Sweet Somethings Read online

  He smiled—the man actually smiled—and it sent a crazy shiver down her spine. It was the first time he hadn't looked annoyed or closed off, and it was shockingly sexy.

  "I could have made that statement five minutes after you burst into my grandfather's house," he said. "First you want to stop a remodel on a house you don't own, then you want to buy a house you can't afford. Now you're chasing a cookie thief in a pair of bunny slippers."

  "I wear them when I bake," she said defensively. "They're comfortable for standing up for hours on end. I was going to change, but I didn't have a chance." She paused. "Just so you know, I wasn't going to yell at the kid; I was going to ask him if he was hungry, if he needed help. There was something in his eyes. It looked like—desperation." She shook her head. "You wouldn't understand."

  "Now that I would understand," he said quietly.

  She stared back at him, sensing there was more behind his words than he would ever tell her. "Would you?"

  He nodded, but didn't elaborate.

  "Well, maybe he'll come back another day," she said, taking one last glance around, but she knew the child was long gone.

  "Probably not for a few days if he saw you chasing him."

  "He did see me." She thought for a moment. "I wonder if I should go by the closest elementary school and see if I can find him."

  "Whoa, seriously?" he asked in surprise. "You're going to scout out the school now?"

  "What if he's in trouble?"

  "What if he just wanted to see if he could steal a cookie right out from under your nose?"

  "I don't think it was that."

  "It could have been."

  He had a point. "Well, I'll think about it. I should get back to the bakery. Mornings are my busiest time. Susan probably wonders where the hell I went."

  He fell into step alongside her, which surprised her even more. "Maybe I'll take you up on your free dessert offer. I'm hungry," he said.

  "I thought you didn't eat sweets."

  "Since I came back to Fairhope, I'm doing a lot of things I normally don't do."

  "Like what else?" she asked, as they walked back toward town.

  He shrugged. "Chase women who are chasing little boys."

  She made a face at him. "No one asked you to do that."

  A smile played around his lips again. "The bunny slippers intrigued me. I couldn't resist."

  "They slowed me down. I would have caught that kid if I'd been in regular shoes."

  "I'm sure."

  She cast him a sideways glance, knowing he wouldn't like her next question, but she couldn't stop herself. "What's the story with you and Doug Winters? Your conversation at Donavan's didn't look friendly."

  As she'd expected, his expression shut down, his profile turning hard. "We were friends before. We're not now."

  "That's it? You can't be a little more expansive? What happened between you? Why did you stop being friends?"

  "It's not your business, Juliette."

  He was right about that, but she was too curious to back off. "Maybe it would be good for you to talk about what happened. You could get rid of bad feelings, release the past."

  "I doubt that would occur." He shot her a look. "You seem to talk about everything that's on your mind, and you're still trapped in the past."

  Now it was her turn to frown. "That's not true."

  "It's completely true. That's why you want to buy your old house, isn't it? You can't let go of the past."

  "Well, my past was happy. Yours apparently wasn't."

  "You've got me there, but it's my business. You need to stop meddling in everyone else's life. That little kid probably doesn't need your help, and God knows I don't need your assistance." He stopped walking and gave her an irritated look. "I've changed my mind about the pastry. I think I'll stick to an all-protein breakfast."

  "Hey, hang on," she protested, impulsively grabbing his arm. "Don't be like that. I was just trying to help. You can keep your secrets. And I have the perfect breakfast bread for you, so please come with me to the bakery."

  He sighed. "You're a lot of work, Juliette."

  "You're not the first person to tell me that." She gave him a pleading smile. "Others have said I'm worth it."

  "I'd like to meet some of those people," he muttered.

  "If you come with me, I promise not to ask you any more questions about your mysterious past with Doug Winters."

  "Fine. I'll come to the bakery."

  She let go of his arm as they continued walking toward downtown. "So, what are you doing on the house today?"

  "Nothing you want to hear about," he said dryly.

  "I'm surprised you're living there during the construction. I saw your stuff in the upstairs bedroom."

  "My grandfather and I don't make good roommates, and since I don't know how long I'll be in town, the house suits my needs. I've got a bed to sleep on, a TV in the kitchen, running water and electricity; what more do I need?"

  "I would want a lot more, but you don't seem to require much."

  "I've lived in a lot worse places."

  "Like…" she began, knowing she was probably treading back into dangerous waters, but while she'd agreed not to ask about the distant past, maybe the more recent past would prove less bothersome.

  "Like dry, sandy, monochrome deserts that go on for miles, that are unbearably hot, and feel a little like hell on earth."

  "I think that's the longest sentence you've ever said to me. Since you're not giving me an exact location, I'm guessing that's somewhere in the Middle East."

  "Somewhere," he agreed.

  "I heard you were in the Marines."

  "I still am—for the moment."

  "What does that mean?"

  He hesitated, then said, "I was injured and put on medical leave a few months ago."

  "So you're going back."

  "That's debatable. I have to pass the physical and that might not happen."

  She was surprised by his words. He looked like he was in the peak of physical health. "You seem pretty fit to me. You run every day."

  "I have some hearing issues that haven't resolved completely, as well as a shoulder injury with some lingering weakness. If I'm not one hundred percent, I won't be able to do my job and any weakness could jeopardize the other members of my unit."

  "But there must be other jobs you could do."

  "Not that I necessarily want to do," he countered. "What if someone told you that you could still be a baker, but you could only make vanilla cookies and nothing else?"

  "I'd tell them the business would fail quickly. But I get your point. When will you find out?"

  "I have a follow-up physical a week from Monday, then a decision will be made."

  She could hear the tension in his voice and knew he had a lot riding on that decision. "What will your grandfather do if you go back to the Marines?"

  "He'll have to find other workers."

  She wondered if Roman's departure might slow down the remodel. While that thought was interesting, the idea of him leaving before she really got a chance to know him was not nearly as appealing.

  "I have to admit that the construction has been a nice change," Roman continued, surprising her by volunteering information that wasn't in direct response to a question. "It feels good to be in a house, to be tearing out something that will actually be made better."

  She heard a deep sadness in his voice and suspected Roman had been through things she couldn't even imagine. What must it be like to put your life on the line every single day? It made her bakery business seem quite inconsequential. "Maybe you could do construction if you have to change jobs," she suggested.

  "Perhaps. I can't consider it right now. My life has always been the Marines. I'm a soldier. That's what I do well." He stopped abruptly, as if suddenly realizing how much he was telling her.

  "You know what you need besides my extra-special banana walnut bread?" she asked.

  "I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

>   "A couple of my Valentine's Day Wish cookies. Legend has it that if you eat them, your wishes will come true."

  The tension in his face eased with her words. "Legend has it?"

  "Yes. The tradition started with my father. He ran a bakery here in town when he was alive, and he made these special Wish cookies every February. He'd sell them from the first to the fourteenth, and a lot of people have told me their wishes came true after eating the cookies."

  "The wishes are for love?"

  "Actually, for anything that brings you love or joy. You could wish for a full recovery from your injuries."

  "So all I have to do is eat a cookie to change my life? If that’s true, and you're the cookie maker, why aren't you already a millionaire?"

  "Maybe that's not my wish," she countered.

  "That's everyone's wish."

  "Actually, I've never been that motivated by money. I respect that I need money to do what I want, but it's not what drives me." She paused. "I don't think it's what drives you."

  "You don't know me."

  "Well, I don't think anyone becomes a soldier to get rich."

  "You've got me there."

  "These are very special cookies," she said. "You might be surprised at their power—if you can keep an open mind."

  "I can do that."

  "Really?" she asked doubtfully as they neared the bakery.

  "Yes," he said with a nod. "And I am a little curious to see just how good these cookies are." He paused and opened the door of the bakery to allow two older women to walk out.

  The first one—the gray-haired, stern-faced, Martha Grayson—gave Roman a sharp, killing look. Her sister—the red-haired, much sweeter, Cecelia—stumbled into Martha's back as she stopped abruptly.

  "You!" Martha said, glaring at Roman.

  "Ma'am," Roman muttered, his lips drawn in a tight line.

  "Good morning, ladies," Juliette said cheerfully, trying to lighten the tense moment.

  "I can't believe you had the nerve to come back here," Martha said to Roman. "Haven't you done enough damage in this town? You think we've all forgotten what kind of boy you were?"

  "I'll see you later, Juliette," Roman said, letting the door go.

  Cecelia caught it with her hand, which probably wouldn't have made Roman happy, since no doubt he'd wanted to smash it in Martha's face, but he hadn't bothered to look back.

  Juliette frowned at the Grayson sisters as they came onto the sidewalk, letting the door close behind them.

  "You should not be talking to that man," Martha said.

  "Why? What happened? What did he do?" she asked.

  "So many things," Martha said. "I don't know where to start. As soon as he came to town as a teenager, there was nothing but problems. He got into fights. Good kids were following him down bad paths. He even started a fire that burned down Phil Marson's house. The poor family had to move. He caused nothing but pain and misery, and I can't believe he had the nerve to come back here—or that his grandfather would let him. I don't know what Vincent was thinking."

  She was taken aback by the spew of nastiness coming from Martha's mouth as well as the barrage of incidents that apparently had Roman's name on them.

  "We don't really know if Roman did all those things," Cecelia put in, giving her sister a pained look.

  "Of course we do," Martha said. "Vincent should have sent him back where he came from as soon as he realized there was a problem, but he didn't want to see what was right under his nose."

  "You've said enough, Martha," Cecelia said, giving Juliette an apologetic smile. "We'll be going now."

  "You'll stay away from him if you know what's good for you," Martha added, sending one last parting shot before her sister urged her down the street.

  She considered Martha's words. The man she'd met didn't seem quick to anger or explosively violent, but it was certainly possible he'd changed since he was a teenager. Martha wasn't the only one who had a problem with Roman; Doug Winters did as well.

  But she'd make up her own mind about Roman. She wasn't going to let Martha dictate her actions. She also wasn't going to let the butterflies in her stomach distract her from seeing him for who he really was.

  Five

  Roman had always liked his own company, always felt comfortable by himself, but for some reason the solitude was getting on his nerves and by five Friday afternoon, he was itching to get out of the house again.

  He didn't know why; it wasn't like yesterday's trip to the coffee shop had gone that well. And this morning's run-in with the Grayson sisters at Juliette's bakery had only reminded him that he could spend a lifetime trying to defend himself—if he was at all interested in doing that, which he was not.

  He suspected that Juliette had gotten an earful from Martha and her sister after he left. She'd already been curious about Doug and the tension she'd witnessed at the coffee shop. Well, she probably knew quite a bit more about him now—or at least the teenager he'd once been. He wondered if she'd believe everything she heard.

  Probably. Everyone else had.

  With a frustrated sigh, he set down his tools, grabbed his jacket and headed outside. Avoiding the downtown shopping area, he walked toward the water. It was a route similar to the one he ran most mornings, but now he wasn't interested so much in exercise as in taking a long breath of cool, crisp air and getting away from his thoughts.

  As he walked past a mix of modest and stately houses, most of which were set on large lots with canopies of trees overhead, he remembered the first time he'd come to Fairhope. He'd thought he'd landed in the middle of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was small town America with a charming downtown area and shop owners who knew each other, people who said hello when you passed by. It was a place where community mattered, where friends and families came together to celebrate holidays and birthdays and even sadder moments.

  It had been a huge change from his life in Southern California, with a mother who barely talked to him, much less any kind of family or community to support him.

  Deep down, he'd really liked Fairhope, but he'd refused to admit it. He'd been sent there against his will, forced to leave what few friends he had, to live with a grandfather he'd never met. He'd barricaded his feelings behind anger and sarcasm.

  But inside he'd been vulnerable, worried that if he got too comfortable, if he liked something too much, it would disappear, because it always had before.

  So he'd pretended to resent his grandfather's rules: breakfast at six, school at eight, job after school, dinner at six, homework, then bed. It had been more structure than he'd ever experienced in his life. But it had felt good to actually know what he was supposed to do and when he was supposed to do it.

  He just hadn't been willing to let anyone else see that. He'd been judged before he even got off the plane as Vincent's troublemaking teenage grandson, and it had been easier to be that than to try to be anyone else. So he'd acted like he hated the hokey small-town traditions, the busybody neighbors, the town's desire to celebrate everything, the emphasis on culture, on art and design and music and writing. He'd made fun of the artists who painted by the pier, the musicians singing in the square for pocket money, the idea that life could be pretty and perfect, even though in Fairhope it certainly seemed like it could be.

  With a sigh, he paused as he dug his shoes into the brown sandy shores of Mobile Bay. Off to his right was the long pier that jutted into the bay. He'd stood in this very spot many times as a teenager, wondering what his future held. Would he go back to California? Would his mother ever get better and come and get him? Would he stay here forever?

  The answers had never come, but looking at the water, the horizon, had helped keep things in perspective.

  He needed some of that perspective now. Just like when he'd come to town before, he wasn't sure how long he'd stay. He'd left Fairhope to make a life for himself in the Marine Corps. He liked the man he'd become, the job he'd done, the people he'd done it with. To think he might have to actually g
ive it all up was difficult to swallow, but he was too much of a realist not to consider that possibility. He wasn't giving up, though—not yet—not until they told him he was done. But in his gut he knew things were going to change. He would have to decide how he wanted to change with them.

  His cell phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket, happy to see Cole Kenner's name run across the screen. Cole had served with him for the past seven years. They'd been through a lot together, and they'd always had an instinct about when the other was in trouble.

  "Cole, what's up?"

  "Checking in. How's sweet home Alabama?"

  "Not home, not sweet, but I'm here." As he made the statement, he realized he was wrong. There was sweetness in this town, and her name was Juliette.

  "When do you see the doc again?"

  "A week from Monday."

  "I'm hoping for good news."

  "You and me, both. What about you? How are things going?"

  "Same as always. I'm stateside for a few days. Loving a little beach action."

  Which meant Cole was probably in San Diego at Camp Pendleton. "I'm at the beach right now, too—different view, though."

  "Are you and your grandfather getting along?"

  "We are. I'm actually helping him with some construction."

  "Your shoulder is up for that?"

  "I think it's good to work the muscles." He didn't mention that the shoulder was not as big of a concern as his hearing.

  "We need you back, Roman."

  "I'd like to be back. Anything new with anyone?"

  "Jimmy got himself engaged."

  "What?" he asked with a laugh. "Again?" Jimmy had been engaged three times in the five years Roman had known him.

  "You know Jimmy. He falls in love every other day."

  "And out of love, just as fast."

  "True, but he thinks this one will stick."

  "I hope it does."

  "I gotta run. Let me know what happens after you see the doc."

  "I will. Stay safe, Cole."

  "Always."

  As he slipped his phone back into his pocket, his gaze returned to the water, but he wasn't seeing the scene in front of him; he was seeing Cole and his buddies playing cards to pass the time, running drills, passing out soccer balls to kids, rebuilding a school, getting ready for their next mission. So many memories—both good and bad. He should be with them, but he wasn't.