “Really, you should take a look—”

“Here.” He came right up behind her just as she’d turned on the water and shoved a wadded-up napkin underneath the steady stream.

As in, right behind her. Deep in her personal space. Like she hadn’t just recently recovered her ability to breathe normally.

“Let me.” Quinn put one broad palm on her shoulder and turned her to face him, relieving her of the soggy party napkins with his other hand, which he used to carefully dab at the scratches on her cheek and her forehead. And her chin. And her neck.

How lovely that must look.

She couldn’t think about that. Unless she closed her eyes, there was nowhere else to look but directly into his, and though he was busy attending to her wounds and not really looking at her . . . she couldn’t resist taking the opportunity to look at him. Really look at him.

And, up close? He looked even better. Every laugh line, every crinkle, even with a tiny scar just above one temple . . . he was truly and spectacularly gorgeous. So unfair. Even scratch-free, she wouldn’t hold up to the same up-close-and-personal perusal. For one, she had freckles. And not that faint little scatter you got from being out in the sun. No, she had real freckles. Thirty-one years old. With freckles. Not adorable at that age. Then there was the whole mouth situation. Hers was wide and full, just not in that sexy and mysterious Angelina Jolie kind of way. Instead of a vampy pout that did wonders for selling lipstick and lingerie, Riley’s was sort of perpetually curved in a big, goofy smile. At best, good for selling bubble gum.

She always looked like she was smiling, which shouldn’t be a bad thing. But just try being taken seriously in an editorial meeting full of men when no matter how much you tried on your stern, I-mean-business face, you always looked like a brainless bimbo. Dolly Parton looked fiercer than she did.

And don’t even get her started on being a natural blonde. With curls. Lots of them. Long or short didn’t matter. Her hair fell in big, happy, springy sproings no matter what. No one took that serious. . .