Monahan's Gamble

Oh, she really wished he hadn’t said the word belly.

“And I have to make a long drive today—”

Oh, she really wished he hadn’t said the word long.

“—and no place else is open this early.”

Oh, she really wished he hadn’t said the word open.

Stop it, Autumn, she berated herself. Not one word the man had uttered had been in any way suggestive, but as he’d spoken, somehow Sean Monahan made her feel as if he’d just dragged a slow, sensuous finger along the inside of her thigh. How did he do it?

“We, uh…” Autumn began eloquently. She swallowed with some difficulty, and tried not to notice just how incredibly handsome, charming and eligible he was. “We, ah…we’re not ope— Um, I mean…we’re, ah…we’re closed, too,” she managed to say—eventually—still struggling over the word open, because that was exactly what she wanted to do at the moment. Open herself. To Sean Monahan. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically, sexually. That was always her immediate response to handsome, charming, eligible men. Which was why it was so important that she avoid them at all costs.

He met her gaze levelly as he jacked up the power on his smile a bit more—Autumn had to bite back a wince at just how dazzling he was—then jutted a thumb over his shoulder, toward the front door. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, trying not to notice how the muscles in his abdomen fairly danced as he completed the gesture.

“Your front door’s open,” he pointed out.

It certainly is, Autumn thought before she could stop herself. And why don’t you just come on right inside?

Immediately she snapped her eyes open and pushed the thought away. This was, without question, the very last thing she needed, today or any day. She swallowed with some difficulty, her mouth going dry when the chorus line that was his torso synchronized as he dropped his hand back to his side.

“Yes, well, the door may be open, but the shop isn’t,” she told him, proud of herself for not stumbling once over the proclamation.

“I smell coffee brewing,” he said.

“That’s not for sale, it’s for the workers,” she replied. “We’re a bakery, Mr. Monahan, not a beanery.”

His blue eyes, so clear and limitless, reflected laughter and good humor, and something else upon which she told herself she absolutely should not speculate. “You know my name,” he said softly.

Oops. “Well, I know you’re a Monahan. It is a small town. And you Monahan boys all look alike,” she lied. “I just don’t know which Monahan boy you are.”

Oh, my. Two falsehoods before dawn. Autumn was definitely going to create some bad karma with that. And why on earth was she referring to him as a “boy”? Sean Monahan was quite undeniably a man, and probably five or six years her senior, to boot.

He took a few steps forward, his shoes scuffing softly over the terra-cotta tiles as he came, his mouth quirked into that sleepy, sexy smile—the one that made him look as if he’d just made sweet, sensational love to its recipient, successfully and repeatedly. He only stopped moving because the counter hindered his progress, but he still leaned forward and folded his arms over the glass top, right in front of where Autumn was standing. He was so close she could see the dark shadow of his freshly shaved beard, could smell the clean, soapy scent of him, could fairly feel the warmth of his body creeping over the counter to mingle with her own.

Instinct told her to take a giant step backward…and then run like the wind as far as she could. Instead she stood firm, waiting to see what he would do next. And as was always the case when it came to handsome, charming, eligible men, that was Autumn’s fatal mistake.

Because Sean Monahan’s piercing blue eyes pierced her right down to her soul, warming a place inside her she had forgotten could feel warmth. And then, “I really was hoping for a cup of coffee,” he said softly. “But you know, Autumn, now that you mention it, there is something else you can do for me, too.”

Two

Surprisingly, Sean had never actually stood this close to Autumn Pulaski before now, and he couldn’t help but wonder why not. Normally he gravitated toward attractive, single women faster than the planets spun through space, yet this one had somehow eluded him until he’d made this very assertive, very specific, foray into her life. It was especially odd considering the fact that she’d lived in Marigold for more than two years now—he could vaguely recall the grand opening of her bakery three springtimes ago. And his apartment was, quite literally, just around the corner, something else that made astonishing the fact that he had never before been in such close quarters with the elusive Ms. Pulaski. Either his timing had really suffered over the last couple of years—which was laughably unlikely—or Ms. Pulaski went out of her way to make sure their paths had never crossed.

In a word, Hmm.

At any rate, Sean had never realized until now just how strikingly beautiful she really was. And he hadn’t realized she smelled so good, either, like apple tarts and cinnamon buns, and something strangely exotic and spicy that blended perfectly with the homey aroma of freshly baked bread. It threw him for a momentary loop, and for the first time in his life he had no idea what to say.

Which was odd, because when he’d entered the bakery only moments ago, he’d known exactly what he wanted to say. In fact, he’d practiced his speech last night until the words had flowed fluidly and confidently and not a little seductively, if he did say so himself, even though he had pretty much decided to avoid the seduction thing—for now. At the moment, though, for the life of him Sean could remember none of what he had rehearsed. All he could do was gaze into Autumn’s whisky-gold eyes, inhale deeply her cinnamon scent, absorb the way her peasant blouse dipped pleasantly above the swells of her very generous breasts and battle the urge to go much, much faster in his seduction than he had initially planned.

Wait a minute. Back up. Think again, Monahan.

It wasn’t seduction he was planning, he reminded himself again. Not necessarily, at any rate. Not specifically. Not yet. He just wanted to last more than four weeks with the enigmatic Ms. Pulaski, right? In fact, he had to make it through not one, but two, lunar months, if Sean was going to win the dare that Finn had challenged him to complete last weekend.

He was still ticked off at himself for having set himself up for, not to mention having succumbed so easily to, that dare. He should have known better than to boast about anything in front of Finn, even something at which he was more than confident he could succeed. Finn jumped on a dare faster than you could say “Prove it, little brother,” especially when Sean was on the receiving end of it. They’d competed in such a way since they were boys. And invariably, dammit, Finn always came out the victor.

Well, not this time, Sean promised himself. If Finn had challenged him to make it through two lunar months with Autumn Pulaski, then by God, Sean would do it. Of course, that did give him ample time for seduction, he told himself, should such a thing come up—to put it crassly. Then again, he didn’t necessarily want to seduce Autumn, did he? Then again, he was Sean Monahan, the downfall of many a woman both here and abroad. Well, maybe not abroad. But as far away as Bloomington, which was more than a lot of guys in Marigold could say. So if seduction just sort of happened, that would be okay. Sean wouldn’t go looking for it, but he would certainly leave himself open to the possibility.

His current avenue of thoughts, although certainly pleasant, gave Sean no fuel whatsoever in the What-do-I-say-next? department, so he did what he always did whenever he was at a loss for words—which, granted, hadn’t really happened before. But doing what he did next seemed a logical reaction. He smiled his most seductive, suggestive smile and cocked a dark brow in just such a way as to make women the world over—or at least as far away as Bloomington—swoon with delight. Autumn Pulaski, however, he noted right away, was very good at hiding her feelings. Because, amazingly enough, not only did she not swoon with delight, she didn’t even seem to notice the change in his expression.

Damn, she was good.

“And what is it I might do for you, Mr. Monahan?” she asked in as businesslike a voice as Sean had ever heard, jarring him back to the matter at hand.

“Well, first off,” he said, “you can stop addressing me as Mr. Monahan and start calling me Sean.”

She offered no outward indication that she had even heard him, but inquired again, “And what is it I might do for you, Mr. Monahan?”

He blew out a faintly impatient breath, cocked his eyebrow yet again and tried that seductive-suggestive-smile thing one more time. “Well, for one thing,” he began smoothly, “I noticed there’s a new moon next week.”

She didn’t seem to think that significant at all, though, because she only continued to stare at him with a vaguely curious expression. When he said nothing further, she replied, with just the slightest hint of impatience, “I believe you’re right. There is indeed a new moon next week. On Wednesday, if memory serves.”

He nodded slowly. “As a matter of fact, it is on Wednesday. And I think that’s very…interesting. Don’t you?”

She sighed heavily, as if resigned to some great task. “I suppose one might find it interesting,” she agreed, “were one studying astronomy or astrology or astrophysics or Zoroastrianism or one of those other astro-sciences.”

“Actually,” Sean said, “I don’t think Zoroastrianism is an astro-science, per se, but rather a philosophical outlook that’s really quite fascina—”

“In any case,” she interjected smoothly, folding her elbow on the counter. She cupped her chin in one hand and studied Sean with some intent. “I was under the impression, Mr. Monahan, that you designed computer software for a living. Some of those fantasy-driven games with monsters and caves and large-breasted women, the kind that might be created by someone who was reluctant to leave his childhood behind.”

Oh, now this was getting interesting, Sean thought. He folded his arm to cup his chin in his hand, mimicking her posture…and bringing their faces within inches of each other. The mingling scents of cinnamon and apples and bread that surrounded her suddenly enveloped him, too, very nearly overwhelming him. And much to Sean’s surprise, he realized he wanted nothing more in life than to lean forward a bit more so that he could…nibble her. He was suddenly anxious to know if she tasted as sweet as she smelled.

He bit back a sigh of his own, one that, had he released it, would have no doubt been filled with much satisfaction. “I thought you said you didn’t know which Monahan I was,” he murmured in as smooth a voice as he could manage. “But it sounds like you know me pretty well. Autumn.”

She gazed back at him in silence for a moment, with an expression he could only define as…inscrutable. Then, very suddenly, very quickly, “It was a cup of coffee you said you wanted, wasn’t it, Mr. Monahan?” she piped up brightly.

Before he had a chance to respond—not that she seemed to want him to respond—she straightened and spun around on her heel. She marched straight through a door Sean deduced must lead to the kitchen, her russet-colored, waist-length braid swaying rhythmically—and not a little seductively, he thought—above luscious-looking hips. Within seconds she returned with a cardboard cup—a really big cardboard cup, like the kind for which no sane person would ever ask a refill—and thrust it toward him. Fortunately, there was a lid on the cup, so none of it sloshed out to make a mess on the counter…or burn off a layer of her skin. Unfortunately, however, at least for Autumn, that wasn’t the main thing Sean had come in to ask for.

“What are you doing Wednesday night?” he asked, ignoring the cup she extended toward him.

Her expression went from inscrutable to…well, quite scrutable…in a nanosecond. Mostly, Sean thought, she looked really confused and not a little panicky. “I—I’m working,” she said, thrusting the cup toward him again, more insistently this time.

And again Sean ignored it. “How late?” he asked.

She gaped faintly for a moment, gazing at him as if he had just asked her to come with him to the Casbah, where they could make beautiful music together. Then she shook her head quickly, once, as if to clear it of a muzzying fog…and extended the cup of coffee forward, very insistently, again. But her conviction seemed to be wavering some as she told him, “I, um, till nine.”

He nodded his approval…and continued to ignore the cup of coffee. “Nine,” he repeated with interest. “Right about when the sun will be almost down and the new moon will be visible.”

She eyed him now with something akin to intrigue and absently licked her lips. Sean considered the simple gesture to be highly erotic. “Actually, Mr. Monahan, new moons aren’t visible,” she said. “Hence the term ‘new.”’