Wild Kisses (Wildwood) Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Joan Swan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 978-1503940765

  ISBN-10: 1503940764

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  For Marina and Rocco.

  Thank you for all your positivity and support.

  For being a phone call away with the answer to my every question.

  Love you two!

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ONE

  Trace Hutton struggled to focus on the rough-hewn stone in his hand as he back-buttered the small slab with cement, but all he could think about was Avery playing with icing downstairs. And how he wished he were playing with her.

  The warm scent of chocolate and spice floated up from the partially remodeled kitchen, sweet and infinitely tempting, just like the café’s owner. In his mind, the cement in his trough turned to icing, the stone transformed into Avery’s naked body, and his hands replaced the trowel and controlled the frosting.

  “Thinkin’ with the wrong head again.” He used both hands and a sharp eye to settle the stone atop the last, building the fireplace hearth, stone by stone.

  An upbeat song from Lifehouse echoed through the unfinished space, its lyrics filled with hope and talk of fresh starts. That’s what this project was about for both him and Avery—the perfect opportunity for each of them to give their lives a boost.

  Too bad that boost didn’t include a hot hookup between the good girl and the ex-con, because all he’d been able to think about for weeks was licking buttercream frosting or melted chocolate or caramel whipped cream—really, any of the mouthwatering fillings she created—off her equally delicious body.

  His watch chimed, dragging Trace from his fantasies and reminding him of his father’s medical appointment. Trace glanced over the hearth, only half-finished. Damn, there just wasn’t enough time in the day. He still had so much to do to get this place ready for Avery’s opening, just a few short weeks away. The invisible vise cranked a little tighter, giving him a fresh perspective on the concept of time crunch.

  Trace was able to lay four more stones before his watch chimed again, signaling he had twenty minutes to swing home, pick up his dad, and get him to his doctor down the street. Totally doable if his dad was in a cooperative mood. If not . . .

  Trace checked the last stone he placed with his level. Sweat trickled down his bare chest. This Northern California Indian summer was killing him. It was almost November, for God’s sake. He cleaned up his supplies, washed off in the upstairs bathroom—yet another “to finish” on his list—and trotted down the stairs to check on the guys he’d hired to install the booths in the café’s main seating area.

  The scent of home-baked chocolaty goodness drew his gaze toward the baking area on his way past. In addition to the full kitchen in the back, Avery had wanted a central area where she could bake in full sight of customers. So Trace had created a secondary kitchen for her consisting of a large butcher block with a small inset of marble. As soon as her appliances came in, she’d have an oven, fridge, and sink against the back wall, effectively separating the cooking and baking areas.

  To keep debris out of the area so Avery could continue working during most of the construction, he’d installed thick plastic sheets from floor to ceiling, with one entrance held shut by Velcro. Through the murky panels, Trace saw Avery swaying and singing along to her preferred music, a mix of pop and country.

  He paused to watch her, loving the way she sang and danced a little, then refocused and became intensely still as she put piping tip to cupcake. A furrow of concentration between her brows, she assessed the next cupcake like an artist looking at a blank canvas. She twisted her pastry bag and bent toward the counter.

  Trace’s devilish streak sizzled across his shoulders. Grinning, he slapped the plastic aside, ripping the Velcro open. “Hey, Snickerdoodle, how are you doing?”

  Avery startled. Her hands slipped, and icing squirted onto the stainless steel counter. “Dammit, Trace. How many times have I told you—”

  As she caught his grin, her frustration turned hot. She aimed her pastry bag at him and squeezed. Icing shot across the space, splattering his abdomen in a cold blast.

  Shock tripped Trace back a step with a laugh. Arms lifted out to the sides, he looked down at the gooey mess and laughed harder. That wickedly playful move was not what he’d expected, but the longer he spent around this woman, the more she surprised him.

  Avery looked a little surprised, too, her cheeks turning a deeper pink. But she was laughing. “You deserve it. You can be such a little shit.”

  Trace approached the counter, swiping a finger full of icing off his gut. “Is this royal or cream cheese? Because you know I hate royal.”

  The way she pressed her lips together in annoyed humor told him it was cream cheese, and with a laugh of triumph he sucked the icing off his finger. But this wasn’t just cream cheese frosting. She’d added spices that made him hum with pleasure.

  Her hair was up in a messy bun with wisps falling around her face and neck, and she looked absolutely adorable.

  She smiled, her light-blue eyes twinkling. “You ass.”

  “Just part of my charm.” He reached for the cupcake she’d messed up. “Guess that’s going to have to be donated to the less fortunate.”

  She smacked his hand hard, the sting singing through his skin.

  He pulled back but remained poised to grab the treat, and he leveled a look at her. “You’re feisty today. Am I going to have to fight you for that? ’Cause I was quite the wrestler in high school. My moves combined with all the icing around here . . .” He added a teasing warning to his voice. “It could get really messy, really fast.”

  “Maybe you will.” She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. The look she gave him—as if she were seriously considering—shot a little thrill through his chest. “I should fight you for it on principle alone.”

  Oh, the images that flashed in his head . . .

  If only.

  But he just wasn’t that lucky, and this project was just too important to both of them to mess it up with flirtation gone wild.

  Trace purposely brought the teasing back to a respectable level. “But you won’t because you know it’s late, you know I’ve got to be starving, and you know I won’t have time to stop for lunch today.”

  Her gaze darted to the clock on the wall, and her humor faded. “Oh my God, it is late.”

  She wiped her hands on her apron and turned toward the old fridge. Trace took the opportunity to grab the ruined cupcake while her back was turned. This batch was for a bridal shower / wedding-cake-tasting party, so he knew they would be her best. And after working around Av
ery seven days a week for two months, Trace knew she made twice as many of everything as she actually needed. So he didn’t feel bad about stripping the wrapper and stuffing half of the cake into his mouth.

  But the giant bite didn’t give him the chocolate hit he’d expected. Instead he got a mouthful of decadent spices blended in a thick-textured, melt-in-his-mouth cake. And the cream cheese icing added a luscious zing that made Trace moan.

  “Trace Hutton,” she scolded, complete with a two-year-old foot-stomp. “Those are not for you.”

  Trace started laughing and covered his mouth so the cupcake didn’t end up all over the kitchen. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Did you seriously just stomp your foot? Okay, that was almost the highlight of my day.” He lifted the other half of the cupcake. “This is the absolute highlight of my day. But they’re not chocolate. Why do I smell chocolate?”

  “Because I’m making brownies for Finley’s Market.” She pushed two brown paper bags across the counter. “Sandwiches and apple turnovers.”

  Trace stuffed the other half of the cupcake into his mouth, groaning at the way the flavors blended and instantly changed his entire outlook on life for the better. “Oh my God. What is this?”

  “Carrot cake from scratch with crushed pineapple, and ginger-cinnamon cream cheese frosting.” When Trace reached for another cupcake, she slapped his hand again. “You’re killing my profits, Hutton. Get out.” She pointed to one of the bags. “And hide those apple turnovers until George gets some protein in him. You, too. You both have an insatiable sweet tooth that’s going to lead to diabetes if you don’t change your diets.”

  “Says the woman single-handedly keeping the sugarcane industry alive.”

  She picked up a rag, rounded the counter, and started wiping the icing from his body.

  Trace dropped his arms to his sides, giving her full access to whatever part of him she wanted to touch. But he had to fist his hands to keep from touching her back. Over the last two months, their friendship had grown closer and more flirtatious. They’d both walked right up to the line that differentiated friends from something more, yet neither had stepped over.

  Which was the way he knew it should stay. Even if her eyes on him made him wish for so much more.

  “I think I got it all.” She tossed the rag onto the counter and returned to her frosting station. “Now go. You’re going to be late.”

  Most women liked his body. Construction work kept him muscular and fit without additional exercise or weights. But if Avery was impressed, she didn’t show it.

  “Can I bring one of those to my dad?” he asked, wanting her eyes on him again. Wanting to see if he could catch any hint of heat there.

  “Pffft.” She didn’t look up from her renewed focus in decorating. “Like I believe George would ever see it. Oh—”

  She stopped in midsqueeze, set her pastry bag down, and bent to look beneath the counter. The soft fabric of her blouse bowed a little—thank God for gravity—and Trace got a peek at her bra and the breasts filling the cups. Yes, he’d sunk to grabbing peeks wherever he could get them.

  She was on the smallish side, but her breasts were round and perfectly proportioned to her body. He was sure they would also feel like silk under his tongue and cradle his cock to perfection.

  “When I was restocking at Wildly Artisan,” she said, “Carolyn, the woman who has the space right next to mine, told me about this website on music therapy for dementia and Alzheimer patients. It made me think of George. I printed the article out for you.”

  She straightened and offered Trace a couple of pages.

  He took them and pretended to glance over the text, but he was momentarily awed—yet again—by her generosity.

  Avery sold her sweets in key places across town as promotion in preparation for the grand opening of Wild Harts, a diner and bakery. She rented a spot in her aunt’s business, Wildly Artisan, where artists of all kinds sold their creations. Avery couldn’t bake fast enough to keep up with the demands from her space there. She also replenished sweets at the local grocery, Finley’s Market, daily, and did a decent Internet business. Not to mention her custom-cake orders for special occasions or her dessert-catering gigs.

  She was one of the busiest people Trace had ever met, working sunup to sundown, seven days a week, striving to make her dream a success. Yet somewhere in her “free time” she’d researched a tangential topic she thought might help his father.

  And what had Trace been doing? Lusting after her body.

  This was exactly why he needed to keep his hands off her.

  She was way too good for him.

  “When I dropped lunch off for George last week and you were at the lumber yard,” she said, “I stayed and talked with him awhile. He said he used to play piano in a choir?”

  Trace felt a little shift deep in his chest. One that only this woman could create. He nodded, trying to realign all his thoughts and feelings into the appropriate places, but nothing wanted to fit where it should. “That’s where he and my mom met.”

  “I figured it might be worth a try.”

  Trace folded the papers and pushed them into his back pocket. “Thanks. I’ll read it tonight.”

  Now he felt awkward and lecherous, so he reached for another cupcake. And got another hand slap. And laughed as he headed for the door.

  Equilibrium restored.

  When he took one last glance back on his way out, he found her gaze on his ass instead of the cupcakes she should be frosting.

  Forget the adorable foot-stomp. Ditch the delicious cupcake. Her eyes on his body—that was undeniably the high point of his day.

  TWO

  Avery Hart had one goal in life: to create pastries that were better than sex.

  But not just any sex. Avery aimed to make her sweets as satisfying as the wicked, sheet-fisting, back-arching, throat-closing, religion-altering kind of sex she’d heard about in conversations among fellow army wives at their monthly Sisters’ Sanity Night, back when she’d been an army wife.

  Her gaze blurred over the smooth, thick ivory ribbons of icing swirling around the beater in her KitchenAid’s stainless steel bowl. She forced her mind off her recent divorce and onto her bright future. Free. She was free to do whatever she wanted, the way she wanted, because she wanted. No more pining over a silent phone or an empty e-mail in-box. No more heartbreak over another postponed homecoming. No more crushed expectations.

  Only she didn’t feel free. In the last two days, Trace had progressed to working on the café’s cabinetry, and she’d been relegated once again to the tiny kitchen in her aunt’s home. She was staying with Phoebe until Trace finished the apartment above the café, but she tried not to bake here unless absolutely necessary. And as if the space weren’t cramped enough, Avery’s sister Delaney and her boyfriend, Ethan, had decided to spend their evening here, dominating the doll-size kitchen table and discussing Ethan’s most recent brew.

  Covered in confectioners’ sugar and royal icing, and struggling to work around the lack of equipment and space, Avery still felt a lot like the ex-wife who’d been kicked out of her house, pushed away by her “friends,” and disowned by the army she’d so loyally loved for so long.

  Now back home in Wildwood and facing old friends and acquaintances for the first time in eight years, she felt like the impulsive girl who’d run away at seventeen and ended up failing at love and life. She felt burdened and stressed and worried. And, yes, she also felt incredibly fortunate and infinitely grateful. On her good days, she even managed cautious optimism—quite a feat considering the risks she faced.

  But “free”? No. She didn’t feel free.

  If she did, she would have more self-confidence. The self-confidence to go after what she wanted personally. Then she’d be rolling in Trace Hutton’s sugar and slathered in his icing. Maybe then she’d feel free.

  Memories of his tease at the café two days before made her smile. Wrestling in icing with Trace? In a heartbeat—if he were ever serio
us. But he was just a player, flirting. And that was okay. It gave Avery practice.

  “Popcorn?” Delaney’s question pulled Avery’s gaze across the small kitchen to where her sister sat on Ethan Hayes’s lap.

  “No,” he said, contemplative.

  It seemed there was something amiss with Ethan’s beer. It was the one he planned to use in his starting lineup for Wildcard Brews, the brewpub he was opening in town with his grandfather and Delaney. Ethan and Delaney had been curled up together on that kitchen chair for half an hour, trying to figure out what didn’t taste quite right, while Avery baked stock for the shelves of her space at Wildly Artisan.

  Ethan lifted his glass to peer at the amber liquid through the light. “Try some, Avery. Tell us what you think. You’ve got the best taste buds in the family.”

  “Only for items containing sugar and butter.” Or Trace. “Sorry.”

  “It’s really nice.” Delaney took another sip. “Especially for this time of year.”

  Ethan agreed. “But if I don’t know how it happened, I can’t re-create it. Is it caramel?”

  “Close, but no,” Delaney said.

  Avery lifted her brows and offered, “World’s best cinnamon roll?”

  Both of them focused on her, their gazes dazed, as if coming out of a trance. Delaney’s sharpened first. Her smoky-blue eyes darted to the mixer, then to the trays of cinnamon rolls covering every horizontal surface, waiting for frosting.

  Something clicked in her gaze. She pulled in a sharp breath, and a smile broke out over her face. “Butterscotch.”

  Avery frowned. “There is no butterscotch in these rolls. Maybe you need a taste-bud checkup.”

  “But there was butterscotch in the scones you made earlier.”

  Ethan glanced at his beer, his brow tight as he contemplated her revelation. “Butterscotch?” Some sort of wisdom hit, and his face opened with a smile. “Butterscotch.”

  Delaney was already flipping back through Ethan’s brewing journal, where he wrote down every detail of his process for every batch. “You must have . . . Here.” She pointed to something on the page. “Your second fermentation temperature was low.”