Summer woke with a kink in her neck and something soft nuzzling at her leg.

“Mmhhmn,” she murmured, rolling over. This new bed of June’s was hell on her back, and was there a reason she was lying in a damp patch . . . ?

Suddenly, it all came rushing back. Grayson. The garden. And oh, everything that had happened next.

She opened her eyes, wide awake now. They were still outside, sprawled on the grass, Grayson wrapped around her with his arms locked tight, holding her close. Marmaduke the cat was curled up by her feet, the sun was rising in the clear blue sky, and birdsong echoed, cheerful on the warm breeze.

It was a beautiful morning.

Summer smiled and sank back into his embrace. She’d never been the outdoors type, but now she could see the appeal. If all her camping trips came complete with a handsome English man, then she would definitely try roughing it more often. She snuggled closer, wondering what she should make for breakfast. Her famous morning buns needed to proof overnight, but she could throw together a rustic frittata in no time from ingredients she had in the fridge before—

She sat up with a jolt. “The inspector!”

“Wha . . . ?” Grayson yawned, still half-asleep.

“The inspector, from the council. He’s coming at seven! What time is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh crap!” Summer scrambled up. She was shirtless, God knew where her top was, and the man from the council was due any minute now. “I was going to clean up and have fresh-baked muffins for him, and— underwear! I was definitely going to be wearing underwear.”

She looked around, and finally found her shirt balled up by the rose bushes. She tugged it on and yanked it over her chest, suddenly self-conscious in the morning sun.

Grayson smiled at her. “You’ve got twigs in your hair,” he said, reaching to pluck them out. Summer paused. Damn, but he looked too good, lying there in his sweatpants like a centerfold from some kind of calendar. Hot Men With Beards in Nature. She’d buy herself a copy or two for sure. But there was no time to savor the sight of him when she had the fate of the bakery resting in the balance.

“Can’t stay,” she said, even as she leaned in to drop a brief kiss on his mouth. “Need to go shower!”

He got to his feet, brushing dirt from his sweatpants. “I’m guessing I should head home, too?”

“Unless you think Mr. Gordon will like a naked man in the garden.”

Grayson chuckled. “Perhaps not.”

Summer knew she should hurry; for all she knew, the inspector could be on her doorstep already, but something made her linger. She searched Grayson’s face, looking for some hint about how he felt. Whether last night meant he would finally stop pushing her away. “Are we . . . OK?” she asked, hesitating.

“That depends,” he said, with a faint smirk. “If last night was just OK, then clearly, I’ve got work to do.”

Summer exhaled in relief. “We’ll see.” She grinned, feeling on top of the world. “If a man wants to improve himself, I won’t stand in the way.”

She kissed him again, and then bolted for the house. The clock in the kitchen said 6.47 a.m., so she barely had time for a lightning-fast shower before she pulled on a sundress—and underwear—and thundered back downstairs. Luckily, the front of the bakery was still immaculate from all their decorating yesterday, and she only had to rinse a couple of plates and give the kitchen floor a final sweep before it was spotless too.

The bell over the door rang at seven on the dot. Just in time!

Summer took a deep breath. “Coming!” she called, quickly setting out a plate of the leftover hand pies from last night. They weren’t fresh-baked, but they would have to do. She bustled into the front room with a big grin. “Hi, you must be Harry.”

“It’s Mr. Gordon.” The inspector was a tall, reedy man with glasses and a tape measure. He already had his notebook out, peering at the display case with a disapproving stare. “Will these cases be properly ventilated?”

Summer gulped. OK then. She’d been hoping the famous Sweetbriar hospitality would extend here, but clearly, she had another thing coming. “Everything meets the construction code and guidelines for food services,” she said, snapping into professional mode. “I’ll get the plans, and you can see for yourself.”

An hour later, Harry—sorry, Mr. Gordon—had gone over every square inch of the bakery, and Summer was wondering if he’d ever sign off on her permit.

“Food service requires the very highest standards,” he said, on his hands and knees, checking under the sink. “The smallest hint of uncleanliness spells disaster.”

“I totally agree.” Summer gulped. Her stomach was tied up in knots now, despite knowing the regulations in her sleep. “I’ve worked in restaurants for years, back in New York, and all of them had the best ratings.”

“This isn’t New York.” Mr. Gordon pursed his lips. “We don’t have any of those backhand deals here.”

“So I shouldn’t offer you any pie to expedite this?” Summer joked.

He glared at her.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly. “I was kidding.”

“We don’t kid about food safety,” Mr. Gordon reprimanded her. “Salmonella is no joking matter.”

Summer bit her tongue and stood back as he pulled out a flashlight and began inspecting behind the cabinets. She was only relieved that they’d gutted the kitchen and build the cabinets from scratch. She knew there was nothing more than sawdust back there; she just had to wait quietly for Mr. Gordon and his thirty-five-point checklist to be done.

Then there was a meow from the window. Mr. Gordon stood with a jolt, and Summer gulped to see Marmaduke pawing at the catch, like he always did.

“Is that your feline?” Mr. Gordon asked sternly.

“No!” Summer blurted. “He, uh, came with the house. He doesn’t come in the kitchen, I swear,” she said quickly. “No animals in the food prep area. I just put a dish out for him sometimes.”

“No milk, I hope,” Mr. Gordon said. “It’s terrible for their digestive systems. A fine animal like that needs water, and plenty of fresh fish.” His stern expression melted into a beatific smile as he crossed to the back door and crouched down, cooing to beckon Marmaduke closer. “Aren’t you a good boy, yes you are?” He petted the cat fondly. Summer flinched, expecting a hiss or swipe of his claws, but instead, Marmaduke purred happily. “Look at your coat, I bet you’re a real hunter. What a beautiful boy. He’s a Maine coon mix, I’d say,” Mr. Gordon said, straightening up. “I have five myself at home.”

“Five?” Summer echoed. “Wow. You must really love cats.”

“They’re a most noble beast,” Mr. Gordon said, sounding defensive. “People say dogs are a man’s best friend, but who needs a slobbering, indiscriminate beast like that when you could earn the trust and affection of a regal animal like this.”

Summer coughed to keep from laughing. “Absolutely. Cats all the way. Did you need anything else, Mr. Gordon?”

“Please, call me Harry. Everything looks fine here,” he smiled. “I’ll sign off on your food service permit with the highest A rating.”

Summer closed the door behind him with a sigh of relief. Who would have guessed it, but Marmaduke had saved the day. Now she had everything she needed to open her doors for business, it was just a question of getting her publicity in overdrive and making sure everyone knew about her opening next week.

She headed upstairs and collapsed on the couch with a satisfied sigh. It had been a whirlwind twenty-four hours; hell, it had been a whirlwind few weeks. But Summer felt that old excitement running through her again, the way she loved. Possibilities and adventure—the way life should be. Life in New York had worn her down, but here on the Cape, with the fresh sea breeze and sunshine, she was coming alive again.

All of her.

She grinned, feeling that delicious tangle in her stomach that came whenever she thought about Grayson. Last night . . . Lord, that man liked to keep his cards close to his chest, but when it came time for action, he sure knew how to take a woman’s breath away.

Twice.

Summer reached for her phone, then paused. Grayson didn’t strike her as a guy who was big into texting, and she didn’t want to push things—not before they’d had a chance to talk more. Or talk, full stop. The frustrating thing about the tall, dark, and silent type was the silence, and although she felt closer to Grayson now than she did last night, Summer realized that she didn’t really know much more.

The man was an island, alright.

The sound of her cellphone interrupted the calm, and Summer winced at her mother’s ringtone. She’d been ducking her calls for days, but she couldn’t avoid it any longer. Time to rip off the Band-Aid and tell her about the big move.

“Mom, I’ve got some news—” Summer began, but Eve was already one step ahead of her.

“Have you lost your mind?!”

Summer held the phone away from her ear as her mom continued. “I took the network head to dinner at Andre’s so they could sample your work, and what does the server tell me? That Summer Bloom no longer works there! Apparently, she quit!”

“I was going to tell you—” Summer protested weakly.

“So not only was I humiliated in front of the Food Channel people,” her mother said over her, “but you jeopardized your chances for a show. We were talking about having you be a regular guest, maybe even get your own spin-off, but now all that’s up in the air again.”

Summer shook her head. Her own what now?

“I’m sorry, Mom, but I told you, I don’t want to be a guest on your show,” she said, trying to stay calm.

“Oh, honey, of course you do. It’s a marvelous platform, most chefs would kill for this kind of air-time.”

“And I’m not most chefs,” Summer pointed out. “I hate being on camera—all the lights and stress and fussing. You’re the one who loves being the center of attention, I just want to be left alone to bake.”

As far away as possible from her mother, and the three-ring circus that followed her around.

“But honey, we need this footage for the network.” Her mom sounded distressed. “I’m supposed to be branding myself as warm and approachable for the new family-style cookbook in the fall.”

Summer tried not to laugh. Eve was about as warm and approachable as an iceberg. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” She rolled over and lay flat on the couch; setting the call to speaker as she stared at the ceiling. “Maybe get casting to find you some small children, or a puppy. People love puppies.”

Eve sighed. “I don’t know why. Remember that awful little poodle I got you for your seventh birthday?”

“I remember you sent it back to the breeder when it chewed on your designer shoes,” Summer replied, thinking of little Snickerdoodle with a pang.

“Don’t change the subject. This is important to me, Summer. A few hours, four, five episodes. You wouldn’t have to do anything, just stand there and smile.”

“No, Mom.” Summer tried to be firm. “I’m sorry, but it’s not for me.”

“I don’t know why you can’t help me with this one thing,” Eve said. “You’re being so ungrateful, and after everything I’ve done for you.”

Summer tensed. “Right,” she couldn’t stop herself saying. “Because you’ve always been so supportive.”

“Who do you think got you your first job?” her mother snapped back. “Or that position at Andre’s? Pastry chef openings don’t grow on trees. I had to pull every string in the book to get you in there, and this is the thanks I get?”

Summer’s heart dropped.

“I got my job on my own.” She slowly sat upright. “Because I earned it.”

Eve just laughed. “Of course,” she said, sneering. “And the best chefs in town were willing to take a chance on a complete unknown; the fact I’m your mother had nothing to do with it.”

Summer felt ill. She’d worked twice as hard to prove herself, all those years working her way up the ladder, but her mother was twisting it all around.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, clenching her fists at her sides. “You can take all the credit if you want, but I’m done with the culinary world now. Find someone else to be approachable with. I’m not interested in your charade.”

She grabbed the phone and hung up before her voice broke.

It wasn’t true.

It couldn’t be, she reminded herself, swallowing back tears. Kitchens didn’t work that way. Even if her mom’s name had gotten her in the door, no celebrity in the world made up for bad cooking. She would have been fired in a heartbeat if her dishes weren’t up to scratch.

She turned on her heel and thundered downstairs to the kitchen, grabbing a mixing bowl from the cabinet, her measuring spoons, and her precious jar of sourdough starter, handed down from Madame Celine herself. It was a cardinal rule among chefs to keep their bad tempers out of the kitchen, but there was one shining exception to the rule, where a bad day didn’t hurt the dish, but made it better than ever.

Bread.

Summer often wondered how the first cave-people figured it out: flour and yeast and water, kneaded together into a satisfyingly sticky lump of stretchy, yielding dough. Maybe it was an accident—one of them had a bad day and decided to take it out on the dough, pounding it into submission, but either way, it was the perfect bad-mood baking.

And she was in one hell of a mood.

She tied on an apron and rolled up her sleeves. She liked to pick her music to suit the dish—upbeat pop songs for a batch of pink-topped cupcakes, sophisticated jazz for a smooth crème brûlée. But today, it called for something different. Rock music, raw and clashing, loud as it came.

She put on some old Kings of Leon, set out her ingredients, and got to work. First, the starter. She scooped out a cup of the yeast mix and used it as the base for her dough, adding flour, water, and a little oil, until she had the consistency just right. When she was in a hurry, she threw the lot in her mixer and let the paddles do the work, but today, Summer was happy to roll up her sleeves and knead it all by hand, digging the heel of her palm into the dough and working it in each direction, over and over again.

It was soothing. Almost like a meditation. If by meditation you meant imagining her mother’s face getting pounded into the dough.

“Pastry chef openings don’t grow on trees.”

Summer tried to ignore her mother’s voice, taunting her. She was wrong. Summer had proven it time and time again, with the glowing reviews from the diners and promotions all the way up the line. Eve couldn’t take that away from her, no matter what she said. And even if her whole career back in New York was a lie, this bakery wasn’t. This was something all her own. Summer looked around at the gleaming kitchen and the green of the garden beyond, and felt a little better. Nobody in Sweetbriar even knew she was Eve’s daughter, and when they lined up outside the doors, it would be because of the welcoming tables and sunny patio and Summer’s sticky morning buns.

Her mother couldn’t take this away from her, even if she tried.

“What did that dough ever do to you?”

Summer looked up. It was Grayson, standing in the kitchen doorway with an amused look on his face. She took a breath, still caught up in her noisy rage, her heart beating fast. From the exertion—and the sudden sight of him, just as handsome as when she’d left him that morning. Only wearing a few more clothes now.

Unfortunately.

“It’ll surrender, if it knows what’s good for it.” She shut the music off.

Grayson’s lips quirked with a smile. “You’ve got some flour . . .” He gestured to her face, and Summer wiped. His grin grew wider.

“Let me guess, there’s half a cup all over there now?” Summer shook her head and admitted defeat. “Hazard of the trade. I’ve heard it’s great for skincare.”

Grayson strolled closer and gently brushed her cheek. He tilted her face up to him, and then kissed her, a warm, light, afternoon kiss, that somehow still took her breath away.

“Hi,” she breathed, feeling better already.

“Hello.”

He released her and peered at the jar of sourdough starter on the counter. It was a bubbling, oozing mix that gave off a heady fermented smell. He wrinkled his nose. “Should I call hazard management?”

Summer laughed. “It’s my starter mix. Well, Madame Celine’s grandmother’s. I smuggled it back across the Atlantic wrapped in towels in my suitcase.”

“Do I want to ask why?”

“The yeast is a living thing,” Summer explained. “It ferments over time, and you keep feeding it with flour and water, taking part out to use for new bread. The best ones have been around for a hundred years; they give the bread an amazing flavor.”

“Like fermenting wine?” Grayson asked, looking interested.

“Kind of,” Summer nodded. “To be honest, I could use store-bought yeast and it would come out just fine,” she confessed. “But I like the history of it. A hundred years of baking, using the same yeast. It’s heritage. Want to try?”

Grayson blinked.

“It’s easy,” she reassured him. “You just knead it around like so. A third-grader could do it. We did, actually. We even had a song. Knead the dough, knead it so,” she hummed, before stopping herself.

What was it about this man that made her ramble?

Oh yes, his eyes. And his lips.

And the way he was looking at her. Like the dough wasn’t the only thing he wanted spread on the counter.

“I’ll let the expert handle it.” Grayson leaned back, watching her.

The dough was pretty much beaten into submission now, stretchy and elastic, so she covered it with some film and set it aside to rest under a warm towel. “I like to let it rest for at least an hour,” she explained. “I’ll pummel it a few more times before it bakes.”

“Any reason for the workout?” he asked, and she sighed.

“Three guesses. Wait, you only need one.” Summer gave him a rueful look. “Starts with Eve, ends in Bloom, has a world of passive-aggressive disappointment bound up in the middle.”

“Ah.”

“Exactly.” Summer felt self-conscious for a moment. She didn’t want to unload all her issues on him and send him running for the hills before she’d even had a chance to know more. But Grayson didn’t look like he was running. He tilted his head and held a hand out to her.

“Come on,” he said, tugging her closer. “Let’s get you out of this kitchen—before you do any more damage.”

Summer exhaled. “I don’t know . . . I’m not sure I’m the best company right now.”

“Let’s just see if we can’t change that.”