Summer made it the final few miles without any more interruptions (animal or maternal) and finally pulled up the gravel drive of a stately-looking hotel overlooking the beach. She drove around to the delivery entrance and found a woman pacing there, clutching her phone. She had blonde hair pulled back in an immaculate bun and wore a crisp white shirt and pencil skirt, despite the warm weather.

“Is that the cake?” she demanded, the moment Summer climbed out of the van.

“Reporting for duty.”

The woman let out a massive sigh of relief. “Thank God. Sorry,” she added, with a flustered smile. “The bride’s been talking about this for weeks. I don’t think she’d even mind if he left her at the altar, as long as she still got to eat the cake.”

Summer laughed. “Don’t worry, I just need to assemble it, and we’re good to go.”

“Can I help with anything? I’m Tess,” the woman added, looking less stressed now.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Summer. And yes, I’d love some help carrying those boxes in. Carefully.”

Together, they unloaded the van. Brooke guided her through to the kitchen, which was already a hive of activity. “I’ve told the caterers to stay out of your way.” Tess showed her to a clear corner. “You’re the VIP.”

“And I bet they’ll love me for it,” Summer joked.

“Do you need anything?” Tess checked, but her phone was buzzing like crazy, and Summer guessed she had a million other places to be, so she waved her off.

“I’ve got this.”

Now came the fun part.

Carefully, she laid out the sturdy base, and then set about unpacking each layer of the cake. There were six in all, cut in perfect squares that got smaller in size. Summer had already frosted them in a thick peach buttercream, and now she retrieved her bowl and ingredients from the cooler, and whipped up another batch of frosting to use as a kind of cement: carefully building the cake layer by layer, until it stood: sturdy, sweet, and utterly irresistible. With a few sugared rose petals, a dusting of gold leaf, and the piece de resistance—a custom cake topper, crafted to match the photo the bride had sent—Summer’s masterpiece was complete.

And it would taste even better than it looked.

“Is this ready for the table?” a server asked. It took three of them to wheel it out, and Summer couldn’t resist stripping off her apron and following them. The hotel was bright and airy, and the reception spilled out of the main hall onto the patio that overlooked the bay. It was a picture-perfect scene, with the afternoon sun sinking over the ocean, guests mingling between tables topped with white linen, and gorgeous displays of fresh-cut roses spilling from every column.

Summer kept to the edge of the patio, skirting the crowd as she tried to blend into the background. She wasn’t exactly dressed for the party, in cut-off jeans and an old T-shirt, but she loved seeing the looks on people’s faces when they bit into something she’d made, and cutting a wedding cake was an extra-special moment.

As the caterers wheeled the cake to the top table, she heard the hum of approval; guests stopped and turned to watch, and by the time they carefully placed it on the table, there was a smattering of applause. Summer glowed, but the look on the bride’s face was the real prize: she lit up like the Fourth of July.

“Oh my god!” The bride squealed. She clapped her hands together and did a little bounce. “It’s too perfect. I can’t bear to cut it.”

“If you don’t cut it, you won’t get to taste,” her groom pointed out good-naturedly, and she laughed.

“Good point. But we need photos!” She beckoned over the photographer, and then they posed beside it, the bride fussing to make sure the cake was the center of the shot.

Summer grinned. Now there was a woman who had her priorities right.

And speaking of priorities . . . She spotted the buffet across the patio, and made a beeline through the crowd. She’d been snacking on gas station chips and junk food all day, which was a crime against nature—and calories. Surely nobody would notice if she snagged a crab puff . . . or two?

She was just loading up a plate when she felt her skin prickle, like someone was watching her. When she turned, she found a dark-haired man staring from across the room. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but unlike the other men in smart tuxedos, he was wearing a crisp white button-down with jeans, and a scruffy winter beard.

Hello.

She smiled, but he just stared at her stonily, with what looked like disapproval on his face. What was his problem?

She turned back, and defiantly took another puff. After all, she’d earned it.

* * *

Grayson Reid noticed the brunette the moment she walked in. It was hard not to. He liked to think he could spot chaos at a hundred paces, and this woman was definitely a disturbance to the atmosphere. Take her outfit, for a start. Cut-off jeans that hugged her bare legs, and a paper-thin T-shirt that hugged everything else—a far cry from the fancy cocktail dresses on display. She lurked by the buffet table, watching the happy couple, and Grayson wondered what disruption was about to ensue.

A jealous ex-girlfriend come to ruin the event? A scorned family member about to make a scene? Either way, it was clear from her rumpled curls and those danger-sign curves, someone was about to wave goodbye to peace and quiet for good.

Luckily, it wouldn’t be him.

He strolled over to the bar and looked around. There was no bartender in sight, so he slipped behind the polished wood and found himself a good bottle of scotch. He liked the view from back here, at arm’s length from the rest of the party, with an unobstructed view of the ocean.

Grayson wasn’t a man for crowds.

He wouldn’t have come at all, except the groom’s father was on the city council. They’d done a deal on some land that backed onto Grayson’s property, and he had his eye on another couple of acres across town, so he figured it was worth making a brief appearance at the festivities. As an Englishman on Cape Cod, he was an automatic outsider, which he liked just fine, but a handshake and a few well wishes would go a long way come winter, when he wanted to make his move.

Plus, there’d be cake. Grayson always had time for cake.

“Excuse me?”

He glanced over. The brunette had materialized at the bar, setting down two plates of hors d’oeuvres and wriggling up on a stool. “Scotch, please and thank you.”

He looked around, but the bartender was still nowhere to be seen, so he plucked a bottle of Jack Daniels down, and slid it down the bar towards her.

“Thanks,” she said, catching it with surprising deftness. “But I meant real scotch. This is technically whiskey.”

See? He knew she’d be a disturbance.

“Delicious with peaches, or spicing up a banana bread,” the woman continued, scanning the bar behind him. “But I was thinking more . . . Glenlivet. Single malt. On the rocks.”

Grayson felt marginally less annoyed. “That’s what I’m drinking,” he said.

“A man of good taste.” She smiled, her whole face lighting up with a mischievous grin, and suddenly he didn’t mind the interruption so much. “I didn’t know anything about scotch until I wound up working in an Scottish pub, in the middle of Paris of all places,” she continued, as he set the fresh bottle in front of her. “Now, that nation has opinions about their booze.”

“Don’t get between a Scotsman and his drink,” Grayson agreed. “They’ve been known to take offense.”

“You’re telling me. I once made the mistake of ordering a Jack and Coke. I thought they were going to lock me up for re-education. You know, strapping me down and making me do blind taste tests until I knew my Laphroaig from my Glenfiddich.”

She grinned at him, that bright, dazzling smile that almost made him ask more, but Grayson caught himself in time.

The key to a man’s happiness was peace. Relaxation. Routine. The trouble started when you forgot all that and let a pretty face spin your whole world off course.

Disturbance to the local pressure systems. Storm warning, up ahead.

So Grayson just took another sip of his drink and enjoyed the ocean breeze off the water. But the woman didn’t seem daunted by his silence. She poured herself a couple of fingers instead, and took a sip, sighing with pleasure. “I needed that.”

Grayson noticed for the first time that she had dark shadows under her blue eyes, and her smile was wearing thin at the edges.

Not that it was any of his concern.

“Hey, you,” an impatient voice came from farther down the bar.

Grayson turned and found a middle-aged man in an expensive suit. He snapped his fingers. “Can I get some service around here? I need three martinis and a beer.”

Grayson gave him a cool look. “No.”

“Excuse me?” The man gaped.

“You heard me.” Grayson turned away from him, leaving the man to bluster powerlessly.

“This is ridiculous. I’m speaking to your manager!”

“Go right ahead,” he shrugged, before the other man finally stalked away.

The woman snorted with laughter. “That was perfect,” she said, grinning. “God, I’ve had to serve way too many people like that.”

“Money can’t buy manners,” he agreed.

“But the penthouse and sports cars kind of make up for it.”

“I don’t know,” Grayson shrugged. “They always struck me as more trouble than they’re worth. All that staff, doormen and housekeepers all knowing your business.”

“Let me guess, you’re a cabin in the woods kind of guy.”

“How did you guess?”

“The beard gave you away.” She grinned. “And the jeans, at a black tie event?”

“I hate suits,” he admitted. “Always itching in the wrong places.”

“Hey, look who you’re talking to. I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion either.”

Grayson couldn’t stop his gaze slipping lower. She was poured into that T-shirt, alright: her curves almost spilling out of the soft fabric, which was faded in places, with a smear of something pink on the neckline.

Was that . . . frosting?

She raised her glass in a toast. “To breaking the dress code. In comfort.”

Grayson dragged his eyes back and clinked his glass to hers. The horoscope in the back of the weekend newspaper had warned him to beware tempting strangers. He never believed any of that nonsense before, but now, he thought they might have a point.

“I should probably warn you,” the woman continued. “That guy, before? He’s probably running straight to your manager to report you.”

“Let him,” Grayson said. “I don’t work here.”

The woman blinked, then snorted with laughter again. “Seriously? But you got me a drink.”

“You said please and thank you.”

She smiled again, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “I like your style,” she said, and she shot him a mischievous wink.

Yes, a woman like that was definitely trouble.

He braced himself for more of her temptations, but instead of talking some more, she finished her drink and got down from her stool. Grayson felt a curious itch of regret. “Leaving already?”

“Long drive,” she explained. “And I’m guessing the happy couple wouldn’t like it if I lay down and took a nap in one of these rose beds.”

“It is a hotel,” he pointed out. “You could always get a room.”

It was a perfectly innocent suggestion, until the moment she met his gaze and quirked the corner of her lush mouth, and then the images flooding Grayson’s brain were anything but innocent.

The two of them, alone, upstairs. Grayson could think of a hundred things to do, and none of them involved sleep.

So it was probably for the best when she drained her glass and shot him a parting smile. “Good luck not getting fired,” she joked, and he nodded, wondering where she had to be—and who she had to be there with.

“Drive safe.”

He watched her leave, enjoying the sway of her hips in those tight cut-off jeans as she walked away.

Which was probably the safest direction she could have gone.

Grayson figured that was his cue to leave too, so he made a quick round, shaking the right hands and offering his best before heading for the parking lot, where his muddy Jeep stood out like a sore thumb among the rows of polished rentals and BMWs. He’d never been one for those imports, it was like he’d told the brunette: fancy toys were more trouble than they were worth. He’d had one in his former life, back in England, to match the Thames-side apartment and Executive sign on his door, and he didn’t miss any of it one bit. A car like that wouldn’t last a minute on the dirt track out to his farm, and as for making it through a frozen Cape Cod winter? Good luck with that.

He headed back to Sweetbriar Cove, enjoying the drive down the cape. The sandy highway was still quiet, but soon enough it would be Memorial Day, and the first of the summer tourists would descend. He couldn’t really blame them. Cape Cod was a rugged paradise, perched on the edge of the eastern seaboard with stretches of wild Atlantic shores on one side, and the calmer, quiet bays threaded up the coast on the other. The woods sprawled in between, packed with hiking trails and hidden ponds, broken up by small hamlets and quaint older towns that thankfully stayed quiet year round, away from the nightlife and attractions of Provincetown.

Sweetbriar Cove was one of those refuges, nestled in the curve of the cape. His great-uncle had lived there, and Grayson had only seen the place in postcards from his childhood, winging their way across the Atlantic, until Lawrence passed a few years back, and the deed on his estate somehow found its way to Grayson. A few acres, a farmhouse, and an old bookshop just off the town square. His family all thought he’d been crazy to pack up and move out there, but he hadn’t regretted it for a single day. No London smog and crowded Underground subway carriages; no corporate meetings, grey skies, and endless rain. Here, the ocean stretched empty to the horizon, and the windswept dunes lay empty from September through May. It was the perfect place to avoid chaos—of all shapes and sizes.

He turned off the highway and followed the winding road down into the leafy hollow of Sweetbriar Cove. His bookshop was half-hidden down a side street, behind an overgrown hedge he refused to trim back. He didn’t bother flipping the sign in the window to Open; the day was almost over, and most people knew better than to stop by to chat. Occasionally he’d get some confused tourist walking in, looking for the new Nora Roberts or James Patterson book, but he would soon set them right. The bookstore was his retreat: dusty shelves, rabbit-warren rooms, and all. Customers were occasionally welcome, as long as they knew how to browse in silence.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge in back and settled in with his feet up on the front desk. He’d remembered to snag a slice of cake on his way out, and now he unwrapped the napkins and laid out his feast. But he hadn’t even taken his first bite when the bell over the door rang. “We’re closed,” he yelled out, as a stranger peeked through the door.

“But—”

“Closed,” he repeated, until they withdrew.

Now, where was he?

He took a bite of cake, and there was something about the sweet, tart frosting that made him think of the woman from the wedding, with her riot of dark curls and that teasing blue-eyed smile. A little sweet, a little salty—and with a whiskey kick at the end.

Definitely trouble.

He should be glad he escaped the vortex unharmed. It was like chaos theory: if a butterfly flapping its wings could cause a hurricane halfway across the world, then a beautiful woman could upend a man’s life beyond recognition. And Grayson liked his life exactly the way it was.

He took another bite and relished the sunny afternoon silence, alone.

Now that was some damn fine cake.