Curiously Enchanted (Witches of Hawthorne Grove Book 2) Page 7

  Turning away from the heated desire in his gaze, Emma started toward her car, muttering to herself every step of the way. “Oh, I don't understand any of this. What is going on with me?”

  If she thought her actions were odd, there was no telling how strange to Sam she seemed. Suddenly it occurred to her that she didn't want him to think her strange. She'd barely made it to her car before she stopped and spun on one heel to stalk back to him and explain.

  “Look, I'm sorry I let things get way out of control the other night but it was only because of those dreams.”

  Sam frowned. “What dreams?”

  Emma was confused, then frustrated, then embarrassed and annoyed. “I—oh, never mind. I figured Lindsay would have told you by now, but …” But obviously Lindsay hadn't and now Emma had no one to blame but herself for letting the cat out of the bag about her dreams. “Never mind. I—it's nothing really.”

  His expression told her he didn't believe her, but that he wasn't going to argue with her attempted apology—for now, at least it seemed. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against his car again and nodded his acceptance of her explanation. “Alright, Emma. If you don't want to tell me that's your prerogative. It's fine. I'll pretend to be okay with your secrets if you'll promise to have dinner with me.”

  Dinner? Like the two of them together in close quarters? In a secluded space? “No, I—I can't.”

  He frowned down at her for a moment, then shrugged. “Then I want to know what you dreamed.”

  Not in a million years was Emma going to tell him what had happened in her dreams. Ignoring his stubborn stance and determined expression, she turned on a heel and headed for her car a second time—and her arms suddenly windmilled in the air as she was unexpectedly forced to fight for balance. Her feet had slipped on a patch of ice hidden in the shadow of a parked car and skated right out from under her!

  “Woah! Easy there. I've got you.” She felt a warm hand clasp tight around her upper arm and then she was curled against an even warmer body, enveloped by strong arms as her face nestled against a wide, firm chest.

  Sam.

  Burrowing her face deeper, she dragged in a slow breath, taking in his scent as she nestled—just for a second, she promised herself—closer to the man she had so often dreamed about. He smelled so good—like the sinfully hot fire of warm brandy and the pure spiky ice of cool mint.

  Being in his arms again felt good, too.

  The duality of the sensual experience was very much like the pleasure of walking into the blessed cool relief of a deep shade on a hot summer day or the slow spread of soothing heat on a frigid winter afternoon—the kind that climbed upward from one's toes, permeating through skin and muscle and bone until the entirety of your body was infused with the relaxing comfort of warmth.

  Her fingers itched to clench and furl into his skin much the way she'd seen Chloe knead the quilt she'd purchased from the antique store and her mouth yearned to feel the silky glide of his lips on hers once more.

  “I'm not dreaming,” she whispered to remind herself she was currently wide awake and very much in a public place at the moment and should not give in to the wicked temptations currently firing her blood. The sound of her own voice so breathless and her words so throaty, filled as they were with the urgency of desire now thrumming through her entire body, snapped Emma out of the contented languor she'd fallen into and she jerked upright, pulling quickly out of his embrace. “I—thank you for saving me. I have to go now.”

  Without meeting his gaze, she turned and walked away—carefully avoiding the ice this time—and he did not try to stop her. His voice, however, carried across the lot just as her hand touched the door, his words making her pause. “It was my pleasure, Emma.”

  Flushed and still far too warm, she got into the car and quickly started the engine because she knew if she didn't leave right now she might be tempted to let him know the pleasure had not been entirely his.

  Chapter Ten

  “Gem told me you'd gone to meet with Emma Riley to get her to sign those contracts.” Jordan spoke while he worked, his entire attention focused on the antique chiffonier in front of him. “Did you ask her out?”

  “Didn't get a chance,” Sam told him. “I don't think there will be one, either. Emma Riley doesn't actually like me for some reason.”

  Jordan peered at him over the edge of the door he was sanding. “Everybody likes you.”

  “Not Emma.” Sam walked over to the table where Jordan had various bits and pieces of the cabinet laid out for sanding before he started applying the many layers of stain and then a glossy finish. “Hand me a scrap of that sandpaper and I'll help.”

  “There's some one-twenty grit on the workbench. I'm about done with this go around. You can start on the next.”

  Sam found the sandpaper easily enough and joined Jordan at the table. “Does it matter which piece I start on?”

  Jordan pointed. “Do that one first. I'll finish this and then come around to start on the one beside it. Did she sign the papers or not?”

  “She signed them.” Which was what Sam wanted, but at the same time, the way she had signed them was cause for concern. It was bugging him. “Signed every line, but she didn't read the first word of it, and that almost makes me wish I'd taken them back before she had a chance.”

  “Hm. Why would you want to do that?”

  Sam could tell Jordan was only half paying attention to what he was saying, distracted as he was with the project in front of him, so he bent to the shelf in front of him to put in a little elbow grease of his own. As he moved the sandpaper back and forth across the wood, he asked himself the same question. Why did he wish he'd taken them back? He'd gotten what he wanted. Wasn't that good enough?

  He shrugged. “Something seems off about it. Emma didn't strike me as the kind of person who would sign something she hadn't read. I mean, think about it. Seriously. What business owner do you know who would sign something as insignificant as a memo they hadn't read, much less a contract.”

  “Business owner?” Jordan murmured as if those were the only two words he had heard. “What does she do?”

  “Freelancer. Research specialist from what I hear and if that isn't her official designation, it should be. She's good. Freelancers use contracts. She should have read mine.”

  “Is this going to bug you until doomsday?” Jordan paused to ask. “If it is, call her.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don't think so, man.”

  “Why not?”

  Sam felt his brow furrow, and hiked up his shoulder in a half shrug. “There's this whole on again off again thing going on with her. As long as I've got my arms around her, she seems to like me fine. But the minute there's space enough between us to breathe, she does everything she can to get away from me as quickly as possible—like signing a contract she hasn't read.”

  “Well there's your solution!” Jordan grinned. “Keep your arms around her, man.”

  Sam couldn't hold back a chuckle but still he shook his head. “She doesn't want that, either.”

  Somehow, he had gained Jordan's full attention during the past five minutes because when he looked up, Jordan was staring quizzically at him through narrowed eyelids. The intensity of his stare made Sam uneasy. “What?”

  “You could always shred the contract and forget about the book.”

  Sam knew he could, but he didn't want to. He wanted that book for the One Shot and even though he wasn't exactly sure why it was so important to him, he wanted Emma's name to be on it as author. He gave Jordan a rueful look. “Fine. I'll call her. Right after we finish this round of sanding.”

  As it turned out, he didn't have to. Just as he was locking away the last of the tools, his cell phone rang.

  “Sam speaking,” he answered without bothering to look at the screen. It was after hours for the coffee shop so whoever was calling expected him to answer anyway.

  “What did I sign?”

  Emma's voice came as a pleasan
t surprise. Waving to Jordan, Sam motioned to his phone and pointed toward the house in a sort of gesticulated man speak for “You go ahead. I'm going to take this call then go home for the night.”

  Jordan nodded and a few seconds later, Sam heard his truck fire up.

  “A contract,” he offered vaguely as he collected his coat and shut off the lights. “I wondered if you would break down and call or if I would have to call you.”

  “What kind of contract?” she asked, ignoring his attempt at semi-pleasant banter.

  “Pre-nup,” Sam blurted without thinking. Teasing people was almost second nature to him and it was no different with Emma. It didn't occur to him until after he'd ran his mouth that doing so might not be the best way for him to move forward with Emma.

  Still, if he was in for a penny he might as well be in for a pound, or that was what his grandmother used to say. After a quick, mental shrug, he said, “And a marriage contract. We're as good as honeymooners, darling.”

  Then he rolled his eyes in regret over what he'd said.

  She was going to hang up on him. Climbing into his truck, he closed the door and started the engine while waiting for her to end the call, which he actually figured she would do rather than offer a biting retort of one sort or the other.

  Instead, she asked, “Do I get a copy?”

  Sam wondered if she'd heard a word he'd said. “Sure. I'll need your address but I can't get to a pen and paper right now. Give me a minute to get inside the house.”

  It was only a short drive from the workshop to the house. As a matter of fact, he could have walked, but when he'd got there this afternoon and saw Jordan parked at the shop, he just drove over instead of parking at the house and walking.

  “I'll just come by the One Shot tomorrow and pick it up if that's okay?” There was an edge to her voice that smacked of discomfort. Was she uncomfortable with everybody or was her tentative reserve only for him?

  “I'll be there. Early or afternoon?”

  “Early. I need to visit the library and pick up a couple reference books anyway so I will stop by the cafe on my way in.” She paused. “You don't have to personally hand over the papers. I'm perfectly fine with picking them up from your barista, or whoever is available.”

  “I'll be available. It's not a problem, Emma,” Sam told her. “I'll see you in the morning.”

  She ended the call and Sam grinned over the little thrill of anticipation he felt about her upcoming visit. He could show her the architect's drawings he'd commissioned from her sketches and maybe she would even answer a few questions he had about preferred placement, orientation, and such.

  For some reason, from the minute she'd dropped off the research and done those drawings, Sam felt Emma had become integral to his plans for redesigning the look and feel of the One Shot. She had good ideas and he believed he could trust her opinions—at least in regard to the Coffee Cozies and Latte Lounges. Those little outdoor nooks had been her idea and he thought it only fair she have a chance to offer more in-depth input on how they were placed and utilized.

  “Arf!”

  Jabez met him at the front door and Sam bent to give his fur a ruffle.

  “Hey! Hey there, boy! Guess what? Emma's coming by the One Shot tomorrow. Do you think I should dress up for the occasion?”

  “Arf, arf!”

  Sam laughed.

  “Yeah, you're right. I wouldn't want to make the customers uncomfortable by showing up in a tux!” He headed for the kitchen, enjoying the comforting click, click, click of Jabez's toenails on the hardwood floor as the dog followed him through the house.

  Opening the fridge, he took out the half gallon of milk and opened the top before raising it to drink straight from the jug, half tensing in anticipation as he did so. If Grandma Ellie were still alive, she would have blistered his ears with a scolding for such bad manners. With only Jabez to see what he'd done, there was nothing to worry about.

  A touch of wistful sadness drifted over him like one of his grandma's quilts and he sighed, suddenly grateful for the Husky's presence. “Thanks for the warm and enthusiastic greeting, old boy. It sure is nice to have someone waiting who is actually glad to see me when I come home.”

  Emma wrapped her coat tighter and hurried toward the front entrance of the One Shot Coffee Cafe. The weather report promised Hawthorne Grove would see sun today but right now it was still too early and too cold.

  A blast of toasty warmth hit her full on as soon as she stepped inside the cafe. Blinking, she lifted her head and looked toward the bar, hoping to find only the barista waiting but knowing Sam would be there instead. She was right.

  “Good morning, Miss Riley,” Gem greeted. “Caramel crème latte? Hard mint cocoa? What can I get you this morning?”

  “I'll take care of it, Gem,” Sam interrupted, his eyes surveying her from top to toe while he pulled a mug from beneath the counter and began filling it with something hot and chocolaty. “Good morning, Emma.”

  “Good morning to the both of you,” she said, nodding to Gem. Turning to Sam, she asked, “Do you have the papers?”

  “They're in my office in the back. Here,” he said, handing her the mug. “Sip on this. It'll warm you up while I go get them.”

  Ignoring the sounds of early morning coffee drinkers who were already seated at one of several tables, sipping at mugs of warm caffeine rich sustenance, Emma opted to sit at the bar. Slipping off her gloves, she wrapped her half frozen fingers around the cup Sam had offered and sighed with pleasure while she waited for Sam.

  A few minutes later, he laid a stack of legal sized papers in front of her that had been stapled together on one corner. “Thanks.”

  “Like I told you yesterday, everything's pretty standard but you should let me know if there's anything you don't agree with and I will amend it immediately.” He laid another page in front of her, and Emma's eyes widened before snapping up to stare at him in confusion.

  “You're in luck,” he told her. “When I went to get your copy of the contract, the designer had faxed over a concept for the cover. What do you think?”

  Emma didn't quite know what to think but she was looking at a picture of a book—the kind you'd find on a table in a lounge or lobby or an upscale living room coffee table. What had her tongue-tied was the author's name. It was hers! But...

  Sliding the cover concept to the side, she picked up the contract—a publishing contract—looking for the name of the publisher. She figured Sam had his own and that was why he was able to get the whole package of a book deal together so quickly. Either that, or he'd paid a vanity publisher to do it up for him. She was wrong. The name on the top of the contract was a well-known and well respected publishing house.

  “How?” Her gaze had returned to search his. “Isn't there a protocol or a process for getting published? Don't answer that. I know there is and I know it generally takes months to hear back from them. How did you manage this so quickly?”

  “The editor is a friend of mine. When I told her what I had and what I wanted to do, she asked to look at your research. I faxed it over and the next day she faxed me the contract.”

  “But you can't—this--this isn't something you did to sell more coffee, Sam. This is a real publishing deal. If I can believe what I'm reading, they want to turn my research into a book and sell it.” Emma suddenly felt overwhelmed. “Did you already send the signed copy of this back to your friend?”

  Sam's expression clouded and he shook his head. “While I would love to say yes because I can sense your need to put a halt to this right now, no I haven't. I want to, but I couldn't send over a contract you'd signed without having read.”

  Relief washed through her. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  “Unlike the bit where I helped you get a publishing contract, I take it?” One corner of his lips turned wryly upward.

  “No,” Emma was distracted by the million and one thoughts suddenly spinning through her head. “I actually appreciate that, too. It's just
—”

  She studied him, uncertain what to make of a man who submitted her work to a publisher but then held off sending back the signed contract because he knew she hadn't read it. He was presumptuous and, well, genuinely nice.

  “I haven't thought of publishing my work for a while now. I'd given up on the idea, to be honest. But you made it so easy and—” She broke off and looked away from the gleam of satisfaction for having done something great for her in his eyes. “I would never have submitted the research I did for you to a publisher as a book. What made you do it?”

  “The coffee service.” He shrugged and walked over to the register to check out a customer. After a few words and a wave goodbye, he came back to pick up their conversation. “Every time I looked at it, your paper was in my thoughts. There's a human interest element in your title a mile wide and I really think my customers will enjoy reading it.”

  Emma heard what he said. It made sense, too. But she couldn't get past the idea that if she only allowed him to return the contract, she would be a published author. Just like that. With a simple fax, she would step out of the shadows of research grunt and into the limelight of recognition for her work in the form of having her own name on the cover of a book. A real book that Sam and the publisher who had sent the contract believed people would want to buy. “Wow.”

  Sam's chuckle brought her out of her musings. Almost instantly, she was plunged into a whirlpool of unease even as she stared at the mock up of the book—her book—in awe. The publishing company might require things of her to help promote the book that she wasn't prepared to give or do—like appear on a radio talk show or maybe even local TV. Oh, no.

  “I can't!” Really. She couldn't. The mere thought made her nauseated. And yet, at the same time, something inside her unfurled—something wondrous and glad and yes, filled with a sense of pride.

  Her entire family would look at her in a whole new light to see her name on the cover of a book like the one in the picture she was having a hard time looking away from. For once, she would fit in. At last, she would measure up. In the eyes of her family, she would suddenly be good enough.