A Bride Until Midnight Read online

  They stopped outside a small bedroom with old-fashioned floral wallpaper and period furnishings. There was a mahogany desk and dresser on the far wall. On an adjacent wall was an antique four-poster bed. And on that four-poster were four women.

  Kyle recognized Summer. She sat on the side closest to the door, her back to him, her body blocking the faces of two others. Kyle assumed the slight woman lying down was Madeline. He had no idea who the other two lined up against the headboard were. One had a notebook open on her lap, the other was gesturing wildly with her hands. Whatever she said caused laughter to erupt again.

  Kyle and Riley shared a look, and Kyle quietly said, “This kind of thing would never happen between men.”

  Riley’s sudden chuckle drew four sets of eyes. It occurred to Kyle that laughter looked good on Summer. Her cheeks were flushed, the curve of her lips enticing a second look. Rimmed by dark lashes, her eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. She was smiling, genuinely happy.

  There was an innate elegance in the way she placed her teacup on its gilded saucer and set it on the nightstand before introducing him to her friends. Chelsea Reynolds was the curvy brunette, Abby Fitzpatrick the wispy-haired blonde.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” he said to each in turn.

  “How did it go?” Summer asked him.

  “Better than I expected.”

  “Did she forgive you?”

  “Who?” the petite blonde asked.

  The brunette shushed her with a nudge.

  “She made me work for it,” he said, his gaze steady on Summer. He and Summer were the only ones who knew they were referring to Harriet Ferris, and neither of them chose to explain to the others. “But eventually she warmed up,” Kyle said. “The flowers were a big help.”

  “I’m glad.” She was looking at him as if she meant it.

  Kyle wondered if anybody else in the room noticed that he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her. He was interested. He was intrigued. And he hadn’t been either of those things in a while.

  “Am I interrupting something?” he asked her.

  Summer shook her head. “Chelsea is Madeline’s wedding planner. She’s been prioritizing the most pressing details for the coming week.”

  The blonde, Abby, said, “Summer’s going to be filling in for Madeline.”

  “Is that right?” He smiled at Abby, but his gaze ultimately went to Summer again, for this was the first he’d heard that.

  The weather had been unseasonably warm and humid today. It brought out the beast in a lot of people. As far as Kyle was concerned, the conditions were perfect for peeling off layers of clothing, for gliding a zipper down a slender back, for lowering the straps of a certain someone’s bra and for taking his time removing it.

  That was a good place to halt his wayward thoughts. “If you have plans to make,” he said, looking directly at Summer, “I won’t keep you from them.” Even he could hear the huskiness in his voice. “I just stopped over to talk to Riley.” Kyle nodded at all four women. He smiled last at Summer.

  He’d been accused of being vain a time or two. When he happened to look over his shoulder as he was leaving and caught four women looking at him, he knew why he’d never apologized for it.

  From the doorway, he directed a question to the official wedding planner of the group. “I’m curious about something. What does a fill-in bride do?”

  Chelsea held up the fingers of her right hand and began listing off responsibilities. “She hosts a bridal shower, samples wedding cake, chooses the menu, wears pink, the bride’s favorite color.” That was spoken with a shudder. “She helps the bride select the music, meets with the photographer and basically does whatever needs to be done, even if it means keeping the appointment with the seamstress for the final dress fitting, since, luckily, Summer and Madeline are the same size.”

  Summer was shaking her head. “Trying on someone else’s wedding gown is bad luck.”

  Obviously, this was an ongoing debate.

  “Now you sound like Madeline,” the petite blonde said. “Usually she’s the one with all the uncanny intuitions and crazy premonitions.”

  “I’m right here,” Madeline said. “And I can hear everything you’re saying, Abs.”

  Kyle couldn’t help smiling. He would have enjoyed continuing along that vein, but he said, “And what does the fill-in groom do?” He’d already spoken to Riley about this, but his brother’s answer had been sketchy at best.

  He doubted there were many women who could pull off appearing businesslike while sharing a bed with three other women, but Chelsea made an admirable attempt as she held up the fingers of her right hand again and prepared to count the ways Kyle could help this week. In the end, all her fingers remained straight.

  “I suppose the groom’s responsibility during the week prior to the wedding is to support the bride.”

  His gaze returned to Summer’s. In this instance he would be supporting the fill-in bride. “I can do that,” he said.

  Her hair had fallen across her cheek. He would have liked to brush it away. As long as he was touching her, he would glide his finger to her chin, his thumb smoothing over her lower lip. He’d let his hand trail down her neck, stopping at the little vein pulsing in the delicate hollow.

  Kyle felt the way he had earlier. Alive and aware. Especially aware. If he and Summer had been alone, there was no telling what he might have done. Instead, he reined in his hormones and smiled all around.

  “It was nice meeting both of you,” he said to Abby and Chelsea. “Take care of yourself, Madeline.” At last he spoke to the woman he couldn’t seem to stop looking at. “Summer. I guess I’ll see you at the inn.”

  Summer swore the temperature lowered ten degrees the minute the men left the room. She heard three collective sighs from the other women on the bed. Pleased to discover that her hand was still steady, she took a sip of tea.

  “Holy moly,” Madeline declared.

  “What was that?” Abby whispered.

  “That,” Chelsea declared, “was one amazing example of pure masculine appeal.”

  “That,” Summer qualified, “was Kyle Merrick being supportive.”

  Madeline was looking at Summer, one eyebrow raised. With a point of her finger, Summer said, “Don’t start.”

  Madeline grinned knowingly. And Summer thought it was going to be a long week.

  “He wants you,” Chelsea said matter-of-factly.

  “Film at eleven,” Abby piped in.

  Arguing that they were wrong would have been futile, and Summer had a feeling she needed to save her strength. For a few moments, she’d almost forgotten that Kyle was in a profession she mistrusted. For those few blessed minutes, he’d simply been someone who slept too soundly and lost track of time and made her lose track of it, too. He was someone who took a bouquet of lilacs to a kind old lady, someone who brought out yearnings Summer hadn’t expected to feel. It was too late to chide herself, for Chelsea was right.

  He wanted her.

  He hadn’t tried to hide it. She hadn’t expected that any more than she’d expected him to show up here tonight or arrive last night during that thunderstorm. But he had, and he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

  Being wanted by a man like him was heady. It was tempting, and normally Summer didn’t tempt easily. What she didn’t know was what she was going to do about it.

  Chapter Five

  Kyle tossed the crime novel he’d been reading onto the bed. It landed facedown on the rumpled pillow beside him. Picking up the remote again, he aimed it at the small television on the nearby wall, adjusted his pillows and tried to get comfortable. He’d already caught the beginning of a comedian’s act, a portion of the race Braden had qualified for in Europe, and the end of a black and white war movie. He’d watched an infomercial selling kitchen knives, a lot of garbage, and a piece about the disappearing rain forests in South America.

  He stayed away from the news.

  Powering off the television, he sat up
on the edge of the bed. By the light of a small lamp in the alcove that distinguished the bedroom from the living room, he padded quietly to the window. He stood in the shadows looking up at the sky. There, in the west, was Pleiades. According to an ancient Greek legend, the bright cluster of stars represented seven sisters who’d been openly pursued by a relentless hunter named Orion. Zeus, the ruler of the gods, took pity on the beautiful maidens and changed them into doves before setting them free into the heavens.

  Those ancient stargazers sure knew how to tell a story. They must have spent a lot of time studying the night sky. Kyle wondered if they’d been insomniacs, too.

  The inn settled around him. Somewhere a car down-shifted. The air outside his window was still, the night so quiet he could hear the river flowing over the rocks in the distance. The dark windows of the neighboring houses reflected the crescent moon. Old post lamps lined the driveway and lit the inn’s front lawn. The only illumination in the backyard was a square patch of yellow stretching onto the grass close to the inn. He couldn’t see the origin of that light but he could tell from the angle that it was coming from the first floor.

  He wasn’t the only one awake at this hour.

  Summer swirled the pale wine in her glass. After enjoying a generous sip, she returned to the stove where she stirred hot cream into a bowl containing beaten egg yolks and sugar. Humming with the radio, she then poured the mixture into the saucepan, adjusted the flame and began to slowly stir.

  She loved cooking at night, loved the rhythm, the aroma and the steam. The process of measuring and mixing, folding and stirring was soothing. It cleared her mind, which helped her contemplate solutions to problems.

  Take Kyle Merrick for instance. He was an investigative reporter. Of all the legitimate professions in the world, his had the potential to be the most damaging to the new life she’d built. That made this attraction anything but safe.

  No wonder she’d been genuinely relieved when she’d learned he wouldn’t be attending Madeline’s wedding. Now he was staying in The Orchard Inn. What were the chances of that happening? she wondered.

  She’d fairly melted in his arms when he’d kissed her in this very kitchen. She couldn’t very well pretend indifference now without raising his suspicions. Besides, she wasn’t that good an actress.

  As she stirred the mixture in the saucepan, it occurred to her that having Kyle under her roof might not be so terrible after all. She needed to set some boundaries, for sure, but having him in close proximity meant she could keep an eye on him.

  She took another sip from her fluted glass and turned down the flame under the front burner. The stove was forty-five years old and was often cantankerous, but tonight it was cooperating beautifully. Her crème brulee would be a masterpiece. She stirred and hummed, and hummed and stirred, her mind on the sweet concoction and the little oasis of light she’d created in the otherwise dark inn.

  She liked nearly everything about her life as an innkeeper. Keeping this place running smoothly and in the black brought her a sense of accomplishment she hadn’t known until she’d taken on the responsibility shortly after coming to Orchard Hill. She enjoyed serving breakfast and especially liked meeting new people and hearing all about their lives and dreams. She’d come to appreciate the steady progression and the one hundred and one tasks from check-in to checkout. She didn’t mind the daily punctiliousness of freshening rooms and shopping and seeing to her guests’ needs. The daylight hours belonged to them.

  The night was hers.

  Tonight the air was unseasonably warm. Thanks to the apple trees in the nearby orchards resplendent with blossoms, it was also wonderfully fragrant.

  Turning off the flame beneath the thickened concoction, she sniffed the rising steam. With a moan, she closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, she was no longer alone.

  Kyle stood in the doorway where the light was faint, one hand on his hip and an easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Am I interrupting?”

  Always with that lilting sensuality. Deciding there was no time like the present to implement the boundaries she needed to set, she gave him a friendly smile and said, “You’re welcome to come in, on one condition.” She scooped up a spoonful of the hot mixture and gently blew on it. “Try this.”

  He sauntered to the stove wearing loafers, faded jeans and a T-shirt with wording in French. Bringing his nose close to her spoon, he took a trial whiff.

  There was a certain level of trust involved as he touched his lips to the still warm dessert. It was his turn to moan.

  She reached for another spoon and sampled some, too. “That’s not half-bad, is it?”

  “Half-bad? Are you kidding? It’s magnificent.” Kyle moved slightly to make room for Summer as she went to the sink and washed her hands. She was wearing a white tank top and those knit pants that looked so damn good on women. Hers rode low on her hips and were held up by a string tied in a loose bow.

  “Do you always cook when everyone else is sleeping?” he asked.

  “It’s when I enjoy it the most, and when I have the most time for it. The first strawberries of the season are ripe,” she said as she dried her hands on a yellow towel. “I thought I’d spoon the crème brulee over them and offer a bowlful to my guests with breakfast which, by the way, is served every weekday between seven and nine.”

  Her movements were fluid, her voice quiet, as if in reverence to the night. She must have seen him looking hungrily at the crème brulee, for she took a bowl from the cupboard, filled it, added a clean spoon and handed it to him.

  The bottom of the dish was warm in his palm, the aroma wafting upwards so sweet smelling his mouth watered. He didn’t dig right in, though.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Aren’t you going to have any?”

  It didn’t take her long to make up her mind. Soon they were leaning against opposite cupboards, ankles crossed, bowls in one hand, spoons in the other.

  “So,” she said between bites, “are you going to see Harriet again?”

  Kyle didn’t know whether to laugh or scoff. Everything about Summer Matthews was a contrast. The way she’d ladled her concoction into bowls and daintily ate it was refined. Her reference to his date bordered on brazen. Earlier she’d been sipping tea. Now her wine glass was empty. She was as regal as royalty, and yet she seemed to run this inn single-handedly. It couldn’t be easy to keep up with the repairs of a building this old—floors pitched, doors didn’t close, pipes rattled. And yet every item in the house had so obviously been chosen. The retro range and state-of-the-art refrigerator and the scratched oak table and cane-bottom chairs sitting tidily on an aubusson rug didn’t scream good taste. They whispered it.

  “I think I met Harriet’s secret tonight,” he said, scraping the bottom of his bowl.

  Summer’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Her secret?”

  “Walter.”

  “You met Walter?”

  “He joined us for dinner.” Kyle emptied his bowl only to have it miraculously refilled. It happened again before he’d finished telling Summer about the evening.

  Walter Ferris was a large man with beefy hands, thick gray hair and bushy eyebrows. He’d probably been a handsome devil once. In his late seventies, he was straightforward and astute. He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off Harriet all night. Harriet had given Kyle plenty of attention, but he’d caught her eyes going soft on Walter a time or two when she’d thought Kyle wasn’t looking.

  They had history, no doubt about it. And since they had the same last name, and they didn’t act like kissing cousins, Kyle wondered what their connection really was.

  He didn’t normally give relationships more than a passing thought. It had been a long time since he’d been in one that lasted more than a month or two. He’d never stood in a woman’s kitchen eating warm crème brulee at three in the morning. Maybe there was something to the adage that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, although Kyle preferred
other more evocative ways.

  “Do I have crème brulee on my chin?” she asked.

  He shook his head but didn’t apologize for staring. “What were we talking about?”

  She seemed to have forgotten, too. It made them both smile.

  “Walter,” they said in unison.

  Walter Ferris had a story for every occasion but, other than a vague recollection of Summer mentioning a mother and sister who’d died before she’d moved to Orchard Hill, neither he nor Harriet seemed to know a lot about her past.

  “I’m a little surprised Walter joined you tonight,” Summer said. “They usually have dinner together on Tuesdays and Fridays.”

  Kyle stared at her, his spoon poised between his mouth and bowl. “Are you saying Harriet and Walter have regular dinner date nights?”

  She’d spooned another bite into her mouth and therefore couldn’t answer. He wondered if evading questions was intentional or automatic.

  “Are they married then? Ah,” he said, finally understanding the dynamics. “They’re divorced. If I were to harbor a guess, I’d say Walter wants her back. Men are easy to read that way.”

  “I don’t like to talk about people behind their backs,” she said.

  “If you’d rather we can talk about us.”

  Summer used the ruse of carrying Kyle’s empty bowl to the sink to buy her a little time. It also gave her a little much-needed space.

  By the time she’d rinsed the bowls, he was leaning against the countertop in the inn’s main kitchen again, his ankles crossed, arms folded. If she’d stopped there, she would have believed he was completely at ease. But it only required one look at his lean face, his lips firmly together, his green eyes hooded, and she knew the ease was secondary. He was a man who took nothing for granted, a man who didn’t rush or gloss over details. He was the kind of man who would take his time pleasuring a woman.

  “There is no us,” she said. What was wrong with her voice?

  “Not yet, you mean.”

  It was the perfect opening for her to say, “You and I don’t know each other, Kyle. You’re just passing through Orchard Hill, but I live in this town. My livelihood is hinged on my reputation.”