Grayson didn’t know where he was taking her, he only knew he needed to get her out of that kitchen—before he took her there, instead.

Who knew bread could be so sexy? Summer was flushed and disheveled, with flour still smudged on her collarbone, and it took everything Grayson had not to push her up against that kitchen island and peel her dress away, claim her sweet mouth the way he’d been fantasizing ever since he made that barefoot walk back across the orchard at dawn.

She was more addictive than sugar. One taste, and he was hooked. Out of control. Which meant he needed to get a grip, and fast.

He led her outside, and Summer quickly locked up behind them. “It’s not like you to play hooky,” she teased. “What about the bookstore?”

Grayson had lasted about an hour there pacing the floor before deciding to close up early. “I don’t always work Saturdays,” he said vaguely, and opened the passenger door of his Jeep for her. Summer climbed in, and he went around to the driver’s side, thinking fast for somewhere to take them. Some place with plenty of people around, so he wouldn’t be tempted to repeat last night’s madness. The swimming pond was out . . . and so was his farm . . . but luckily, there was at least one spot on the Cape where a Saturday crowd was guaranteed.

He put the Jeep in drive and pulled away, noting how Summer immediately made herself comfortable: turning on the radio, rolling her window down, and wriggling out of her sandals right there in the passenger seat. Anyone else, and he would have been annoyed, but her toenails winked bright red at him, and as she hummed along with the music, he felt his tension ease.

A date. In daylight. Nothing to be worried about. He could handle this just fine without losing his head all over again.

“So how did the inspections go?” he asked. “All clear?”

“Barely.” Summer grimaced. “I thought I was doomed, until Marmaduke saved the day.”

Grayson arched an eyebrow. “That rabid beast? I’ve still got scars from him.”

“Poor baby.” Summer laughed, and patted his knee. “He’s a sweetheart, really. At least according to his new best friend, Harry.”

“Harry Gordon, at the council?” Grayson asked. He’d had some dealings with him before, and ‘best friend’ weren’t exactly the words he’d use to describe the man.

“One and the same. Turns out he’s a sucker for cats.”

“Hmm, I’ll have to remember that.”

Grayson turned onto the highway up the Cape and sat back, letting the road unfold in front of them. It was a warm day, with one of those endless summer skies that made him relish being so far from England, where he was lucky to get a glimpse of sunshine until late June. He’d never realized what a difference it made until his first year on the Cape, when he discovered that the endless grey drudgery he’d taken for granted lifted like a weight from his shoulders with every sunny day. He glanced over at Summer, expecting a relaxed smile, but instead she still looked tense, deep in thought like when he’d found her in the kitchen.

“What are you planning on baking for opening day?” he asked, changing the subject to the one thing he knew would bring back that smile.

Sure enough, she brightened. “Oh god, where do I even start? That’s the hard part,” she added, looking over at him. “I want to make everything, so I’ve been trying to narrow it down. There’ll be breads and rolls, and croissants, of course, but then I want to have fruit pastries, and some cake too . . .”

As she launched into a debate about the merits of buttercream versus cream cheese frosting, Summer’s trademark sparkle returned. Grayson smiled to see her so animated. He didn’t think he’d met anyone as passionate about food—or anything—before, but that passion was what set Summer apart: it shone from everything she did, every enthusiastic word and reckless smile. Unstoppable.

Irresistible.

He glanced over again for a glimpse of her—and almost missed the turn to Fairhurst Farms. Grayson forced himself to keep his eyes on the road, and soon they were pulling up in the gravel lot, already packed with cars. People were browsing by the shop, making their way over to the main barn, or hiking back to their cars, laden down with bags of produce.

Summer clapped her hands together. “A farm stand!” she said, excitement in her voice, and Grayson had to chuckle. “What?” she glanced back.

“Nothing. Just, most women want wining and dining.” Grayson grinned, going around to get her door. “You go crazy for fresh produce.”

“Well, you should know by now, I’m not most women.” Summer slid out of the Jeep, then went up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

Heat slammed through Grayson, from zero to sixty with just the soft touch of her lips on his. He tried to take it slow, but Summer’s arms came around his neck, pulling him closer, and he couldn’t resist. He pressed her lightly back against the Jeep, the length of her body melting into him, those miraculous curves, and damn if he didn’t forget himself all over again, forget the bright daylight, and the crowds, just a few feet away.

When she kissed him, there was nothing else in the world.

Grayson finally pulled back, feeling like the world had just been flipped upside down. But Summer seemed perfectly fine: she gave him a lazy smile and reached up. “I like this thing,” she said, playfully stroking his beard. “It’s tickly.”

He rubbed it, self-conscious. “I usually get rid of it for summer.”

“Hmm, I can’t picture it.”

Grayson released her. His pulse was still racing, and he was tempted to pile her back in the Jeep and drive home, but he fought to get a hold of himself. Necking in the car park like some kind of hormone-addled kid?

He was better than this.

“I thought I’d introduce you to Kate and Felix,” he said, nodding to the farm. “They supply a lot of the local restaurants, and I thought you might want to check out their fruit fields.”

“You know how to talk dirty to a girl,” Summer beamed, and he laughed.

“Farm-fresh,” he teased, putting on a low, throaty voice. “Organic. Pick your own.”

“Heavens!” Summer pressed a hand to her forehead, and feigned a swoon. And just like that, Grayson was filled with gladness, as simple as the sight of her: bare-faced with her hair tangling in the breeze.

This girl was something else.

Summer took his hand and flashed another dazzling smile. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

* * *

Summer followed Grayson as he showed her around the old barn, where the farm had set up their stands to sell everything from leafy greens fresh out of the field to creamy honey butter and apple jam. The Saturday market was packed, full of tourists catching up over a bushel of sweet tomatoes, describing how they’d been dreaming of their first grilled corn on the cob all winter long. Summer knew how they felt. She couldn’t believe the abundance of gorgeous produce, and it was already setting her mind whirring, planning dishes for the weeks ahead.

“God, these tomatoes are incredible,” she said, biting into a sample of the sweet, fruity flesh. “I could bake them into a focaccia with fresh herbs, and maybe some crumbled feta cheese to melt on the top . . . And those zucchini!” she spied them across the room, plump and glistening in their baskets. “I learned the best zucchini bread recipe from an old mentor. The trick is, you add fresh-grated ginger and a dark chocolate glaze.”

She caught Grayson looking amused, and stopped.

“Sorry,” she said, feeling self-conscious. This was why she didn’t date non-chefs, because they glazed over with bored stares when she started babbling about food. “I know I’m a dork when it comes to this stuff.”

“No, I love it,” Grayson answered. “I was just thinking, if you’re this excited over the farm stand, what’s going to happen when we go pick our own strawberries?”

“That’s for you to find out,” Summer laughed. She paid for her full bags and Grayson went to stash them in the Jeep before they made their way out back, to where the fields of strawberry plants were waiting, green and scarlet in the sun.

“This reminds me of when I was a kid,” Grayson said, as they began to fill a basket. “I grew up in the countryside, a couple of hours outside London, so we’d go berry-picking in summer sometimes. Or rather, my mom and sister would pick the fruit, and my brothers would eat it all,” he added with a grin.

“How many siblings do you have?” Summer asked, seizing on the chance to learn more.

“Two brothers, older, and a younger sister,” Grayson said, leaning to pluck another cluster of strawberries.

“Do you see them much?”

He shrugged. “My brothers are both pretty settled, families, mortgages, but my sister comes to visit sometimes. She’s still kind of a wanderer.”

“Sounds like Jamie—my baby brother,” Summer explained. “I don’t think he’s landed in one place longer than a month or two for years.”

“I never saw the appeal.” Grayson straightened up. “I mean, I understand traveling when you’re young and figuring things out. But soon enough, you want to make a life somewhere, build a routine. Settle.”

“I don’t know,” Summer said slowly. “Just because you put down roots somewhere, doesn’t mean you’re settled. There’s always room for adventure.”

“Perhaps,” Grayson agreed. “If you put it in the schedule.”

He fed her a strawberry, so ripe it burst against her tongue, sweeter than anything you could find in a grocery store. Summer licked the juice from his fingertips, then caught his gaze. It shot through her, fevered and hot.

Grayson dropped his hand and looked away. “So, you’re having problems with your mom?”

Talk about a cold shower.

Summer sighed and kept picking. “I don’t know why I let her get to me, she’s always been this way. It’s like, I know exactly what will happen, but somehow I’m still surprised when she pulls this stuff. I used to send her an invitation, to come eat at every new restaurant when I started working there,” she confided. “Celebrate my first night, you know?”

Grayson nodded.

“Well, she never came,” Summer said, remembering the disappointment, fresh every time. “It was always a different reason—she was filming, or there was some crisis with her restaurant, it didn’t matter. But I kept sending her the invitations, like this time it would be different. That she’d make me a priority, show me some support. I guess I never learned.”

Grayson gave her a sympathetic smile. “Have you invited her to the bakery opening?”

Summer snorted. “Nope. I haven’t even told her about it. I was going to, when she called this morning, but surprise, she wound up talking about herself the whole time, and I never got a chance.”

She felt a pang. It was painful just how predictable her mother was—and herself, too, holding out that small glimmer of hope that one day, Eve would want to be a part of everything she worked for, be proud of what Summer had achieved.

“It’s silly, I know,” she said, realizing Grayson was still watching her. “I guess that’s why the bakery is so important to me now. It’s the one dream of mine she never had her fingerprints on. No matter what she says, I’ve done it all on my own.”

“You have.” Grayson nodded and smiled at her, his dark eyes full of something she couldn’t quite read. “You, and that strudel of yours.”

Summer laughed. “Baby, you haven’t seen nothing yet. Just wait until I show you how to make strawberry clafoutis.”

“Strawberry what now?”

“You’ll see,” she said confidently. “I promise, it’ll change your life.”

They took their bounty and drove back to Grayson’s place. Summer was serious about giving him a cooking lesson. For a man who enjoyed food so much, it was a crime that he didn’t know how—and she was going to show him exactly what he’d been missing out on.

“I should warn you, I’m not a baker,” Grayson said, showing her into the farmhouse. “Cooking, I can do. Roast chicken, a good piece of steak . . . but all that flour and baking soda stuff?”

“It’s not as scary as it looks,” Summer reassured him, weighed down with produce bags. “And I’ll teach you all my secret cheats.”

She followed him to the kitchen, looking around curiously to take in the scene. Poppy always swore you could tell everything about a man by the place he made his home, but the guys Summer had dated all lived like her: in shoebox apartments in the city, crammed with roommates and hand-me-down Ikea furniture. Now, she was on the lookout for hints about Grayson’s life: a secret love of reggae music, or an embarrassing hoard of rom-coms.

But instead, it was clear Grayson kept his home as inscrutable as everything else in his life. The farmhouse was old, and rustic enough, but inside, nothing was out of place. His furniture was leather and wood, gorgeous vintage pieces, and everything seemed purposeful, chosen with intent. A single vase on the mantle, the old metal coffee table, bare save a chess board, and a neat stack of New Yorker magazines. There was no clutter, not an object out of place. He’d chosen each object carefully, and that just made Summer even more curious for the story behind everything.

“I hope the kitchen is up to scratch,” Grayson said, as she followed him into the open space.

“No, this is great.” Summer set down her things. There was a main central island with a concrete countertop, and plenty of room by the old-fashioned range. “People think they need all high-end stuff to really cook, but you can do just as much with a tiny space. My old place, I barely had two burners and a table to work with.”

“In New York?” Grayson unpacked the bags, smoothly stepping behind her to put the strawberries in a colander in the sink. “Did you live alone, or with a boyfriend . . . ?”

He said it casually, but it was clear he was fishing. Summer hid a smile. “No boyfriend,” she said, leaning against the counter to watch him. “Not for a little while. Us chefs tend to marry our jobs. You have to, with all the late hours. It’s part of why I quit that scene,” she added. “I wanted to actually enjoy my life for a change, instead of just planning on one day maybe getting a break.”

“Well, you’re preaching to the choir there.” Grayson gave her a grin. “I’m all about the quiet life.”

Summer hadn’t exactly been talking about staying in the slow lane, but she didn’t want to disagree now. Grayson finished rinsing off the strawberries and set them down on the counter. “So how are we going to do this?” he asked, rolling up his sleeves.

Summer noticed the strong line of his forearms, and felt that melting sensation in her stomach again. Never mind the produce, it was her co-chef who was irresistible today. “Well first, you kiss the chef,” she said playfully.

He chuckled. “That’s the rule in your kitchen?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we better follow it to the letter.”

He leaned in and kissed her softly, a slow-burn kiss full of control—and possibilities. Summer sighed, savoring the taste of him, still sweet from the strawberry fields. Grayson slowly pulled away, and brushed a lock of hair from Summer’s eyes, his hand lingering against her cheek. “How’s that?” he asked, his dark gaze searching hers.

“A good start,” Summer smiled back. “You’re a natural in the kitchen.”

He chuckled. “Wait until we’ve tried the recipe.”

“Relax, there’s nothing to it,” she reassured him. “Clafoutis is just like a baked custard dish. Traditionally, we’d make it with cherries, but any fruit is good.” She paused, feeling strangely exposed. Baking wasn’t just a fun pastime, it was her passion, the biggest thing in her life, and sharing it with a novice—with Grayson—made her stomach skip over with nerves.

She was sharing a part of herself with him.

“Do you have a heavy skillet we can use to bake it in the oven?” she asked, trying to focus on the recipe.

“Yes ma’am.”

Summer laughed to hear the Southern phrase in his crisp English accent. Grayson fetched down the skillet and a mixing bowl, and they assembled all the tools and ingredients on the countertop.

“Clafoutis, crostata . . . it’s a whole different language,” Grayson remarked, watching Summer measure out the butter and flour.

“I love it,” she said. “Recipes are a little piece of home. People travel all over the world and bring them with them. Handed them down through the generations.”

“Did your mother pass any down to you?”

Summer gave a wry laugh at the thought. “Besides the best takeout menu, no.” She added the ingredients for the batter to the bowl. “OK, you whisk these together, until it’s smooth and creamy.” She passed the bowl to Grayson, and watched his expert hands at work. “Perfect.”

She showed him how to pour it into the skillet, and then stud the top with a layer of halved strawberries and a dusting of sugar.

“That’s it,” she announced. “All done.”

“That was easy.” Grayson sounded surprised. “I was expecting drizzles of this and swirls of that.”

She laughed. “With some chefs, maybe. My last boss was like that,” she confided, as she transferred the skillet to the hot oven. “He could never just leave a dish alone for the ingredients to shine, he always had to beat them into submission with fancy cooking techniques. But the way I see it, the flavors are the point, and most of the time, simple is best.”

“I agree,” Grayson said, and slipped his arms around her waist. “So how long until it’s ready?”

“Not long,” Summer melted against him. “Thirty, forty minutes, maybe.” She gave him a flirty smile. “However will we pass the time?”

“Hmmm . . .” Grayson leaned in, his lips grazing her earlobe. “I have a few ideas.”

He kissed her again, and this time, there was nothing self-controlled about it: the spark caught, and then his mouth was hot and hungry against hers. Summer arched into him, breathlessly reaching up to run her fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. It was magnetic, the pull between them, and now there was nothing—no morning crowds, or rogue inspectors, or her own flush of inhibition—holding them back.

Grayson gripped her hips and then easily lifted her, setting her on the counter right there amongst the mess of baking tools and ingredients. Summer wrapped her legs around his waist, greedy to feel his body against her, every last inch. His hands were roving over her waist and back, tugging the straps of her sundress aside as he bent his head and landed a row of delicate kisses along her bare shoulders and neck.

Summer gasped, his beard tickling across her sensitive skin, but then the whisper became a tantalizing lick, and she moaned aloud as his mouth reached the tender curve of her breast. Grayson tugged her dress lower, closing his mouth over her nipple and teasing it into a stiff peak as she clung to him, lost in the pleasure he was lavishing with every touch. God, he knew exactly what to do to set her body alight: his hands sliding up her thighs, easing them wider as he turned his attention to her other breast and sucked.

But Summer needed more. This time, she needed to feel him for herself. She pulled his shirt up, reveling in the smooth, hot planes of his torso, the ripple of muscles in his shoulder blades, and oh, the way his body tensed beneath her curious touch.

Grayson lifted her suddenly, taking her from the countertop and carrying her down the hall like she weighed nothing. Summer buried her face against his neck, tasting the echo of salt on his skin until he tipped her back and she fell with a yelp of surprise onto something soft. His bed, covered in navy linens and cool against her bare back. Grayson kneeled above her, stripping off his T-shirt and pausing to watch her. His eyes were dark, and it felt like they looked right through her, through all the flirting and impulsive jokes to the very heart of her.

Summer flushed. From the moment they’d met, he’d seemed to have this way about him—a way of silently cutting past the surface to the truth of the matter. It’s why she felt off balance around him, spinning out of control, with him as the center of the storm. Sure, she tried to fake her confidence, and sometimes it even worked, when she could nudge him off kilter too and see the flash of wild abandon in his eyes. But here, now, there was no hiding how exposed he made her feel.

It was just her.

No games, no witty comebacks. No hiding what she needed from him. Just the feel of his hands, deliberate on her bare skin, and the look in his eyes as he leaned in to claim her mouth for good: slowly taking possession as his tongue slid deeper, making her melt and sending her pulse skittering with wild desire.

He pinned her into the mattress, the delicious weight of him pressing her down, and Summer arched up eagerly against him. She could feel him, hard against her thigh, and she reveled in the way his body felt under her hands: the broad planes of his chest, the curve of his biceps, and the flinch of his abs as she trailed her fingertips lower, tracing teasing circles on his stomach and hips. Grayson made a noise against her, and then his hand was sliding between her thighs, touching her lightly through her panties and making her moan into his lips.

“God, yes. There.”

He stroked again, a slow, intoxicating rhythm, and she reached to find him too, sliding her hand under the waistband of his jeans and closing her fist around him. Their breath came faster, together, as she teased the length of him, and Grayson slipped her panties aside and curled a finger into her dampness. His palm kept gentle pressure against her as he dipped and pulsed, and soon it was all Summer could do to close her eyes and let the pleasure take her over, the climax rippling lightly through her body like waves on the shore.

She wanted more.

It scared her how much she needed him right now. How exposed she felt. She’d been swept along by all their flirting, and the tension building, until the passion between them seemed like the only thing on earth.

But it wasn’t. There was more. Like the tender way he touched her, smoothing her hair out of her face, and the look in his eyes, searching hers like he was trying to figure her out and discover all her secrets.

Suddenly, Summer felt a pang.

He saw her.

How long had she wanted that: just simply, to be seen?

Accepted. Wanted.

Enough.

It felt like she’d spent her whole life trying to prove herself. Striving for her mother’s praise, then for every snooty boss, and rival chef. Needing to prove she was good enough to hold her own, wanting them to see her talent and passion. Even with Danny, she’d always been jostling for his attention, competing with the restaurant for every moment of his time.

But now, she didn’t need to try. Grayson’s focus was on her and only her, his fingertips roving over every inch of her, his gaze so full of desire, she knew without a doubt there was no place else he’d rather be.

And god, she wanted him even more for it.

Grayson kissed her hotly, then reached for the bedside table. He pulled a condom from the drawer and carefully opened it before returning both hands, and mouth, and body to Summer again: worshiping every inch of her until she was wound tight and panting all over again. “I need you,” she whispered, reaching for him, but Grayson wouldn’t be rushed; he pressed her back into the sheets again, kissing her so thoroughly her head was spinning by the time he finally eased her legs apart and settled between her thighs. Summer slid her arms around him, resting her hands on the delicious curve of his ass as his kiss turned demanding, and he sank into her, inch by thick, luxurious inch.

Dear god, he felt incredible.

Grayson groaned, and Summer flexed around him, loving the way he filled her and the way his body reacted to her touch. He wrapped her in his arms, rolling them together, and then they were moving as one, surging and gasping, fighting for breath as the pleasure spiraled higher and Summer felt herself hurtling to the edge again. But this time, there was no holding back, no gentle, sweet release. This was an inferno, consuming them both, and she was lost to him completely. The weight of him, the flash of raw desire on his face, the thick friction driving her wild inside until she couldn’t hold it back, couldn’t even think or breathe. She was a pure, wild sensation, bursting loose and soaring into the skies, her body breaking apart as she cried his name and felt him pulse and surge inside until they were both collapsed in a dizzy symphony in each other’s arms.

And Summer knew this was something different.