A Bride Until Midnight / Something Unexpected: A Bride Until Midnight. Sandra Steffen
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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.”
He uncrossed his ankles and straightened, leading her to assume he was going to take the rejection with a grain of salt and go back upstairs. Instead he joined her in front of the sink.
“Sunrise or sunset?” he asked.
“What?”
“Sunrise or sunset?” he repeated.
She’d turned the radio down when he’d first joined her in the kitchen. Now the low hum barely covered the quiet. “What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I’m getting to know you. I think the modern terminology refers to this stage as the date interview. You’re right, that’s an easy one. You are sunset all the way. It’s your turn. Go ahead, ask me anything.”
She started the faucet and squirted dish soap into the stream. “This isn’t a date,” she reminded him sternly, but she couldn’t help thinking he was right about her and sunsets.
What could it hurt, she thought, to participate in a little harmless middle of the night conversation? After considering possible safe topics, she said, “Bourbon or Merlot?”
“Bourbon, hands down.”
She was surprised. She’d have pegged him as the kind of man who had an extensive wine collection.
“Hard rock or Rap?” he asked when it was his turn. “First, what are you doing?” He pointed at the sink she was filling with sudsy water.
“The dishwasher’s broken, and there won’t be money in the budget to have it repaired until July,” she explained. “Hard rock and Rap are both okay on