“I’m aware. Were you aware you had a freckle in between your—”

“I’m aware,” I said, groaning, my skin buzzy and tight. “But, the summer—”

“Yes, you’re here for the summer. And only the summer. You mention that a lot. Do you turn into a pumpkin in September or something?”

I grinned, but then turned serious again. “I mention it a lot because I like things to be clear-cut and aboveboard, with no messy misunderstandings later on. So, you should know I don’t really get involved. Actually, I don’t at all get involved.”

He stopped the kissing and the awesome, and lifted his face to look at me. Really look at me. He seemed to be studying me, trying to figure out what I was thinking, and what I wasn’t saying. And even though I’d had this conversation with men before, this time I felt a . . . curious sort of twinge. But before I could marinate on it, he nodded. Then he returned his lips to my collarbone, and I twinged no more. And as his mouth grew heated across my skin again, as I felt my hips begin to move against his, my phone rang from across the room.

I groaned, leaning back against the table as he looked across the kitchen.

“Do you need to get that?” he asked, his hands slipping back down to my waist and tugging me against him, holding me closer. Yes, closer!

“No, I don’t think so,” I replied, sinking my hands into his hair. Thick and silky, it curled naturally over my fingertips. We played a silent waiting game as the phone rang three times before finally going to voice mail. And in that time, we breathed together, my chest rising in time with his.

I bent over to kiss the top of his head, and he moaned. “You should do that again,” he murmured into my skin.

“Do what?” I asked, repeating the motion.

“That,” he answered, kissing the top of my breast. “It lets me see all the way down your shirt.”

Laughing, I smacked his back, letting my nails dig in a little as I dragged my hands up toward his shoulders. In retaliation, he squeezed my waist a bit harder, his fingers digging in to a borderline tickle.

And the phone rang again. Oh, for the love . . .

I tried to reach my phone without leaving his lap, but couldn’t. I huffed as I lifted myself off Leo, taking two steps forward then one step back for one more kiss. He leaned in hungrily, and one kiss became eight. Eight became thirteen. My phone stopped ringing.

Thirteen was on its way to a very magical twenty-seven when my phone rang for the third time. I literally had to pry my lips from his, using my thumb as a crowbar. “There better be something on fire,” I said, finally retrieving my phone. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Is this Roxie Callahan?” a man’s voice asked.

“Speaking.”

“This is the fire department.”

Nothing was on fire. The local fire department also fielded calls from the alarm company, and the back door on the diner was open, bells going off like crazy. By the time I had my shoes on and was ready to go down there, they’d gotten hold of Carl, also on the call list, and he’d headed down to check it out. A sticky lock and a stiff breeze had worried it open, but the crisis was over. Leo volunteered to head over to the diner with me to follow up, but Carl assured me everything was okay, and I’d call a locksmith in the morning to make sure it didn’t happen again.

We walked out toward his truck, his hand on the small of my back heavy and warm and . . . comforting? Hell, comfort felt a lot like horny, so I’d go with that.

“Thanks for having me over tonight. I’d say the scallops were the best part, but I think it was—”

“If you say the beets, I’ll—”

“Obviously it was getting to peek down your shirt,” he said deadpan. “But the beets were pretty great.”

“Just wait till I get to work on your zucchini,” I said with a wink.

“You’re a little bit dangerous, aren’t you?” he asked, catching me into a loose embrace and gazing down at me. The moon was full and bright, making shadows across the lawn. And in the moonlight, he was the dangerous one.

Instead of answering, I brought his head down to me and kissed him. Once more, with feeling.

Chapter 11

A few days later, Chad Bowman came waltzing into the empty diner just after the lunch shift.

“What’s up, Teen Dream?” I asked as he swung himself onto one of the counter stools.

“What’s up with you, Teen Dreaming of Me?” he replied, and I laughed.

“You got me there—I think I had your schedule memorized sophomore year. I knew exactly what halls to be slinking down at exactly the right time to catch a glimpse of you,” I admitted, exaggerating a beating heart with my hand.

“I did that too, sophomore year,” he said. “But I was hall slinking for Coach Whitmore.”

“Oooh, that’s a good crush,” I replied, thinking of the varsity basketball coach who wore the tightest, whitest athletic shorts he could find. I wiped down the counter, noticing the time on his watch. “Yes! Closing time!” I fist pumped and headed for the front door. “High school crushes get special permission to stay, so you’re good while I’m cleaning up.”

“It won’t take that long; I just came in for some cake. I heard a rumor that after a thousand years, this diner was serving something other than cherry pie?” He craned his neck to see into the dessert display. It was empty.

“You heard right, but I’m totally sold out of everything except”— I hurried back into the kitchen—“this.” I held a plate with the last two pieces of southern caramel cake.

“Oh my God, that’s gorgeous,” he whispered, and I had to agree. Impossibly tall, the cake towered at three layers high. Fluffy, puffy ivory layers of butter cake, slightly tangy with buttermilk and flecked with Madagascar vanilla. Hidden between the layers was a slowly boiled homemade caramel glaze, which I’d also poured over the top and dripped down over the sides, the top crisp and shiny sweet.

“I was taking these home with me tonight, but I’d rather sit at the counter with my favorite high school crush and watch the fork go in and out of your mouth.”

“I’d say that made me feel a little creeped out, but not until you give me that cake,” he said, eyes not leaving the plate.

“Want some coffee to go with it?” I laughed, setting the plate down on the counter and grabbing two forks.

“What’s coffee?” he asked, charmed like a snake.

“Noted,” I said with a laugh, handing over a fork. I loved watching people enjoy my food. I needed coffee to go with my sweet treat, however. Before I’d finished pouring my cup, half of his cake was gone.

“What do you call this?” he asked, his mouth full. I leaned over and wiped a crumb off his chin with my thumb, brought it to my lips, and licked it off. He looked sad that I’d stolen a crumb.

“Triple Layer Southern Caramel Cake.”

“Now it’s the Chad Bowman Special.”

“Understood,” I answered, and dug into my own slice.

When I’d baked these the night before, I had no idea they’d be such a hit. I’d made four cakes, and these two slices were all that was left. I’d started thinking about other cakes I could make, wondering how Italian Cream Layer Cake would go over. I was used to constantly testing recipes, changing and adapting them, and now I was stuck making the same spaghetti and meatballs recipe that had been on the menu since before I was born. I’d be bored out of my gourd if I didn’t try something new on the menu soon.

I sighed as I tasted the caramel cake. This was an instance when an old recipe was still just as good as the day it was written down. The only thing I’d changed? I added buttermilk for a little extra tang, and used actual vanilla bean instead of just grocery store extract. Same recipe, slightly elevated. I sighed once more, tasting the sweetness of the caramel, the richness of the brown sugar.