Then he rolled over so he lay on top of me, and my heart nearly burst out of my chest. He brushed my hair back from my face. He traced my lips with his finger. He whispered my name.
I want you to kiss me, I said.
Then his mouth was on mine and his lips were opening and the stroke of his tongue sent shivers throughout my body. I widened my knees and felt the weight of his hips settle between my thighs, sensed the hard length of his erection through our clothes. My hands touched his face, his neck, his shoulders. They wandered down his chest and around his back. I wanted to pull him closer. I wanted his skin on mine. For once, I wanted to set my body free to move without inhibition, and not simply let sex happen. I wanted him to feel the way I needed him. I wanted to arch and tilt and roll and writhe and beg and moan and plead and whisper and sigh. I wanted us both to let go and lose ourselves to each other.
I woke up panting, my skin damp beneath my pajamas. Opening my eyes to the darkened room, I was momentarily confused about where I was—my bed was facing the wrong way. Then I remembered I wasn’t in my own room. I was visiting Grams.
Slowly, the clouds in my head cleared and the dream pieced itself back together. Holy shit. Hot and sweaty, I threw the covers off me and lay there breathing hard. My body was still tingling, my erogenous zones on fire. If I’d been at home, I’d have reached beneath my bed for my LELO. For a moment, I was tempted to finish myself off with my fingers, but decided against it. Not with my grandmother sleeping downstairs—that was just too weird.
Swinging my feet to the floor, I got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom, where I drank a glass of cold water and then splashed some on my face. When my heart rate returned to normal, I went back to bed.
But I couldn’t sleep. The dream was too vivid in my head. The hum of arousal still lingered under my skin. I hadn’t been so turned on by a man in years, and it hadn’t even been real—it was all in my mind.
How utterly unfair.
The therapist in me wanted to analyze it. Not that I felt dreams were some mystical way the universe delivered messages, but I did believe that they offered insight into the subconscious. So what was my subconscious trying to say?
Frowning, I tried to dig a little deeper.
What was so intriguing about him? Was he the anti-Walter? Thick where Walter was thin? Quiet where Walter was verbose? Complicated where Walter was straightforward? Sexy as all get-out where Walter was … not?
Was it a plain old physical attraction? Was it his past? Did I simply feel sorry for him and want to help a soul in need? Was it the slight crack in the armor tonight when he’d smiled and invited me in? Not that the visit had lasted very long—he’d looked pretty anxious the whole time I was standing there, and fairly relieved when I said I would go. But did he really want to be alone, or was it a mask he wore to protect himself? What had he been through that would make him retreat into himself that way? What stories could he tell me?
Okay, enough. Stop thinking and go to sleep. He’s not your client and he doesn’t need you poking around in his head.
There it was—the familiar voice of reason. It comforted me. So I’d had a sexy dream about him, big deal. It wasn’t real, and it meant nothing.
Nothing except that my subconscious wanted to fuck his.
Deep and long and hard.
The following morning, I got out of bed early and went for a run. The sun had barely come up, and Grams wasn’t even out of her room yet. I tied my shoelaces sitting on the front porch steps and took off at an easy warm-up pace down the road. When I passed Ryan’s house, I had to make an effort not to stare in the windows. He was a runner, too, Grams had said. Maybe I’d see him out for his morning jog.
But I returned about an hour later, having seen almost no one on the empty roads. Upstairs, I took a shower and got dressed, thinking I’d offer to take Grams out for breakfast. She was up and about when I came back down, and she loved the idea of going to town together.
We had breakfast at her favorite diner, lingered over cups of coffee, then strolled around downtown Hadley Harbor, ducking in and out of shops that were just opening up for the day. Grams knew almost every shopkeeper and customer, and she loved introducing me to people. Many of them told me how beloved my grandmother was in town, how generous she was, how much spunk she still had at ninety-two. Several mentioned how much they’d loved my grandfather, who’d been the local dentist, and how they still missed his terrible jokes and the way he could whistle any tune they named. It struck me how lucky my grandparents had been to find each other in Detroit in the first place and to live so happily together for so many years in this small town.
Did people still do that? Was it too much to hope for? Too old-fashioned?
At one small gourmet food shop, Grams was greeted by a woman who was maybe in her fifties with short dark hair and a pretty smile. She wore a collared green shirt that said Cloverleigh Farms, and I recognized it as the same one Ryan had worn yesterday.
“Ruthie, hello!”
Grams turned. “Oh, hello, Daphne. How are you?”
“Very well, thanks. And you?”
“Wonderful. I’ve got my granddaughter here this week.” She put an arm around me. “This is Stella.”
The woman smiled and held out her hand. “Daphne Sawyer.”
I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Grams turned to Daphne. “I hear my neighbor works for you. Ryan Woods?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, he does. Mack brought him on and he’s been incredible. He can do just about anything! He keeps to himself mostly, but seems very sweet.”
“He is. He took care of my yard work all summer long, and now he’s fixing my porch. And he won’t take a dime for it. I’ve been paying him in cookies!”
Daphne smiled and patted Grams’s arm. “Your cookies are probably worth more to him than money. From what I understand, he could use a little TLC.”
“I think so too,” Grams whispered conspiratorially.
“Well, I’d better get back to work.” Daphne nodded in my direction. “Nice meeting you, Stella. Enjoy your visit. Come by the inn for dinner if you can.”
I smiled at her. “I’d like that.”
“Stella, dear, I’ve got an idea.” Grams took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go home and bake a pie.”
“What?” I nearly stumbled as Grams pulled me along. Where on earth did she get her strength?
“I’m in the mood for an apple crumble. We can stop by the market and get some local apples. And some shortening. I think I’m nearly out.”
“Shortening?”
“Yes, dear. For the crust.” She looked over at me and sighed. “It’s time for you to learn how to bake. I don’t understand how your mother failed to teach you.”
“Mom worked, Grams. She didn’t have a lot of extra time.”
“Don’t get me started on that, dear.”
“And I don’t really eat a lot of—”
Grams stopped moving, turning to look at me with an expression that said don’t try my patience. “Stella Devine, I am going to spend this afternoon teaching you how to make the perfect crust and an apple pie so delicious it could make a grown man cry. I don’t give a hoot in hades whether or not you ever eat one, but a woman should know how to make a homemade pie! Oh, I know you’re a modern girl with your blue jeans and your jazzy little phones and your Snap Face chatting, but I’m old-fashioned, I’m your grandmother, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around, so what I say goes.”
I was laughing by the time her diatribe ended, and she sniffed, tossing her wrinkled pug nose in the air. “You watch. You’ll be thankful someday.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said, linking arms with her as we walked down the sidewalk together. “And I’m lucky you want to teach me. I promise to be a good student.”
She patted my hand. “That’s my girl.”
Eight
Grams
I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.
If ever I had a magic spell for making a man fall in love, it was baked into my apple crumble pie.
No less than three of my friends had made it for fellows who were dragging their feet, and next thing you know, they were down on one knee. We used to call it Cupid Pie! I felt confident that if anything could get Mr. Woods to open up to Stella, that was it. So we were going to make him one, and she was going to bring it to him.
I want you to kiss me, I said.
Then his mouth was on mine and his lips were opening and the stroke of his tongue sent shivers throughout my body. I widened my knees and felt the weight of his hips settle between my thighs, sensed the hard length of his erection through our clothes. My hands touched his face, his neck, his shoulders. They wandered down his chest and around his back. I wanted to pull him closer. I wanted his skin on mine. For once, I wanted to set my body free to move without inhibition, and not simply let sex happen. I wanted him to feel the way I needed him. I wanted to arch and tilt and roll and writhe and beg and moan and plead and whisper and sigh. I wanted us both to let go and lose ourselves to each other.
I woke up panting, my skin damp beneath my pajamas. Opening my eyes to the darkened room, I was momentarily confused about where I was—my bed was facing the wrong way. Then I remembered I wasn’t in my own room. I was visiting Grams.
Slowly, the clouds in my head cleared and the dream pieced itself back together. Holy shit. Hot and sweaty, I threw the covers off me and lay there breathing hard. My body was still tingling, my erogenous zones on fire. If I’d been at home, I’d have reached beneath my bed for my LELO. For a moment, I was tempted to finish myself off with my fingers, but decided against it. Not with my grandmother sleeping downstairs—that was just too weird.
Swinging my feet to the floor, I got out of bed and wandered into the bathroom, where I drank a glass of cold water and then splashed some on my face. When my heart rate returned to normal, I went back to bed.
But I couldn’t sleep. The dream was too vivid in my head. The hum of arousal still lingered under my skin. I hadn’t been so turned on by a man in years, and it hadn’t even been real—it was all in my mind.
How utterly unfair.
The therapist in me wanted to analyze it. Not that I felt dreams were some mystical way the universe delivered messages, but I did believe that they offered insight into the subconscious. So what was my subconscious trying to say?
Frowning, I tried to dig a little deeper.
What was so intriguing about him? Was he the anti-Walter? Thick where Walter was thin? Quiet where Walter was verbose? Complicated where Walter was straightforward? Sexy as all get-out where Walter was … not?
Was it a plain old physical attraction? Was it his past? Did I simply feel sorry for him and want to help a soul in need? Was it the slight crack in the armor tonight when he’d smiled and invited me in? Not that the visit had lasted very long—he’d looked pretty anxious the whole time I was standing there, and fairly relieved when I said I would go. But did he really want to be alone, or was it a mask he wore to protect himself? What had he been through that would make him retreat into himself that way? What stories could he tell me?
Okay, enough. Stop thinking and go to sleep. He’s not your client and he doesn’t need you poking around in his head.
There it was—the familiar voice of reason. It comforted me. So I’d had a sexy dream about him, big deal. It wasn’t real, and it meant nothing.
Nothing except that my subconscious wanted to fuck his.
Deep and long and hard.
The following morning, I got out of bed early and went for a run. The sun had barely come up, and Grams wasn’t even out of her room yet. I tied my shoelaces sitting on the front porch steps and took off at an easy warm-up pace down the road. When I passed Ryan’s house, I had to make an effort not to stare in the windows. He was a runner, too, Grams had said. Maybe I’d see him out for his morning jog.
But I returned about an hour later, having seen almost no one on the empty roads. Upstairs, I took a shower and got dressed, thinking I’d offer to take Grams out for breakfast. She was up and about when I came back down, and she loved the idea of going to town together.
We had breakfast at her favorite diner, lingered over cups of coffee, then strolled around downtown Hadley Harbor, ducking in and out of shops that were just opening up for the day. Grams knew almost every shopkeeper and customer, and she loved introducing me to people. Many of them told me how beloved my grandmother was in town, how generous she was, how much spunk she still had at ninety-two. Several mentioned how much they’d loved my grandfather, who’d been the local dentist, and how they still missed his terrible jokes and the way he could whistle any tune they named. It struck me how lucky my grandparents had been to find each other in Detroit in the first place and to live so happily together for so many years in this small town.
Did people still do that? Was it too much to hope for? Too old-fashioned?
At one small gourmet food shop, Grams was greeted by a woman who was maybe in her fifties with short dark hair and a pretty smile. She wore a collared green shirt that said Cloverleigh Farms, and I recognized it as the same one Ryan had worn yesterday.
“Ruthie, hello!”
Grams turned. “Oh, hello, Daphne. How are you?”
“Very well, thanks. And you?”
“Wonderful. I’ve got my granddaughter here this week.” She put an arm around me. “This is Stella.”
The woman smiled and held out her hand. “Daphne Sawyer.”
I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Grams turned to Daphne. “I hear my neighbor works for you. Ryan Woods?”
The woman nodded. “Yes, he does. Mack brought him on and he’s been incredible. He can do just about anything! He keeps to himself mostly, but seems very sweet.”
“He is. He took care of my yard work all summer long, and now he’s fixing my porch. And he won’t take a dime for it. I’ve been paying him in cookies!”
Daphne smiled and patted Grams’s arm. “Your cookies are probably worth more to him than money. From what I understand, he could use a little TLC.”
“I think so too,” Grams whispered conspiratorially.
“Well, I’d better get back to work.” Daphne nodded in my direction. “Nice meeting you, Stella. Enjoy your visit. Come by the inn for dinner if you can.”
I smiled at her. “I’d like that.”
“Stella, dear, I’ve got an idea.” Grams took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go home and bake a pie.”
“What?” I nearly stumbled as Grams pulled me along. Where on earth did she get her strength?
“I’m in the mood for an apple crumble. We can stop by the market and get some local apples. And some shortening. I think I’m nearly out.”
“Shortening?”
“Yes, dear. For the crust.” She looked over at me and sighed. “It’s time for you to learn how to bake. I don’t understand how your mother failed to teach you.”
“Mom worked, Grams. She didn’t have a lot of extra time.”
“Don’t get me started on that, dear.”
“And I don’t really eat a lot of—”
Grams stopped moving, turning to look at me with an expression that said don’t try my patience. “Stella Devine, I am going to spend this afternoon teaching you how to make the perfect crust and an apple pie so delicious it could make a grown man cry. I don’t give a hoot in hades whether or not you ever eat one, but a woman should know how to make a homemade pie! Oh, I know you’re a modern girl with your blue jeans and your jazzy little phones and your Snap Face chatting, but I’m old-fashioned, I’m your grandmother, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be around, so what I say goes.”
I was laughing by the time her diatribe ended, and she sniffed, tossing her wrinkled pug nose in the air. “You watch. You’ll be thankful someday.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said, linking arms with her as we walked down the sidewalk together. “And I’m lucky you want to teach me. I promise to be a good student.”
She patted my hand. “That’s my girl.”
Eight
Grams
I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.
If ever I had a magic spell for making a man fall in love, it was baked into my apple crumble pie.
No less than three of my friends had made it for fellows who were dragging their feet, and next thing you know, they were down on one knee. We used to call it Cupid Pie! I felt confident that if anything could get Mr. Woods to open up to Stella, that was it. So we were going to make him one, and she was going to bring it to him.
