Chef Sugarlips_A Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedy Read online

  Why was that again?

  “Enjoy your night, Amber.”

  “You, too.”

  He smiles and turns away, and I don’t even pretend I’m not watching his ass as he heads out the barn door. Every nerve in my body feels electrified, and every part of me craves Sean Bracelyn’s touch.

  Dammit.

  Chapter 6

  SEAN

  I’ve never had a reason to do a Google image search for “awkward family dinner,” but if I did, I’m guessing I’d see a photo of my dining room on Friday night.

  Seated at the head is my mother, resplendent in a silk kimono she got while filming in Japan.

  Beside her is the daughter of the woman whose husband she stole years ago.

  “Please pass the bread,” Bree says crisply, offering a tight smile when my mother obliges.

  The son of said husband’s next mistress is hunkered on the other side of the table, looking like a grumpy lumberjack eating off a hundred-and-fifty-dollar Boug Joly Ajouree Chevet plate.

  Not that I know a damn thing about dishes, but my mother has announced ten thousand times that this china was a gift from one of her show’s sponsors. God knows why she had it delivered here. “Mark, dear,” she says. “Please pass the butter.”

  My younger brother looks like he’s seriously considering telling her where she can shove the butter, but he decides to be a gentleman.

  “Thank you,” my mother says. “It’s a shame James couldn’t make it.”

  Mark stabs a grape tomato in his salad with such force it spits seeds across the table. “Damn shame,” he agrees as he and Bree exchange a look.

  I know for a fact James is off researching property titles and real estate law and God knows what else in a quest to get to the bottom of whether my mother could have a claim on this property. The rest of us are doing our damnedest to act like a normal family.

  “Darling, may I please have a refill?” my mother lifts her empty wineglass, and I do some quick mental math to determine how much Chenin Blanc we’ve gone through already. This cheerful family meal is requiring a lot more alcohol than I anticipated.

  “So, Breann,” my mother says as she hoists her replenished wineglass. “What is it you do here again?”

  “I’m the Vice President of Marketing and Events,” Bree says, ripping a hunk of sourdough with both hands. “And Mark is the Vice President of Facilities Management.”

  “Can’t we just say handyman?” Mark mutters as he swipes breadcrumbs from his beard with a cloth napkin. “These goddamn fancy titles give me a headache.”

  Bree ignores him and slathers her bread with a generous slab of butter. “James is Vice President of Operations, and Johnathan—”

  “Good Lord, how many of you are there?” My mother laughs at her own joke, but no one laughs with her. It’s no secret our father had a host of impressively fertile wives and mistresses, but we don’t usually talk about it over dinner. Or anytime, really.

  Bree finishes chewing her bread and takes a sip of her wine. She looks at me a moment, then turns back to my mother. “Our job titles and positions are irrelevant,” she says. “What matters is that a whole lot of us have invested a great deal of time, talent, and money into launching Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort.”

  Mark nods and picks up his water glass. “And we’d hate for anything to interfere with that.”

  Jesus, my brother sounds like a mobster. I can’t blame him, really. I know this is why my siblings suggested dinner tonight, but part of me is hoping someone chokes on a chicken bone and this whole thing ends quickly.

  “It certainly has potential to be a highly profitable business,” my mother says, ignoring Bree’s grimace. Or maybe she didn’t notice it in the first place. She’s already drained her wineglass, so it’s possible she’s missing some nuance. “How many investors are involved?”

  “Just us,” Bree says, giving her a pointed look. “All of the Bracelyn siblings in one form or another.”

  I study my mother from across the table, looking for signs that she’s ready to crack. This whole damn dinner was a bad idea. Her gaze swings to mine, and she gives a watery smile. “Sean, darling. Tell me about your love life. You know how much I’d adore having grandbabies.”

  I grip my fork a little tighter as my brain flashes on an image of Amber King. I think of the softness of her lips, the press of her body against mine in the warm solitude of her kitchen. Or the round lushness of her breasts under that pink sweater, the way she arched against me when I kissed her.

  There’s a surge of something fierce and protective inside me, and I can’t say for sure where it’s coming from.

  “There’s no one,” I say, reaching for the platter of lemon leek roasted Cornish hens. “More chicken anyone?”

  Mark nods and holds out his plate. “Sure, thanks.”

  I dish him up and set the platter aside as a phone rings from somewhere far away. My mother dabs her mouth with a napkin. “I need to take that,” she says, pushing back from her chair and grabbing her wineglass. “Would you excuse me? This could be a little while.”

  As she hurries from the room, my shoulders start to relax. They hitch up again as I hear the first strains of conversation from the guest room. “Maxwell, darling, please tell me we have a claim.”

  A door closes at the back of the house, so we can’t hear the rest of the conversation. Bree narrows her eyes at me. “Is that her lawyer?”

  “Her manager,” I say, straining to hear the conversation. I can’t make out a damn thing. Why are the walls in this place so thick?

  Bree frowns. “Isn’t he the guy who put together the deal that screwed my mother over?”

  “That was her real estate guy,” I say. “Fred someone. Or Floyd. I don’t remember; it’s been a long time.”

  Bree doesn’t look appeased. Neither does Mark.

  “Look, I’m keeping an eye on her, okay?” I glance from my sister to my brother and back again. “Will you trust me on this?”

  “We trust you,” Mark says. “Not her.”

  “Understood.” I pick up my water glass and drain it, feeling the weight of everyone’s trust like a noose around my neck.

  I’m fumbling around in my brain for a subject change when Bree saves me. “I had someone come out to look at the cave,” she says. “The guy I’ve been working with from the Warm Springs tribe.”

  “What did he say?” I ask.

  “He didn’t find anything that’s historically or culturally significant,” she says. “There was some old kitchen crap that dates back fifty years or so, but nothing valuable.”

  “What about the petroglyph stuff?” Mark asks, wiping his beard with a napkin.

  “Not petroglyphs, apparently,” she says. “Just graffiti or something. Anyway, we’re free to do cave tours in there if we want to. Or not.” She gives me a pointed look as I shove a leaf of romaine around my plate.

  I set down my fork and pick up my own wineglass. “What’s that look about?”

  “I know it was your special place as a kid,” she says slowly. “I don’t want to go stepping on your turf.”

  “It’s fine,” I assure her, meaning it completely. “This place belongs to all of us. I want what’s best for the family.”

  “Agreed,” Bree says, giving me a wary look.

  “Damn straight,” Mark mutters and lifts his wineglass.

  * * *

  I’m not sure what lures me down to the pond a few nights later. The full moon? A need for fresh air? Some weird nostalgia for childhood summers spent looking for mermaids under the stars?

  Or maybe it’s that I need to get the hell out of the cabin before I murder my mother.

  I can still hear her voice in my ears as I trudge down the dirt-caked path, my footsteps thudding in time to her lecture on the proper way to braise pork loin so it pairs perfectly with the Pinot Noir she brought back from yesterday’s trip to the Willamette Valley.

  The taste of the wine is bitter on the back of my tongu
e, and I wish I’d thought to brush my teeth before charging out into the crisp night air. Hell, I didn’t even grab a flashlight.

  Not that I need one. The full moon lights the path, and the night sky is clear and cloudless with bright pinpricks of stars. It’s too early in the season for frogs, but the night air swirls with a symphony of other sounds—the hoot of an owl, the far-off yip of coyotes, the burble of the creek tumbling over smooth rocks beside the path.

  I breathe in the scent of sagebrush and juniper, remembering the first time I visited here as a boy.

  “It smells like heaven,” I told my dad.

  He sniffed the air and laughed. “Juniper smells like cat piss.”

  I never saw the connection, but I also never had a cat. Maybe I should remedy that now that I’m living out in the country. A fat, surly tom to catch mice in the woodpile behind my new wood-fired pizza oven. Or maybe a fluffy white Persian who attacks my toes under the covers.

  I’ve almost reached the pond when the back of my neck prickles. Lost in thought about small cats, I’ve forgotten the big ones. A flash of memory jolts me to Amber’s story about the cougar, and I wish like hell I brought a gun. Or owned one. Or had any idea how to fire one.

  But it’s not danger making my spidey senses tingle. It’s something else. Something I can’t put my finger on until my frantic gaze lands on the figure standing by the edge of the pond. Bare shoulders catch the moonlight, and dark hair tumbles down the slope of a very naked back.

  Oh my God.

  My breath catches in my throat. I don’t know how long I stand wordless and staring until I finally find my voice. “Amber?”

  Chapter 7

  AMBER

  I whirl at the sound of my name, pulling in a startled breath when I see Sean standing in the moonlight.

  I blurt the first words that spring to mind for anyone caught doing something they shouldn’t be. “I can explain.”

  He stares at me a moment, then shakes his head in disbelief. He ambles toward me, slow and deliberate, like he’s moving though quicksand in a gorilla suit. His expression is somewhere between bemusement and disbelief, and he’s mumbling something that sounds like, “…get my eyes checked.”

  “What?”

  He lifts a hand, and for a second I think he’s reaching for me. But no, he’s only grazing the sleeve of my pale pink fleece. “This,” he says, rubbing the form-fitting fabric between his fingertips. “Flesh-colored. I thought you were—uh—” He clears this throat. “Never mind.”

  I look down at my jacket, not sure why we’re discussing my fashion choices when I’ve been caught red-handed trespassing on his property. “It’s from Patagonia’s new spring line,” I supply. “The color’s called ‘Au Naturel.’”

  “You don’t say.”

  I lick my lips, hyper-aware that the last time I saw him, I was pressed braless against his chest with his mouth on mine. “Um, look—I know I’m not supposed to be here, and I should have asked, but I didn’t want to bother anyone and—what are you doing?”

  “Sitting down.” He peels off his jacket and spreads it on the grass like a blanket, then eases himself to the ground. With his back to a willow, he stretches his long legs out in front of him and tilts his face to the sky. “Join me?”

  I hesitate, not sure what’s happening here. Am I supposed to stay or go?

  “Stay,” he says without looking at me, making me wonder if I asked my question aloud. I didn’t, but I sit down anyway and stretch my legs out next to his. Mine are much shorter, but our knees bump together in the middle, and his body heat warms me through my jeans.

  “So what brings you out here?” he asks.

  I let a breath out slowly, trying to think of how to explain. “It’s stupid.”

  That gets a small smile from him, though he still doesn’t look at me. He seems transfixed by the stars. “I haven’t met my quota of stupid yet today, so lay it on me.”

  I tip my head back to survey the sky overhead. A zillion stars are smeared out across the inky surface like speckles of glitter on black felt. I spend a few seconds locating the big dipper before I reply.

  “There’s a tree on the other side of the pond,” I say. “I don’t remember which one, but I wanted to see if my initials are still there.”

  “Initials?”

  A tickle of shame bubbles in my chest. “I carved them. That night I was skin—uh, swimming?”

  The corners of Sean’s mouth tilt up a little more. “Yeah?”

  My cheeks are hot, and I’m hopeful he can’t see them in the semi-darkness. “Right. My initials and some guy I was dating back then. I’m not even positive I remember his last name. Jensen or Johnson or something.”

  He lifts one eyebrow, still not looking at me. “But you were serious enough to deface a tree for him?”

  “I was eighteen.”

  He nods like that’s an answer, but I know it’s not. “What made you come looking for it tonight?”

  I shrug and fiddle with a frayed patch on the knee of my jeans. “Being in the chapel the other day—seeing my grandparents’ initials—I guess I started wondering about mine.”

  “I see.”

  I wonder if he does. There’s a sour bubble of shame in my throat, and I swallow hard to force it back. “I told you it was stupid.”

  “Not stupid,” he says slowly, turning to look at me finally. “We all have relationships that don’t work out. It’s normal to circle back to the wreckage every now and then to figure out what the hell went wrong.”

  I nod, impressed by both his turn of phrase and the fact that he seems to get it. I bite my lip, hesitating. “You said you were engaged once?”

  “Yep.”

  “But not married?”

  “Nope.”

  From his one-word answers—and the fact that he’s gone back to looking at the sky—I’m guessing he doesn’t want to talk about it. I let the subject drop, figuring it’s just as well, since I’m bristling with a jealousy I have no right to feel. Still, I’m curious. What sort of woman would Sean Bracelyn pledge to marry? I can’t picture him with a waifish model, being a chef and all, though I’m sure women like that throw their twiggy bodies at him all the time. Maybe the daughter of some East Coast millionaires from old money? And what happened, anyway? Did she leave him for a tattooed bad boy or was it a mutual falling out or—

  “She died.” Sean’s words shatter my thoughts so hard I feel glass shards in my throat. “Sarah—that was my fiancée—she passed away.”

  “Oh, God.” I bring my hands to my mouth, kicking myself for bringing this up at all. Idiot. I hesitate, then slowly lower one hand and rest it on his knee. “Sean, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

  “It’s okay.” He takes a deep breath, and I catch myself matching it. We sit there like that for a few beats, breathing in and out together while I wait to see if there’s more he wants to share. Should I try to change the subject or wait to see if he does?

  When Sean speaks again, his voice is softer. “She was killed in a plane crash,” he says. “On her way to visit me in Paris where I was teaching a workshop at Le Cordon Bleu.”

  “How awful.” I press my lips together and shake my head, trying to come up with something to say that doesn’t sound trite and hollow. “I can’t imagine.”

  “It’s been four years, so I guess I’ve had time to process it. Want to know the worst part?”

  I shake my head, not sure I do. How much worse could it be? A dead fiancée whose only reason for being on the crashed plane was a journey to see the love of her life.

  Sean’s still looking at me, so I force a response from my achy throat. “Only if you want to share.”

  “She’d just broken up with me,” he says slowly. “Called off the engagement and the wedding and everything. Said I was too closed off, and she couldn’t be with someone who didn’t know how to open up emotionally.”

  I study the side of his face, noticing the
way the moonlight glints off the cinnamon stubble lining his jaw. I’m not sure I’m following the story. “But she was flying to see you?”

  He nods. “Because I asked her to,” he says. “I begged her to give us another shot. Sent her a first-class plane ticket and everything. I promised her this big, romantic weekend in Paris with dinner at all the best restaurants and shopping along Avenue Montaigne and Flawless Honoré.”

  Tears prick the back of my eyelids, but I refuse to let them fall. That’s the last thing he needs. “I can’t even begin to guess what it would feel like to live through that,” I say slowly. “But I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

  He nods and drops a hand to his thigh, and that’s when I realize my hand is still on his leg. I start to draw back, feeling foolish, but Sean folds his hand around mine and laces our fingers together.

  He turns to face me, and there’s an intensity in those green eyes that steals my breath. “It wouldn’t have worked out,” he says softly. “With Sarah, I mean. I regret that I didn’t let go sooner.”

  His words make me pause. He regrets not ending things, rather than not opening up the way she wanted him to? I know he said tough conversations aren’t his thing, but that seems major.

  “Anyway, it’s done,” he says softly.

  So is this conversation, his words seem to signal. But he doesn’t look away.

  And something in me isn’t quite ready to drop it, either.

  “You can’t blame yourself,” I say. “It’s easy to have twenty-twenty hindsight after you know how it all shakes out.”

  “True enough.” Sean nods but doesn’t take his eyes from mine. Not yet anyway. He’s still holding my hand, and he gives it a soft squeeze before turning to look at the sky again. “We had matching tattoos.”

  “You and Sarah?” There’s that spear of jealousy again. I swallow it back and turn my gaze back to the stars.

  “Yeah. Not matching, I guess. Complementary. Peanut butter toast for me, jelly for her.”