Summer Love by Piper Rayne
Chapter Three
“Iwas afraid that was going to happen.” They were now sitting in semidarkness, watching the wall of water falling outside. It was raining so hard she couldn’t see the buildings across the street.
However, she could still see the semi-naked man sitting two feet away. It was definitely Ian Youngblood. She was one hundred percent certain of that now. Fortunately, there was still no sign that he remembered their almost night together, remembered the way his hands had touched her, arousing passions Kyle never had. Now those hands were wrapped around the iced coffee, the product of the only passion she had thrown herself into since London.
Her gaze followed his hands as he lifted the glass to his lips. Oh, she remembered those lips, too.
“This is excellent coffee,” those lips said.
She snapped herself out of the fantasy she was about to dive into. “Thank you.” She redirected her gaze to the storm outside. Hah. Tropical Storm Ian. What a coincidence.
“What’s that little smile for?”
She shook her head and proceeded to ignore the question. “You’re not local. What brings you to town?”
“A friend’s wedding.”
“Simone and Douglas?” Theirs was the only wedding she knew of.
“You know them?”
“I know everyone in town. Everyone who drinks coffee at least.”
“She did recommend this place to me.”
“That’s good to hear. Their wedding was three days ago though.”
“I’m house sitting while they’re on their honeymoon.”
“Ah.”
Just then, the building shook alarmingly as the noise outside grew louder. She eyed the baseboards nervously, watching for any sign of water leaking through.
“We should probably not be sitting close to the window.”
As he stood up, she fought the urge to look at the white towel wrapped around his waist. Her white towel. She might frame it after tonight. There was no way she could just fold it and put it back in the linen closet with all the other ordinary towels.
They moved to the back of the shop, to one of the leather sofas where they sat an awkward twelve inches apart. He tried to balance the plate of cake on his bare knee, then got up and dragged a table over—nearly losing the towel in the process.
Not that she was paying attention to that.
“You know, if we’re going to be stuck here for awhile, we might as well get to know each other.” He slipped a forkful of pound cake into his mouth.
Who knew pound cake was so sexy?
He set down the fork and extended his hand. “I’m Ian. No relation to Tropical Storm Ian.”
“I’m Mai. With an I.” The sensation of his warm hand wrapped around hers sent a shiver down her spine.
“Mai with an I. That’s a lovely name. Are you from St. Caroline?”
“Are we playing twenty questions?” That could get dangerous. Have you ever been out of the country? Sung karaoke? Had a one-night stand?
He shrugged and ate another bite of pound cake. “We have some time to kill, you have to admit.”
He had a point.
“I’m from Annandale, Virginia, originally. But I’ve lived here for a few years. How about you?”
“Pittsburgh. What made you move here?”
“A friend got married at the Inn, I fell in love with the town, and this space was available to lease. How do you know Simone?”
“We’re both musicians. I don’t remember how we met, to be honest.”
We’re both musicians. Understatement of the year. Simone Adkins was a Grammy Award-winning singer. And Ian was … well, Ian Youngblood. She’d assume that Ian had slept with Simone if it weren’t for the fact that Simone and Douglas were head-over-heels-sappy-in-love.
The way Mai had been with Kyle. The way she wanted someone to be with her.
“Are you dating anyone, Mai with an I?”
She nearly choked on her iced coffee. Was he reading her mind?
“No. Not at the moment. I didn’t factor in the size of the dating pool when I decided to move here.”
“Seems like a cute town, though.”
“It is.” She drained the rest of the iced coffee and carried the glass to the sink behind the counter. She needed to get away from the cloud of pheromones that was Ian Youngblood before she climbed onto his lap, pushed him back against the sofa, and …
Can you tell it’s been a while since I had a date?
Alas, the cloud of pheromones was well-mannered and carried his glass and empty plate to the sink as well.
Would it be rude to go check on his clothes in the dryer?
“Thanks,” she said instead. His arm bumped her shoulder as he stepped up to the sink. She quickly spun away and pretended to tidy up stacks of paper coffee cups, line up the giant decorative jars of coffee beans, straighten the display of artisan caramels. All of which was utterly ridiculous since there was barely enough light left to see.
“So,” she said. “How many questions do we have left?”
“A few.” He closed the distance between them. “So, Mai with an I, what happened in London that you ended up singing by yourself in a karaoke bar on the day after Christmas?”
She froze. Her breath caught. Her heart skittered.
He remembered.
She wracked her brain for a witty deflection. The best she could come up with was, “I believe it was called a karaoke lounge.”
Lame.
“And in any case, there’s no way you remember that.”
He hummed the opening bars to the song she had sung two years ago.
All evidence to the contrary.
* * *
“Obviously, I do.” He enjoyed the way her cheeks colored a deeper shade of pink. So she did know who he was.
“Out of all the women you meet, why would you remember me?”
“Do you know how many women get half naked with me and then change their minds?”
“Not many, I’d guess.”
“Zero, to be exact.”
“I’m sure it was character building.”
“A lot of things have been character building lately. You walking out on me isn’t one of them. I went back to the karaoke bar the next night.”
“Karaoke lounge. Why did you do that?”
“I wanted to hear you sing again.”
“Even after I walked out on you?”
“So you admit it was you.”
She shrugged.
“You never answered my question.”
“I like to sing?”
“I’m a little surprised to find you running a coffee shop and not headlining tours.”
She snorted. In a charmingly adorable sort of way. “Good voices are a dime a dozen.”
“Good ones. Not great ones. Not marvelous ones.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, you do have a marvelous voice. Please don’t tell me you only sing in the shower.”
“I never sing in the shower. But I do sing for events around town. I’m the go-to person whenever the national anthem is needed.”
“I bet you sing the hell out of that.”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
He was happy to see her face light up with a wide, proud grin. Happier than he ought to be.
“I also do some local theater in Annapolis when there’s a musical involved. And not too much dancing.”
“I have a hard time believing you’re a terrible dancer.”
“I have three left feet.”
He wondered how much battery life was left on his phone. He could put on some music and test her left feet theory. The desire to have her in his arms was now an aching need. Just like it had been in London. He had never understood what “bereft” meant until that night. Her departure had left him well and truly bereft. Now here they were, stuck together in a storm, and he intended to make the most of the situation.
“So what happened in London?” he asked again. “You seem way too wholesome to go to a rock star’s hotel room.”
She sighed. “Good grief. You’re not letting that go, are you?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. I was in London with my boyfriend—from whom I was expecting a marriage proposal. Instead, he dumped me.”
He frowned. “Just like that? In the middle of the trip?”
Another sigh. “Yes, just like that. I found myself on my own for the rest of the week. That’s how I ended up in a karaoke lounge, throwing a pity party for myself.”
“Weird choice of song for a pity party.” She had sung a rather famous song by a rather famous British band, and thus a song he doubted the karaoke lounge had permission to use. Nonetheless, he would put her rendition up against anyone’s.
The light in the shop had dwindled to almost nothing. He could barely make out her slender form leaning against the countertop.
“What would you have suggested?”
He might have been imagining it, but he could swear her voice just dropped into a lower register. There was something so erotic about listening to her voice in the dark.
“There’s no shortage of well-written breakup songs.” He broke into a medley of as many as he could think of off the top of his head. When he stopped, he sensed—more than heard—her soft chuckle.
“Did you really go back the next night?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I told you—I wanted to hear you sing again. And I thought I might be able to talk you into going back to my hotel room.”
“You’re a glutton for punishment.”
“In my line of work, it helps to be.”
They fell silent for a few minutes, listening as the rain battered the roof and front window. Then, to his surprise, she began to sing the rather famous song by the rather famous British band. He closed his eyes to the dark shapes of the coffee shop and let the sound of her voice fall around him. In his mind, he could still picture her in the bar that night. Her slim black pants. Her fuzzy red sweater. The ivory silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. The sensible flat oxfords on her feet.
He wanted to just listen to her voice for hours. Long, long hours. For a moment, he hated the good people of St. Caroline for having the privilege of hearing Mai with an I sing the national anthem. He let her get halfway through the song before joining in. After, they sang another song by the famous British band. And then another. And another.
Then there was a loud crash outside, and the song came to a screeching halt. He watched as she ran to the front window, feinting right and left around the tables—just as he had watched her bounce around his hotel suite, picking up her clothes, her purse, her coat, before running out the door.
