It took two movies and a deadly bottle of local Sweetbriar wine, but the pain in Summer’s chest finally numbed to a bitter ache around 1 a.m. Poppy had already called it quits hours ago, but Summer was still dreading going back to the bakery alone.

“You can crash here,” Mackenzie offered, yawning on her couch. “It’s just a pull-out, but it does the trick.”

“No, I need to get back.” Summer sighed. “Drunk cleaning is the best kind of cleaning. With any luck I’ll wake up tomorrow and not even remember scrubbing the kitchen floor.”

Mackenzie chuckled. “That’s a good trick, I’ll have to try it sometime. Call me if you need help tomorrow,” she added, showing her to the door. “And it’s OK. We all fall on our faces sometimes,” she told Summer, giving her a hug. “But you can get back up from this one. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Summer wanted to believe her. She piled into a cab for the short ride home, but the wine had taken the edge off her defenses, and now it was impossible to stop thoughts of Grayson flooding her mind.

Was it asking too much for him to let her in?

Nobody had ever made her feel the way he did: so happy and free and understood. But no man had ever shut her out like that either, kept her at arm’s length, and acted like the wild attraction between them was a burden, not a blessing. She wanted more than that from him, but did that mean she had to wind up with nothing at all?

The storm in her chest was raging by the time she stumbled out of the cab and fumbled for her keys. But the door was open, and the lights were on inside.

Summer paused. “Hello?” she called, wary. “Is anyone there?”

She stepped inside the front door and stopped. It looked . . . normal again. The chaos she remembered was gone, and in its place, there were neat tables and clean floors, the books righted on the shelves, and no sign of Marmaduke’s kamikaze chase. Was she drunker than she thought, or had she been visited by the magical cleaning fairies of Sweetbriar Cove?

“Hello?” she called again, feeling unsteady.

“Hi.”

A single word, and her stomach flipped over. It was him. Grayson. Emerging from the back with his sleeves rolled up and a cleaning rag over one shoulder, looking like everything she wanted in the world. Too good to be true.

Summer gulped. “Hi.”

“Sorry,” he said, looking awkward. He brushed his hair back with one hand, “I saw the mess and thought . . . I figured you’d need it cleaned up, to get ready for business.”

Summer couldn’t believe it. “Thanks,” she managed. “But I don’t even know if that’s going ahead.”

“Yes, you do.” Grayson gave her a quiet smile. “You don’t quit. You’d be serving cupcakes come Monday if you had to sell them off a table in the town square.”

Summer felt an ache. “But should I? Maybe I have this backwards. Maybe this is fate telling me to quit before I make an even bigger fool of myself. Not that it would be easy,” she added, remembering the lines and the mess and the sprinklers . . .

Grayson moved closer. “Don’t give up,” he said, his voice raw. “You can’t. Not when something matters to you.”

Summer looked up, into those dark eyes she’d seen blaze with passion, and felt herself unravel all over again. But what about us? She wanted to ask. He’d given up—he hadn’t even tried. So did that mean she didn’t matter to him?

She shook her head. She couldn’t do this now. “I’m drunk,” she whispered.

He smiled. “I know.”

“There was tequila. And wine. Which I know I shouldn’t mix, but you can’t watch Two Weeks Notice sober. Hugh Grant was in it. He’s British, like you.”

She was babbling, but that was nothing new. Grayson placed his hand gently on her arm. “You want help getting upstairs?”

Summer ached. She felt his touch burn through her, and in an instant, she remembered how it felt to be pinned beneath his body, caught up in that incredible release.

God, she wanted him.

She stumbled back, shaking her head. “No, I’m fine. Good. Great!”

“Alright.” Grayson watched her, and it seemed like there was something he wanted to say, but he just nodded. “You’ll feel better in the morning,” he said, “just give it a chance. Make a batch of those sticky rolls, and you’ll see, this is where you’re meant to be. Don’t write yourself off just yet.”

He turned to the door, and Summer couldn’t keep it inside anymore.

“You mean the way you wrote us off?” she blurted.

Grayson stopped. He glanced back, his eyes flashing with something determined. Then, before Summer could even process what was happening, he closed the distance between them and took her face in his hands with a searing kiss.

His mouth was hot on hers, desperate and searching, branding her lips with his passion.

She almost fell. Back into his arms, and the electric rush between them. Back to feeling his body pressed tightly against hers, and that delicious hunger, curling deep inside her bloodstream.

But something inside her held back.

One more night would be incredible, but what happened in the morning? When Grayson rolled briskly away from her, and shut down all over again, and Summer was left feeling more alone than if she’d slept by herself all night?

She broke the kiss. “It’s late . . .” she said, turning away from him. “And I’m drunk, and . . .”

“I understand.” Grayson’s voice was tight. “You get some rest. Call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

Summer nodded and watched him let himself out. She felt unsteady, but this time it had nothing to do with the tequila.

No, this was all him.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat. She felt so torn. She didn’t have much experience with guys, and definitely not with men like Grayson. Because there was nobody else like him. He was so proud and independent; he’d built this life for himself on his own terms, and it was one of the things she loved about him. But if he honestly didn’t want to share any of that with her, then there was nothing she could do.

She couldn’t be hanging around, hoping he would choose to love her. She’d spent a lifetime waiting for someone to make her a priority, and she knew how that killed her, chipping away every day at her self-esteem until she doubted every move she made. And if she wavered now, and settled for less, she knew it would eat her up inside, no matter how sweet those kisses could be.

She turned and slowly made her way through the kitchen, pausing to take in the spotless countertops, ready for action. He must have been cleaning here for hours to fix the mess she’d made. But why, if he was still so intent on keeping her at a distance?

Why was he kissing her one moment and leaving the next?

She wearily made the trip upstairs, the day finally catching up with her. She barely had enough energy left to make her way to the bedroom, kick off her shoes, and fall face-first into the covers.

Tomorrow would be better. It had to be.