In the Mood for Love: A Cupcake Lovers Novel (The Cupcake Lovers) Read online

  “The Travel Channel. No, wait. He’s switching. The weather.” Nash finished one beer and started on the other. “We need to find a new hang. Not all the time, just once in a while. Something to shake up the monotony.”

  “Have you checked out the new bowling alley?” Adam asked.

  “Rock ’n’ Roll Lanes,” Kane said. “How cheesy can you get?”

  “I don’t know,” Nash said. “Music, bowling, and beer. What’s not to like?”

  “Took Ben and Mina on opening day,” Sam said, happy to talk about anything other than his train-wreck dating spree. “They’re especially kid friendly Saturday and Sunday afternoon. Nice atmosphere. Decent staff. Heard they cater mostly to adults after eight.”

  “Come summer,” Adam said, “that place will be jammed with tourists.”

  “So maybe we should feel it out now,” Nash said. “During slow season. Bowling night. Once a week. A couple of hours of sports and beer.”

  “What the hell,” Kane said. “I’m in.”

  “I’ll bite,” Adam said. “What about you, Sam?”

  “At the rate you’re going,” Nash teased, “it’s not like you’re going to hook up with Mrs. Right any time soon.”

  “We’ll try not to corrupt you,” Kane ribbed.

  Someone beat you to it, Sam thought. If they only knew about his racy fling with Harper. But he wouldn’t tell. Hell, he was trying to forget. Maybe he needed to shake things up, hang with the guys. Between his five-year-old daughter’s obsession with tiaras, boas, and Miss Kitty, coupled with all the recent baby talk, matchmaking efforts, and additional baking tasks within the Cupcakes Lovers, Sam was OD’ing on women. And not in a good way. “Yeah, sure. Pick a night.”

  “Any night but Thursday,” Nash said as Willa served up spicy nachos and cold brews. “That’s Sam’s night with the Cupcake Lovers.”

  Whereas Sam used to take solace in the camaraderie of the club, lately he’d been feeling like a fifth wheel. Not to mention, even though Harper didn’t live in Sugar Creek full-time, she’d become the Cupcake Lovers’ official publicist. Even though they’d cooled their secret affair, Sam still burned for that irritating woman. Which had pretty much crippled his efforts to find new love and the best mother for his kids.

  “Actually,” Sam said, suddenly desperate to escape all things cupcake, “Thursdays are perfect.”

  TWO

  Harper Day greeted the morning with an obstinate smile and an optimistic attitude. Wednesday had sucked, almost as bad as Tuesday and twice as bad as Monday. She didn’t even want to think about Sunday. But today, Thursday, would be the flip side of suckville.

  This morning, she would conquer her anxiety enough to walk across her massive backyard to the edge of the small pond. She’d sit on the pier and dangle her toes in the water. She’d breathe in the fresh mountain air. Later, she’d venture to her rented car and drive to the end of the lane. Surely she could make it that far without freaking. She’d idle and breathe and think good thoughts. Maybe she’d conduct business via texts and e-mail. A phone call or two. Anything to detour morbid thoughts.

  If that went well (and it would), she’d drive a little farther. She’d think happy thoughts, tune in to a sugary pop station and crank the volume. She would not obsess on the numerous possibilities of a horrible violent end while driving her car into town. Chances of being rammed by a suicidal driver or blown to bits by some terrorist missile were slim to none. She would not obsess on that “slim” percentage.

  Harper stared up at the ceiling of her almost-but-not-quite-wholly-renovated getaway, garnering the courage to roll out of bed and seize the day, still smiling even though her optimism had slipped a notch. She wasn’t alone in her misery.

  Local legend Mary Rothwell, a long-ago previous owner of this house and an original Cupcake Lover, had stared up at this ceiling hundreds of times. Granted, that had been back in the 1940s, but this was the same ceiling and this had been Mary’s bedroom. Even though Harper had never seen the ghost of the woman who supposedly haunted this house, she definitely felt Mary. Or at least, commiserated with her restless soul. That’s why Harper had specifically bought this farm. To fill a void in Mary’s life, to connect with a kindred spirit. Harper had a lot in common with Mary. She would not, however, meet the same end. Harper was made of sterner stuff. She’d get through this rough patch and get on with life.

  Today.

  Motivated, Harper shot out of bed. She grabbed a remote and turned on the wall-mounted plasma screen while padding to her desk to fire up her laptop. She’d had a wall knocked out in order to create a combo bedroom/office—a comfortable, functional living space while the rest of the rooms were under renovation. Multitasking as always, she used one hand to tune in VH1 while the other keyed up CNN. She nabbed her phone and quickly checked for texts, e-mails, and PMs on her Twitter and Facebook accounts. No urgent pleas from any of her clients. No fires to put out. That was disappointing. Harper thrived on snuffing fiascoes and solving problems. Then again, kudos to her tribe for staying out of trouble for at least one night.

  On the other hand, there was also the chance that they’d taken their crisis to someone else. Harper hadn’t been the most hands-on publicist these last few weeks. Although she’d worked hard to meet her clients’ needs via telecommunications, she’d bailed on several premieres and luncheons. Crowds weren’t her thing just now. Wide-open spaces, public places weren’t her thing just now. A liability given her line of work. A glitch she was striving to overcome. As a last resort, she’d flown from her home base in Los Angeles to the home she’d created in Sugar Creek. Her retreat. Her safe haven. A relatively isolated nonworking farm on the fringes of a small town in northern Vermont. Far away from her needy clients and demanding PR firm. Yes, they could still contact her, and she was counting on it, but they weren’t likely to show up on her doorstep or insist they meet at a trendy restaurant or popular bar to discuss business. She needed private time to pull it together. A week or two. Maybe three, depending. Not that she didn’t deserve a holiday. Harper had a reputation for working 24/7. No matter what time of day someone needed her, she was there.

  Until recently.

  Satisfied none of her clients were presently drowning in scandal, Harper peeled off her satin cami and boxers and pulled on a sports bra and capris. A health-and-fitness junkie, she worked out religiously. Exercise also helped to reduce stress. On any normal day, Harper was wound tight. She couldn’t forget the tragedy and the threats that had inspired her to flee Canada three years back, but she could stem the guilt and worry by keeping insanely busy and spinning other people’s lives for the better. In her case, that meant saving reckless or screwed-up celebrities from countless missteps and fiascoes. Taking control of their crises helped her to manage her own sense of helplessness. She’d been episode-free for almost a year. Partly because the man who’d sworn to “never let her forget” had finally given up. Or at least Harper had finally managed to block him from every aspect of her life.

  Until last month.

  Until the spa shooting.

  Soon after, he’d crawled out of his hole long enough to hack his way into her work e-mail.

  “Not going there.”

  Heart thudding, Harper stonewalled the memory of the recent senseless crime and the subsequent cruel taunt issued by the father of her former fiancé. Edward Wilson hadn’t given up on making Harper’s life hell. He’d just allowed her a false sense of hope.

  “Bastard.”

  She hadn’t heard from Edward again since that one e-mail three weeks ago, and she couldn’t help hoping—again—that that had been his final jab. She understood his grief, but how would he ever heal if he clutched so tightly to the past? She’d asked herself that same question a million times and that’s why she worked so hard to press on. Rather than wallow, she’d kicked into high gear. She’d donned invisible armor and a virtual cape. Harper Day to save the day.

  Shoving Edward Wilson from her mind, she focused on a VH1
news bite featuring the celebrity troubled kid of the month. Not Rae Monroe, formerly Rae Deveraux. Thank God. Harper had worked magic to free the young heiress from the Hollywood gossip mill. Not an easy feat when the girl had a wacko, self-absorbed, attention-hungry former starlet for a mother. Tabloid sensation Olivia Deveraux. Just one thorn in Harper’s side.

  No longer smiling but channeling zippety-do-dah positivity, she twisted her long, thick hair into a high ponytail, snagged the water bottle off her nightstand and hydrated. She’d prefer a mug of java, but she’d nixed caffeine from her daily routine until her debilitating anxiety was more manageable. Alcohol was out, too. In her present mental state, a glass of wine induced melancholy instead of a mellow buzz.

  No caffeine. No alcohol. Plenty of exercise and sleep. She was beginning to feel like a freaking nun in addition to a freaked-out shut-in.

  Sex would take off the edge.

  Sex with Sam McCloud, the first man she’d slept with since Andrew, would be the ultimate.

  Sex with Sam would obliterate every thought in Harper’s head. She couldn’t stress if she couldn’t think. Too bad she’d sworn off the hunky carpenter along with caffeine. She’d kill for a dose of his electrifying heart-melting machismo. A Boy Scout and a bad boy rolled into one. The bad came out in bed. The best kind of bad. The kind of bad that whipped Harper into an orgasmic frenzy.

  VH1 news segued into a music video, a sexy grind of a song that made her think about the way Sam rocked her body … in bed … against the wall … on the counter …

  Desperate for distraction, Harper skimmed channels, landing on Good Morning America, hoping for a cooking or health segment and instead catching an interview with actor Dylan McDermott—who looked a lot like Sam McCloud. Only Sam was broader. Definitely more ripped. His eyes were a deeper blue and his hair, the same dark brown in need of a trim or taming. Ruggedly handsome, not pretty handsome. Mark Wahlberg/Jason Statham charismatic. Action-star hot. And he wondered why she called him “Rambo.”

  So much for distraction.

  Harper climbed on her indoor bike, wishing she were mounting Sam instead.

  “Great.”

  Why wouldn’t that man stay out of her brain, her blood? She’d been in town for a few days and she hadn’t texted him once. Texting—their only comfortable mode of communication. The strong silent type, Sam doled out casual conversation like a miser whereas Harper talked incessantly to keep from thinking too deeply. Dark things lurked in the depths of her mind. Shallow was safer.

  She glanced at her phone, thought about Sam, then nixed the thought of Sam. “Not going there.”

  She stepped up the pace, looked back to the screen. McDermott, who still reminded her of McCloud (except Dylan was laughing and Sam never laughed), was talking about his latest project. She’d never handled a big star like Dylan, but she’d handled Sam. Her fingers burned in memory. The faster she pedaled the more she craved the irritating man who’d worked wonders refurbishing her house. The more her heart raced, the greater her lust. The man was screaming alpha. Former military. Confident. Competent. A master carpenter and furniture maker who also painted and baked.

  Baked!

  He was also a widower with two little kids.

  Harper had minimal experience with children and she didn’t want children—or rather the responsibility of children. The thought of failing them or losing them to some horrid end iced her blood. Which is why she’d ultimately cut off her secret affair with Sam. Even though it was just sex. Even though they only saw each other whenever she visited Sugar Creek which was hardly ever. They’d never work long term. Not that she wanted long term. Not that he wanted long term with her. Via gossip among the Cupcake Lovers, her newest clients, Sam wanted a mother for his children. Harper was not mother material.

  So, yeah. No. She would not text Sam. There would be no racy exchanges. No amazing sex. No Sam.

  No. Sam.

  Heart pounding, sweat trickling, Harper pumped her stationary bike and stared out the same window Mary Rothwell had dogged for two long years. Mary had had blinding faith that her husband, a soldier gone missing in World War Two, would return. To her. She’d never lost faith in her beloved.

  That’s where Harper and Mary differed.

  “Not. Going. There.”

  No dwelling on how she’d failed Andrew. Or how he’d wigged out. A public meltdown. A violent display. So like the spa shooting, although not really. Only in Harper’s wounded mind.

  Chest hurting, she pedaled past the pain. She would make it to the lake. She’d make it to the end of the lane. She’d make it into Sugar Creek. She’d disappointed a lot of people recently, but she would not disappoint the Cupcake Lovers. And while she was there, maybe she’d say hi to Sam just to be sociable. It’s not that she didn’t like him. It’s that she liked him too much.

  THREE

  This isn’t easy for me … I’ve been thinking … Life’s funny …

  Damn.

  None of the opening lines Sam rehearsed felt right. Bottom line, he was bailing on an important organization. On the women who’d freely accepted him as the first male member of the Cupcake Lovers. They’d welcomed him into their world and now he was leaving at a crucial time. He wasn’t arrogant but he was savvy. He didn’t need Harper, a professional publicist, to tell him he was a valuable asset to the club when it came to generating additional attention. He was former military. A marine who’d served multiple tours overseas. And now he was baking cupcakes for other marines and every other branch of the military.

  He got why he was a perk to the club and he’d rolled with it. He was all about the cause although, granted, he’d joined the Cupcake Lovers as a way to shake up his morbid mind-set after Paula’s death. A selfish reason, but he’d honestly enjoyed the company of his fellow bakers. Then he’d fallen for Rae and there’d been that mess. He’d fooled around with Harper and now she was involved in the club. Another potential mess. In the last months, a few of the members had gotten engaged or married and three were expecting babies. The dynamics of the club were changing. The discussions more out of Sam’s realm. The “fame” factor was the tipping point. If he shared his reasoning, no one would blame him for quitting. Except Sam wasn’t one for baring his soul. I’ve lost my cupcake mojo was the best he could do. Hopefully they’d read into that and let him go without a fight.

  “Would you mind lending me a hand, Sam?”

  He’d been deep in thought. So deep that Rae’s soft voice startled him. Sam glanced at the woman he’d been enamored with for a good year, a woman he’d hoped to make his wife, a woman whose sweet disposition resembled that of his late wife. Like Paula, Rae would have been the perfect mother for Ben and Mina. Trouble was, she’d fallen for and married Luke. The match had been quick and seemingly written in the stars. Sam was happy for his cousin and for Rae, but damn, he was envious of their easy bliss.

  “You okay?” Rae asked, and Sam realized he was probably staring like a moonstruck teen. Uncomfortable, since he’d put that infatuation to rest. Like his cousin Rocky had pointed out, Sam hadn’t been in love with Rae as much as the idea of Rae. Unfortunately, it had taken him a while to get that, involving some pretty ass-wipe behavior on his part. Thankfully, all had been forgiven, all friendships intact. Still, there were times when Sam thought it best to walk on eggshells.

  “I’m good.” Pushing off the doorjamb, Sam smiled down at the mild-tempered philanthropist. Transforming the town’s defunct day-care center into a thriving preschool with latchkey educational and sports programs for children up to ten was just one of Rae’s good deeds. “What do you need?”

  “Help in the kitchen.”

  Every member of the club took turns hosting the weekly meeting. Tonight they’d gathered at Rae and Luke’s home, a charming single-family house that sat on several acres of land. Rae was worth a fortune. She could afford a mansion. She preferred a simple life with Luke. A grounded life for their soon-to-be child. Sam’s heart jerked with affection. Or mayb
e it was simple respect. Man, he was off his game tonight.

  The animated chatter of the Cupcake Lovers faded as Sam followed Rae from the living room to the kitchen. Along the way he noted the changes she’d made since the last time he’d been here. Rae had Paula’s flair for whimsical warmth. He ignored the pang of melancholy. Paula was in the past. Rae was Luke’s. Sam had to fricking move on.

  “What’s going on with you?” Rae asked as they breached the kitchen, a cheerful room recently painted in shades of lemon and lime.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone else is bouncing off the wall thrilled about the exposure and sales thus far for Cupcake Lover’s Delectable Delights. Instead of joining in the excitement, you were holding up the wall in a brooding funk.”

  “I don’t brood.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Broody thoughts.”

  Sam’s lip twitched. “Why am I here?”

  “To help me with the teakettle.”

  Yeah, boy, that was fishy. Rae was one of the most capable and self-reliant women he knew. “You can’t carry a teakettle?”

  “If you ask Luke, I shouldn’t even carry a cup of sugar. I’m only five and a half months pregnant and he treats me like an invalid.”

  “He loves you. He worries.”

  “I know. And that makes me the luckiest and happiest woman in the world. It’s just…” She smiled and shrugged as she dialed down the burner. “He’s driving me crazy. I think we’re spending too much time together. Every couple should have breathing space, individual hobbies, right? I feel awful saying it, but I’m glad he quit the Cupcake Lovers.”

  “Luke was never a natural fit. His baking sucked.”

  She shot him a chastising look. “Not for lack of trying.”

  When it came to friends, family, and worthy causes, the usually demure redhead was quick to rile. “Don’t get bent,” Sam said kindly. “Just stating facts. Ask Daisy or Rocky or—”