Sweet Somethings Read online

  It was probably time to break the tie between her past and her present and move on to the future. But she still didn't feel ready.

  She walked over to the window and looked out at the backyard. Weeds had overrun what had once been her mother's garden. Landscaping was no doubt part of the remodel plans, which would bring more changes.

  If she hadn't put the cash she'd won from a baking contest into opening her bakery business, she would have been closer to a downpayment, but having to decide between the old house and a new business, she'd chosen the new business, thinking she'd have time to get the house later, and in the meantime she had to live.

  Well, it wasn't over yet. She needed to talk to Roman's grandfather and find out what his plans were—for both the remodel and the sale of the house. Maybe she could reason with him. Hopefully, he'd be a little more talkative than his grandson.

  She had to admit that Roman Prescott looked even better in the daylight than he had in the early morning shadows. But he had all kinds of walls up. She didn't know where the detachment came from, but he was clearly not interested in becoming friends. She'd obviously misread the interest she'd seen in his eyes earlier.

  That was just as well. She had enough on her plate without adding a man into the mix.

  She left her old bedroom and walked down the hall, pausing at the door to what had once been her mother's sewing room. There was a double bed in the room now with a sleeping bag tossed over the mattress. A half-filled suitcase was open on a chair. A guitar was propped up against the wall.

  Someone was living here—Roman? It had to be him. The male T-shirt tossed on the bed made her nerves tingle. She could almost imagine Roman stripping it off what had to be a sexy, ripped body.

  She was getting as bad as Sara… Clearing her throat, she quickly left the room and hastened down the hall, pausing at one more door. The master bedroom had once been her parents' room. Could she go in?

  Her heart started to beat faster. Her mom and dad hadn't been in that room in more than a decade. There was nothing to be nervous about, but still…

  * * *

  Roman frowned as he heard Juliette moving around on the second floor. He could silently admit that he'd been a little dazzled by the image of the pretty woman inside the bakery just after dawn, the sweet warmth of her pastries spilling out to the street as he ran by. But while she was even prettier in person, she was also a lunatic, and he'd never been big on drama.

  If he'd needed a reason to stay away from her, he certainly had one now. But first he had to get her out of the house.

  What the hell was she doing up there anyway? The only furniture was in the bedroom he was using, and that didn't involve much, because he didn't need much. His grandfather had offered him a room at his house, but he preferred being on his own, and he was used to making do with the bare necessities.

  He pried off another big piece of drywall and tossed it on a pile on the floor. His grandfather wanted to open up the space between the living room and dining room, making it feel like one big room. It was a good idea, one of many, but again he didn't know how the work was ever going to get done. His grandfather had barely done anything in the six months he'd owned the house. But his job was not to question why, just work. At least these questions kept him from thinking about his very uncertain future.

  It was suddenly very quiet overhead. He told himself to leave it alone, but as the minutes ticked by, he knew that wasn't going to happen. He pulled off his work gloves and headed up the stairs.

  He found her sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the empty master bedroom, her arms wrapped around her waist. She didn't turn her head when he entered the room and judging by the pallor of her skin and the distant look in her eyes, she was somewhere far, far away. He knew the look of trauma, of a deep, agonizing pain. He'd seen it in his own eyes and the eyes of friends who'd lost people they loved.

  "Juliette?" he asked quietly, not wanting to shock her too quickly.

  She started as he came around in front of her. He squatted down. "You okay?"

  Her beautiful blue eyes were wide and confused. "I don't know why this house bothers me so much…it shouldn't. Logically, I know it's not mine. I even know that owning it won't change anything, not really. But I can't seem to get my emotions in line with my brain."

  He had a feeling she operated only on emotion, which was something he never did, or at least he hadn't done in a very long time.

  "My mother had always wanted to go to Italy," she told him. "My dad surprised her with the trip. She didn't know until that day when my aunt showed up, and my dad handed her the airline tickets and told her she had one hour to pack her bags. It was so romantic. It was going to be the trip of a lifetime." She drew in a breath and let it out. "They started in Milan and worked their way south through Venice, Florence, Rome and then down to Salerno, where they got on a boat for a luxury cruise. Only, the boat wasn't that luxurious, and the operators had been cutting corners, and mechanical problems led to a fire, and…" Her voice trailed away. "It went down."

  His gut churned. "I'm very sorry."

  "They were two days away from coming home. There were no good-byes. No chance to say I love you. I don't even remember the last thing I said to either one of them. I know we were on the phone together the night before the cruise. They were telling me about what they'd seen that day. I'm pretty sure they asked how school was going, and I probably rambled on about nothing. I just don't know what it was."

  The guilt in her eyes resonated within him. "It doesn't matter if you didn't say I love you or I miss you; they knew. It sounds like you had a happy family life."

  "We did. It was great. They were the best parents in the world. But I didn't have them long enough."

  "No, you didn't," he agreed.

  "I wanted to stay here—in this town, in this house—but my aunt lived in New York, and that's where her job was, and that's where she needed to be. I had to move into a completely different world. Her one-bedroom apartment was tiny. We lived there for almost three years. I slept on a pull-out couch in the living room. Then she got married, and her husband bought us a condo. He was nice to me, but I wasn't very nice to him. It was another change in my life that I didn't want. I kept thinking one day I would have control over my life. I would call the shots. It's taken a long time, but I'm pretty close to being there. I have my own business. I just need—this house."

  He could hear the desperation in her voice, but he doubted that the house could ever give her what she really needed. He didn’t think she'd appreciate hearing that, so instead, he said, "When did you come back to Fairhope?"

  "Five months ago. I won a national baking contest, and the prize was $30,000."

  "Impressive."

  "I had considered using the money to make a downpayment on this house, but it had recently been sold, and I was told the buyer wasn't interested in selling yet. Plus $30,000 wasn't going to be enough, not if I wanted to open the bakery, too. So I had to choose. I could only afford one dream."

  "You're lucky you could afford even that."

  She stared back at him. "You're right. I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm dumping all this on you. I don't usually go on and on like this with a perfect stranger."

  He'd actually enjoyed it, more than he cared to admit. It had been some time since he'd had a long conversation with anyone. "It's not a problem. But…" He stood up.

  "You need me to leave. I know." She got to her feet. "Thanks for letting me look around."

  "You can come back if you feel the need," he said, then immediately kicked himself for making that offer. He didn't want her coming back here for any reason. She'd already distracted him and cost him an hour of work. And while he might be working for his grandfather, the old man was as hard-assed as any Marine he'd worked under.

  Juliette brushed the dust off the back of her jeans, drawing his gaze to her very shapely rear-end. Which he really did not need to be looking at. He turned and headed toward the door, leading the
way down the stairs.

  "So where did you come back from, Roman?" she asked as he reached the last step.

  He should have known the questions were coming. She was too talkative to just leave without saying anything else.

  "I'm on leave from the Marine Corps, so you could say I'm coming back from all over."

  "I don't remember you from when I lived here before."

  "I think I'm older than you by a few years. I'm thirty-one."

  "I'm twenty-seven—so a four-year difference."

  "I didn't show up here until I was fifteen, which would have made you eleven. I guess our paths could have crossed, but we wouldn't have been in the same school at the same time."

  "And I was gone a year later." She cocked her head to the right, giving him a thoughtful look. "Donavan said you came to live with your grandfather. What happened to your parents?"

  His lips tightened. "My father died and my mother wasn't around."

  "I'm sorry about your dad."

  "I didn't even know him. He died when I was a toddler."

  "Still…" She frowned. "You don't like to talk about yourself, do you?"

  "No."

  "That's unusual. Most of the men I've met lately love to talk about themselves, and none of them have led very interesting lives. While you, on the other hand, don't want to say much, but I suspect you have all kinds of stories you could tell."

  He dismissed her hopeful smile by waving her toward the door. "I doubt that, and I have work to do, Ms. Adams."

  "Oh, please, it's Juliette. No one is formal in this town, least of all me. I'll let you get back to work. But please come by the bakery sometime and collect your free dessert. You can pick whatever you want."

  "I'm not much on sweets."

  She laughed in disbelief. "No way that's true. I saw the look in your eyes this morning when you gazed at my display case. It's not a crime to eat a little sugar once in a while." She gave him a dimpled smile that made his heart twist. "It might even sweeten you up a bit."

  "I'm never going to be sweet," he said, quite certain of that fact.

  "You've already been very sweet to me. But I won't tell anyone. I wouldn't want to ruin your tough-guy, doesn't-talk-much image."

  With that parting shot, she finally made it through the front door. He quickly closed it behind her. He couldn't tell her that he hadn't been looking at her display case when he'd stopped outside her bakery; he'd been looking at her. And that hunger churning in his gut hadn't had much to do with cookies and pies.

  As for some dessert sweetening him up, it was going to take a lot more than cake to smooth his rough edges.

  Not that he intended to try. He liked the calluses and scars over his heart. They were important and constant reminders not to believe in anything or anyone that was too good to be true, and Juliette Adams had all the signs of being in the too-good-to-be-true category.

  Three

  By four o'clock in the afternoon, his shoulders were aching as well as his back, and Roman decided to call it a day. He didn’t want to jeopardize his recovery by overworking his muscles.

  Throwing on his black leather jacket, he locked the front door of the house to avoid any more unwanted visitors and headed downtown for some coffee. It was only about a mile and a half to the center of town, and he was happy for the walk.

  As he neared Juliette's bakery, he deliberately crossed the street. While he might take her up on her offer of a free pastry one day, that day wouldn't be today. He'd spent far too much time already thinking about her. He needed a break before he saw her again.

  Walking into Donavan's, he was immediately struck by the warm, charming atmosphere. With exposed brick walls, wooden tables, and an old piano in one corner, the coffeehouse felt more like someone's living room than a café.

  A large chalkboard on one wall detailed the day's specials. A charming array of mugs sat on the counter and inside the display case he saw brownies, cookies, eclairs, and pastries from Sweet Somethings. Obviously, Donavan and Juliette had a business relationship as well as a friendship.

  As he looked around the room, he saw his grandfather sitting at a table in the corner with his friend Max, an African-American man in a wheelchair. Vincent had his back to him and Max's gaze was focused on the chess board, so he left them alone and headed to the counter.

  When he stepped up to order, a striking blonde, wearing a bright-red apron, came over to the counter, her blue eyes sparkling a familiar welcome. "Roman Prescott. It's about time you came in here. I heard you've been back almost two weeks, and this is the first time I've seen you."

  "Hello, Donavan. Nice place you have here. My grandfather tells me this coffee shop is the best thing that ever happened to this town."

  She smiled at the compliment. "It's certainly the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm glad he feels the same way."

  As he drew in a breath, his senses were assailed with the scent of coffee. "Damn. It smells good in here."

  She laughed. "It's our dark roast. It comes from a small town in Ethiopia." She tipped her head to the map on the wall where several colored tags showed where the different coffee beans were grown.

  "You get your beans from Ethiopia?"

  "I do. And a couple of times a year we hold fundraisers to send money to some of the poorest of the poor in the areas that grow our coffee. It seems only fair. We're actually having one of those next week. Maybe you can come."

  Donavan Turner had always been the kind of person who looked out for other people; she'd looked out for him once. And he'd never forgotten that. Although, she was probably a little too optimistic, always wanting to believe that everyone had a good side, when some people were just bad all the way through.

  "I will definitely try to come," he said.

  "What can I get you?"

  "I'll take the dark roast."

  "I'm assuming you want it straight up—no whipped cream or sprinkles?"

  "Definitely not."

  A dark brunette came up behind Donavan, giving him a curious look.

  "Sara," Donavan said. "This is Roman Prescott. We went to high school together."

  "It's nice to meet you," Sara said. "I assume you're Vince's grandson?"

  "That would be me. And it's nice to meet you, too."

  "I'll get your coffee," Donavan said.

  "And I'll take your money," Sara added.

  "No, this one is on the house," Donavan told Sara.

  "You don't have to do that," he replied, handing Sara a five-dollar bill.

  "But it's your welcome-back coffee," Donavan said.

  "Consider it my donation to the good people of Ethiopia."

  "In that case—all right." Donavan handed him a ceramic mug of coffee. "You never did like to owe people. And, yes, I put this in a to-stay instead of in a to-go cup, because I thought we might chat for a minute."

  Seeing the determination in her eyes, he knew there was no way he was going to escape without that chat. And the fact of the matter was he didn't really have somewhere else he needed to be. "Sure."

  Her eyebrow arched in surprise. "That was easier than I thought, but I'll take it." She came around the counter, and they sat down at a small table.

  "I saw the piano," he said. "Do you still play?"

  "Whenever I get the chance. How about you? Still strumming that guitar?"

  "Just took it up again recently."

  "That's great. How are you doing, Roman? I heard you were injured and had to leave the Marines. The details are murky, though."

  That's because no one knew the details, including his grandfather. "That's pretty much the story. I may still go back. I'm on medical leave."

  "Well, I'm glad you weren't too badly hurt. It's been what—eleven, twelve years—since you were here?"

  "Thirteen. I left a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday." As he sipped his coffee, he added, "This might be the best cup of coffee I've ever had."

  Her smile broadened. "I'm glad to hear that. I have to say I wasn't
sure you'd ever come back to this town, Roman. Things weren't great when you left."

  "No they weren't, but it was a long time ago."

  "I'm sure your grandfather is happy to have you back. He said you're working for him now."

  "Temporarily anyway."

  "Well, I hope you'll stay as long as you can."

  "Thanks, but you may not share the popular opinion when it comes to me staying in town," he drawled, seeing two older women across the room, one of whom was glaring at him.

  She followed his gaze. "Don't worry about Martha Grayson. No one listens to her."

  "That hasn't been my experience."

  "Well, even if people listen to her, they know she's just gossiping. Give the town a chance to show you it has grown up, just like you have. And while Martha can be the ultimate small-minded mean girl, her sister Cecelia isn't so bad, and sometimes she can keep Martha in line."

  He smiled at her optimism. "Sure, she can. But thanks. You were always kind to me, even when I didn't deserve it."

  "You did deserve it. Most people just didn't see the real you, Roman. And that wasn't their fault; it was yours. You didn't let people in. You had a huge wall up."

  "That's true, but I did let a few in, and that didn't work well."

  "I never really understood what happened."

  "You and me both." He paused as a familiar woman came through the door of the coffee shop, and just like earlier in the day, every muscle in his body tightened and warning bells went off in his head. Juliette's gaze, however, went straight to his grandfather, and as she headed over to the men's table with a purposeful walk, he was actually curious to see what would happen.

  To most people, his gruff, short-tempered grandfather would probably be intimidating, but Juliette didn't seem at all worried. Then again, she was on a mission, and she wasn't about to let anyone stop her from making her pitch.

  "Who are you looking at?" Donavan asked, then turned her head to see. "Oh, Juliette Adams." She turned back to him with a knowing gleam in her eyes. "Juliette runs the bakery across the street—Sweet Somethings."