Grayson woke with the sunrise and padded barefoot to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee of the day. He drank it on the back porch of his farmhouse as usual, enjoying the misty-morning silence as the fog cleared over the orchard and the ocean glinted in the distance. The apple trees were blossoming, and hydrangeas, too, and the tomatoes he’d experimented with planting last fall were already creeping up their trellis, ready for a summer crop.

He hadn’t known a thing about horticulture when he’d arrived; the whole plot was growing wild and neglected. A full couple of acres, if you counted the poor excuse for a vegetable garden he’d found hidden under a particularly ambitious strain of chickweed. A weaker man might have left it be, or razed the whole thing clear, but he was a firm believer that chaos could be contained, all it took was a little determination and elbow grease. Grayson had plenty of that. He read up on pruning techniques, took a couple of online classes, and consulted some of the old-timers at the hardware store, then set to work. It had taken a few years of careful suggestion, but order was restored: neat rows of shady apple tress, and a vegetable garden arranged not just by species, but variety, soil type, water demands, and more.

You didn’t fight the chaos, you nudged it in the right direction. A little clearing here, some strategic planting there, and soon, everything was working in harmony, just the way it should be.

Well, almost everything.

He looked past the orchard, to the distant outline of the shop that sat on the very edge of his land. The last tenants had moved out five years ago, around the time he’d moved in, and the place had fallen into a state of disrepair. What with the orchard and bookstore, he’d kept pushing it to the bottom of his list, but perhaps it was time to bring some order to the chaos. A project for the summer. That sounded about right to him.

With the thought in mind, he changed into his track pants and left on his morning run. Three miles along the back roads and through the woods to Blackbottom Pond. A swift, bracing dip—too early for any neighbors with a wandering eye—then home again in time for his second cup of coffee and breakfast with the newspaper, same as every other day. He was showered, dressed, and at the bookstore to open up by nine, ready for another morning spent with his feet up on the desk, reading.

Except this morning, he was barely through his first chapter when the bell over the door dinged an interruption. Debra, one of the retired locals—and a world-class gossip. She’d been helpful with some pruning techniques for the orchard, so he held back his automatic scowl when she walked in.

“Debra,” he said. “There’s a new box of romances in the back. I haven’t unpacked, if you want to take the lot and save me the trouble.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, her shock of grey hair tied back with a bright purple bandana today. “And I have something for you, too. A tenant, for that shop of yours.”

Grayson lowered his book. “On Blackberry Lane?”

“That’s the one. Poppy was calling around, trying to find out who owns it. A friend of hers has their eye on it, I said you were the man to talk to.”

Grayson paused. A tenant? That would solve the question of what to do with the place, as long as they were the right kind of renter. Quiet, low-maintenance, and no trouble at all. A reclusive artist, maybe. Or a stamp collector.

“It’s not exactly in great shape,” he warned her, and she waved away the objection.

“Oh, I said, but they don’t mind. They like the idea of fixing the place up. It would save you the trouble,” she added, and Grayson’s curiosity was piqued.

“I guess I should meet them. Tell them to give me a call later this week.”

“No need, they’re already over there waiting for you.”

“Now?” Grayson was perturbed.

“I told them you wouldn’t have anything on this morning.” Debra gave a pointed glance around the empty, silent bookshop, and Grayson couldn’t exactly argue with that, so he got to his feet and flipped the sign to Closed.

“And I just picked up some muffins from the coffee shop,” she added. “You could bring them, make a good first impression.”

Grayson wasn’t worried about his impression—they were the ones who wanted something, after all—but he made it a rule to never look a gift muffin in the mouth.

“Sure. Thanks.” He took the bag and stepped outside. “Any idea what they want with the place?”

“Hmm, didn’t mention it. You’ll find out soon enough!”

Debra had an odd twinkle in her eye, but Grayson didn’t see the harm in meeting these prospective tenants. Poppy seemed to have her head screwed on straight, so hopefully, her friend would be just the same. Another writer, maybe, wanting silence and isolation to finish their next book. That would suit nicely.

It was only a ten-minute walk over to the property, so he made the journey on foot, strolling the winding country lane. Most shops in Sweetbriar were clustered around the town square, but Blackberry Lane was set a little ways out, surrounded by open fields and woodland above the bay. It was probably why he’d never had any other inquiries about renting the place, even though the Cape had seen a boom in tourists, all of them wanting souvenir T-shirts, local crafts, and somewhere to enjoy the fresh saltwater taffy. The summer people were already showing their faces in town, opening up the beach houses that had lain dormant all year, and stocking up on fresh supplies and paperback books for the beach. He hoped the prospective tenant was a summer person, too: twice the rent for half the hassle, it sounded good to him.

He rounded the corner and found the house just as he remembered: paper peeling from the dirty windows, and the door in need of a good clean. It wasn’t exactly screaming out to be rented, but you never knew with these eccentric writer types. There was already a car pulled up outside, but he couldn’t see anyone around.

“Hello?” he called. He checked the door, but it was practically rusted shut. “Is anyone here?”

“Coming!” A woman’s voice came, breathless from around the side of the house. “Sorry,” it continued, getting closer. “I couldn’t resist nosying around to take a look. God, these bushes need some work. I just need to—OWWW!”

Grayson startled. “Are you alright?” he called, peering through the bushes. Whoever she was, she was right: the place was overgrown and in dire need of some strict pruning. But that didn’t give her the right to go wandering around. “Hello?” he tried again.

“Sorry! Got caught back here,” the reply came. “These brambles are prickly little assholes, aren’t they?”

Grayson didn’t smile. “They help keep out trespassers,” he said pointedly, his patience wearing thin now.

“Just a sec . . . nearly through . . . Ah!”

The woman came fighting her way out of the blackberry bushes like an explorer hacking her way through the jungle. “Free at last!” she beamed.

Grayson blinked.

It was her. The brunette from the wedding. Dressed in a wisp of a summer floral dress that looked like it might blow away on a strong ocean breeze, with a stray twig in her hair, and her lips already parted in a delighted smile.

Trouble had found her way back to him.

And even worse, he was rather happy to see her face.

* * *

Summer couldn’t believe her luck. First, that Poppy had been able to use the Sweetbriar gossip network to track down the owner of her cottage in barely thirty minutes. (Because, even though she’d just laid eyes on it, it was completely, and inescapably hers). And second, that the owner turned out to be her tall, dark, and very handsome stranger from the wedding.

Talk about a sign. It almost made up for the bramble scratches all over her body, and the fact she didn’t even know if she’d packed up her life and moved to the Cape for a run-down cottage that might not even be hers to take.

There was only one way to find out.

“Hi!” she exclaimed, dropping down to meet him. “We never got around to introducing ourselves, but I’m Summer Bloom. And you must be Grayson, the owner,” she added, with her most dazzling smile.

Grayson stared back evenly. “That’s me.”

He didn’t exactly look thrilled to see her, but Summer wasn’t deterred. “Small world! Or rather, small town. Poppy said everyone knows everybody else around here, and now I believe her. What are the odds?”

“Slim,” Grayson said with a wry look in his eyes. He was just as handsome as she remembered: still sporting that scruffy winter beard, but looking much more relaxed than at the wedding, in jeans and a faded sky-blue button-down shirt. She quickly patted down her hair—which probably had half an actual bird’s nest nestled there instead of just resembling one—and hoped her dress hadn’t torn.

Or if it had, that it tore in just the right places.

Focus, Summer. The store.

“So this is your place?” she said brightly, like she hadn’t just crawled out of the bushes. “It’s so charming.”

“You mean old and run-down.”

“That too.” Summer grinned. “And the gardens! There’s lavender back there, fresh thyme, even some apple trees.”

Grayson looked marginally more interested. “Really? I thought it was all weeds.”

“Ninety percent of it, yes. But there’s some good stuff hidden underneath. It would be great to have an herb garden right here,” Summer said longingly. “It’s always a drag trying to find fresh herbs for my recipes, but it’s like this place was meant to be. I meant look at it.” She took in the big windows and the old shutters. “Can’t you see it: the Blackberry Lane Bakery. It even sounds delicious!”

Grayson frowned. “Wait a minute. A bakery?”

“We would have tables out front, a little counter inside . . .” Summer’s vision had solidified with every passing mile, and now it seemed more real to her than even the dirty, faded cottage in front of them. “What’s the kitchen like? Is there an apartment upstairs? Do you have the keys?”

Grayson looked taken aback, and Summer had to remind herself to slow down. She may have had a few hundred miles of dawn driving to fall in love with the idea, but he was hearing it for the first time.

And from the dubious look on his face, he wasn’t sold yet.

“I’m sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.” She took a deep breath, even though her heart was racing with nerves and anticipation. “Why don’t we go inside and take a look around?”

Grayson unlocked the door and heaved it open, the hinge squeaking in protest. “The last tenants moved out years ago,” he explained. “I’ve been meaning to clean it up, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“That’s no problem,” Summer said brightly, even as she wrinkled her nose at the smell. Dust, and age, and who knows what else? But that was nothing a good cleaning and some fresh air couldn’t fix, she reassured herself as she stepped inside, and looked around the dim room.

“Looks like the electricity’s blown,” Grayson said, flipping the switch, so Summer went to the windows and peeled back the crumbling newspaper. The room flooded with sunlight.

She felt her heart skip a beat.

Sure, it was old and dirty, and there were empty boxes piled everywhere, and the counter was broken, and the shelves on the wall were sagging, and the orange striped wallpaper was straight out of 1972 . . .

“It’s perfect,” she sighed happily.

Grayson cleared his throat. “We seem to have different definitions of the word,” he said dryly.

He obviously thought she was crazy, but Summer knew the real test was still to come. The kitchen. She held her breath as she followed Grayson into the back. Some things could be fixed with a lick of paint and some detergent, but the appliances were non-negotiable, so when Summer saw the old range—eight burners, gas, double-oven!—she could have kissed it. Or him. The range was probably safer.

“Maytag,” she said, almost hugging the stainless steel. “They don’t make them like this anymore.”

“You think it’ll work?” Grayson sounded dubious.

“With a bit of TLC. They’re workhorses,” she explained. “Madame Celine was running one from the fifties, and it still worked just fine. And there’s a walk-in cooler, too!” She looked around in delight, taking in the open door and the big farmhouse sink under the window. “What was this place before? It must have been a restaurant or something.”

“Pie shop, I think,” Grayson said, running his fingertip over a counter and shaking the dust away. “Old Cornish pasties, or something like that. When the lease was up, they decided to move to Boston.”

Oh right. The lease.

She turned to him with her prettiest, most landlord-friendly smile. “So what are you asking for rent? I mean, it is out of the way here, and not exactly in great shape. But I’d be willing to take it on for you.”

Grayson smiled. “That’s very generous,” he replied, looking amused.

Summer grinned. “I’m very considerate like that. Plus, it doesn’t look like people are lining up to rent.”

“I don’t know . . .” Grayson said, looking around. “Now that I’ve seen the place, I can think of a few people who might be interested. You’re right, it would be perfect for a café or food vendor.”

Drat. Summer narrowed her eyes. “But they’d want it all clean and ready,” she pointed out. “I’d do all the work myself. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger, or worry about a thing. And with strangers, you’d never know who you were going to get.”

“I don’t know you,” he pointed out, with a teasing edge to his smile.

“Sure you do,” Summer shot back. “I’m Summer Bloom. I make great wedding cake and have excellent taste in scotch.”

Grayson paused. “You made the cake for the Kenmores?” She nodded. “That was damn good cake,” he admitted.

Yes!

“And there’s plenty more where that came from,” Summer said temptingly. “If you agree to let me take the lease.”

Grayson looked at her like he was sizing her up. Summer tried to look respectable and virtuous, but she wasn’t sure she managed, what with the aforementioned bird’s nest and her dress strap slipping lower.

“Fine,” he said finally, and named an amount that would have bought her exactly fifty square feet in Brooklyn.

Summer wanted to cheer, but if she’d learned one thing from her mother, it was that the first offer was always just the start of negotiations.

“How about half that?” she countered. “And I’ll cover the cost of repairs myself.”

He chuckled. “You think I’m going to practically give you this place?”

“Yes.” She smiled back at him. “Because I can give you something no other tenant can.”

Grayson raised an eyebrow, and suddenly, the kitchen didn’t seem so spacious. Summer felt the temperature go up a notch as his eyes skimmed over her body again.

“And what’s that?” he asked, his voice low and sultry.

Summer remembered to breathe. “What every man really wants.” His nearness was intoxicating, but she wasn’t about to lose sight of her prize. “Fresh-baked scones, every day of the week.”

She gave him an impish grin, and he laughed.

“Tempting.” Grayson paused, then suddenly shrugged, as if to say, What the hell? “Go on, then. Take it. But there are ground rules,” he added sternly, as she bounced in delight on the spot.

“Anything,” Summer vowed, resisting the urge to fling her arms around his neck and . . . celebrate. It was hers! She couldn’t believe it, one more piece of the puzzle falling perfectly into place.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Grayson warned her. “No drama, no stress, no late-night emergencies or special favors, or anything to disrupt my life, you understand?”

Summer nodded enthusiastically. “You won’t even know I’m here,” she promised. “Except for the line stretching out the door, and the delicious smells wafting in the air.”

“And the scones,” Grayson added, that smile quirking on his lips again. “Don’t forget about the scones.”

How could she? Grayson could have asked for a six-layer chocolate cake delivered twice daily and she would have happily agreed. She spun around, already picturing the ovens full of baking croissants, and the counters gleaming, stacked with plates and cake boxes and all her favorite bake-ware.

And Grayson, sitting right there in the sunshine, tasting her favorite recipes . . .

Clothing optional.

The image popped into her mind, and Summer tried not to blush. Her new landlord may have just made all her dreams come true, but that little speech about drama and distraction had made it perfectly clear he didn’t want anything more. Plus, she’d learned the hard way that bringing romance into the kitchen always ended in tears.

That was fine with her. Love could wait.

She had baking to do.