Monahan's Gamble

Yeah, yeah, yeah, Sean thought. Whatever. “A minor technicality,” he assured her aloud. “It’ll be a nice night for…” He paused meaningfully. At least, he hoped she considered it a meaningful pause. God knew he sure intended for it to be meaningful. “A lot of things,” he finally concluded, likewise meaningfully. “How about we make a night of it, just the two of us?”

Autumn gazed back at Sean Monahan in frank disbelief, trying to tamp down the heat that swirled unhampered in her midsection, trying to assure herself he was not doing what he seemed to be doing. He was not coming on to her. He was not asking her out. He was not trying to tell her, with all his discussion of the new moon, that he wanted to be the next man in line to…to…to…

To date her.

Was he?

Oh, surely not. Not Sean Monahan. He, of all men in Marigold, was to be steadfastly avoided. That was why she had so steadfastly avoided him ever since coming to town. Of all the Monahans—and certainly all of them were to be steadfastly avoided—Sean posed the greatest threat. Because although each of the Monahan brothers was handsome and charming and eligible, Sean Monahan was the most handsome, the most charming and, indeed, the most eligible. Where one or two of his brothers did show potential for being the marrying kind—it was widely known that Finn, for example, carried a massive torch for one Violet Demarest, whom Autumn had never met, because Violet no longer lived in Marigold, even if her rather bad reputation did—Sean had never made any secret of his confirmed bachelorhood. On the contrary, Sean seemed to go out of his way to drive home his very absolute intention of remaining single for the rest of his life.

Which, now that Autumn thought a bit more about it, might actually be just the thing she needed in a…date. Someone who wouldn’t have expectations of anything lasting. Someone with whom she could just have a casual, easy, fun time of it for a few—or four—weeks. Someone who wouldn’t drop to his knees at the end of that four weeks and beg for just one more lunar month, please, for God’s sake, just one. Someone who didn’t crave permanence, so would never propose marriage and, consequently, would never leave her waiting at the altar, filled with humiliation and horror and self-doubt for the third time in a row.

No, no, no, no, no, a little voice piped up inside her. It wasn’t just Sean whom Autumn had to worry about. She had to think about herself, too. Because as troubling as it was to have men falling for her—even though she knew whatever those men felt was only temporary and would soon go away—there was always that chance that Autumn might fall for one of them. Just because that hadn’t happened since she’d come to Marigold didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a first time. Yes, her lunar-month deadline did pretty much prevent any potentially long-lasting feelings. But she did believe that love could happen much more quickly than that. It wasn’t likely, of course, but it was possible.

Not that she thought Sean would fall in love with her, because, clearly, he wasn’t capable of such a deep, abiding emotion. Otherwise the man would have been married a long time ago, because there was no shortage of women in town who would like to have reeled him in. Women did talk, after all, especially when they were waiting in line to buy something. Something like, oh, say…bread, for instance. Over the past two years, Autumn had heard more than her fair share of gossip about the local citizenry. And Marigold’s gossip was unusual in that A, it was seldom malicious and B, it was seldom inaccurate.

Yes, Autumn knew a lot about Sean Monahan. She knew a lot about all of the Monahans, in fact. For instance, she knew that Sean’s little sister, Tess, who taught first grade over at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School, was, at this very moment, pregnant by a man who’d been forced to go into the Witness Protection Program. Such talk had been rampant in the bakery over the last month or so. And in addition to Finn Monahan’s torch bearing on behalf of Violet Demarest, Autumn also knew that Miriam Thornbury, the local librarian, had a major thing for Rory Monahan, even though Rory didn’t know she existed. But then, Rory didn’t really know anyone existed outside of history books, so that wasn’t exactly surprising.

So Autumn had learned much over the past two years through the snippets of information she’d picked up at work. And the one thing that was most evident, above all else, was the fact that Sean Monahan was Marigold’s confirmed bachelor, a man who would still be single and womanizing upon his centennial.

Which would make him the perfect candidate for dating, provided Autumn could be assured that she would be embracing the same kind of lifestyle herself at that age. But she’d learned a long time ago that she wasn’t the kind of person who thrived on solitude and independence. No, what she craved was a partnership of the most traditional kind, and a dependence on someone who depended on her in return. She wanted a loving, lasting union with another human being, because she just didn’t like being alone. She wanted a wedding. She wanted a husband. She knew that wasn’t exactly fashionable for women her age, but there it was all the same. She was naturally gregarious and socially outgoing. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life alone.

Unfortunately, alone was exactly how she would be spending her life. Because as much as Autumn wished she could find the perfect partner, she simply could not trust her instincts when it came to judging men. Twice, now, she had been certain she’d found Mr. Right. Twice she had put her lifelong trust in a man she had been sure would love her forever. Twice she had been fully prepared to promise herself to a man for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, till death did them part. And twice she had been egregiously mistaken.

It was so unfair, she thought. The fact that she wanted to be married had caused her to get much too involved with men she shouldn’t have, so she couldn’t get too involved with men, which meant she would never marry. As much as Autumn yearned for a permanent relationship with someone of the opposite sex, on each of the occasions that she’d attempted one, everything had blown up in her face. She didn’t want to suffer the pain of humiliation and loss again. So she suffered the pain of solitude and loneliness instead.

In the past she’d thought about advertising for a roommate, nurturing a friendship with another woman who had the same likes and dislikes she had herself. But deep down, Autumn knew that wasn’t the kind of company she really wanted or needed. What she wanted, what she needed, was romance. Not the temporary kind. The permanent kind. The kind that started off breathless and lawless and tumultuous and concluded with two arthritic hands and bifocaled gazes locked in easy, comfortable companionship.

Unfortunately, life experience had taught her that there simply was no such thing. Oh, certainly some people did still find that kind of love, but, clearly, she was not destined for it herself. Two times she had thought she’d found it. Two times she had made the leap. Two times she had enjoyed the breathless and lawless and tumultuous, only to watch it fade to nothing at all. She wasn’t likely to make the leap again. Certainly not with a man like Sean Monahan, who was so clearly determined not to make a commitment.

“I’m sorry, but I’m busy Wednesday night after work,” she said, injecting more conviction into her voice than she felt in her heart.

Sean Monahan’s smile fell some, and the light in his eyes dimmed. “Busy?” he echoed, as if he was unfamiliar with the word. Then, to further the image, he added, “I don’t understand.”

Autumn nibbled her lip thoughtfully and wondered how to verbalize all the troubling, unstructured thoughts that had been tumbling through her brain since she’d found Sean Monahan standing in her shop. Then she noticed how very focused he was on the fact that she was nibbling her lip in thought, so she stopped. When she did, his gaze lifted from her mouth to her eyes, and the look he gave her could have made a glacier spontaneously combust.

Oh. Dear.

“Mr. Monahan—”

“I should go.”

They started speaking at the same time and ended at the same time, and something about that—both that and the incandescent sizzle in the air that seemed to arc between them then—made Autumn feel as if their destinies, which until today had never crossed, had suddenly gotten tangled up in a way that would be very difficult to unravel.

“What do I owe you for the coffee?” he asked, reaching deep into his pocket to retrieve some change.

She held up both hands, palm out, as if in surrender, though what she might possibly be surrendering to, she dared not consider. “It’s on the house,” she told him. “I haven’t opened the cash registers yet, so… Consider it a promotional giveaway.”

He nodded quickly and muttered his thanks but offered no indication that he intended to leave. Instead he only continued to stare at Autumn’s face or, more specifically, her mouth, as if he had some serious plans for it in the not-too-distant future. Then, as if he suddenly realized where his gaze was lingering, he snatched it away, dipping his head to focus instead on the coffee cup that sat on the counter. Very gingerly he reached forward and claimed it, never once so much as glancing at Autumn as he did.

“I gotta go,” he said hastily. And without further ado, he made good on the announcement.

For long moments after he left, Autumn stood alone in the shop part of her bakery, gazing out the door he had exited, watching the impending sunrise change the color of the sky above the buildings across the way from heavy black to midnight blue. For some reason she felt breathless and lawless and tumultuous and, at the same time, easy and comfortable and companionable. And there was one other thing she felt, too, she realized. When she remembered the heat in Sean Monahan’s gaze and the brightness in his smile, when she recalled how handsome, how charming, how eligible he was…

Doomed. Autumn felt doomed.

Sean didn’t get very far before he had to pull his truck to the side of the road and thrust the gearshift into park. Not because he needed to let the coffee cool a bit before sampling it. And not because he was still too drowsy to be driving. And not because he wanted to admire the way the sunrise was smudging the purple sky with fingers of orange and pink, either.

No, much to his amazement, it was because he had to try and get a grip on himself and his feelings.

It was the strangest thing. Not only had he never had to get a grip on himself for anything, but he’d never had feelings like the ones that were spiraling through him now. Strangest of all was that he soon came to realize he wasn’t likely to get a grip on either his feelings or himself anytime soon. How could he, when he couldn’t even identify what he was feeling to begin with?

Well, other than this weird sense of doom, anyway…

Just what the hell had happened back there at Autumn’s bakery? he wondered, not for the first time since fleeing it in fear for his life—well, his social life, at any rate—less than half an hour ago. He’d entered thinking to do no more than ask her out on a date and had exited feeling as if he’d been struck by lightning.

He took a moment to replay every word the two of them had exchanged and to reconsider every suggestive comment he’d made. He recalled every look they’d shared, every sidelong glance they’d sneaked. But he couldn’t figure out where, exactly, things between them had gotten so…hot. Somewhere along the line, though, the two of them had ceased to indulge in harmless banter and had become over-charged with…what? He still couldn’t quite figure it out. And even weirder than all that…

He sighed his disbelief when he remembered. Even weirder than all that, Autumn Pulaski had refused to go out with him. Had refused to go out with him. Him! Sean Monahan! It was inconceivable. Impossible. Unthinkable.

Unacceptable.

Because Sean decided then and there that he would not accept her refusal. And not just because he had a point to prove to his brother Finn, either. But because there was something immediate and intense—not to mention hot and heavy—burning up the air between him and Autumn. And Sean just wasn’t the kind of guy to let something like that go unexplored. Especially when there was a beautiful, desirable, sexy, cinnamon-scented, luscious, mouthwatering…uh…where was he? Oh, yeah. Especially when there was a woman like Autumn at the heart of it. And especially when that woman’s eyes told him she was every bit as aware as he was of the strange fire burning between them.

So she’d said she wouldn’t go out with him on Wednesday, had she? Well, then. Sean would just have to go back and ask her what she was doing on Tuesday instead. Then he remembered what he would be doing Tuesday. What the whole town of Marigold, Indiana, would be doing on Tuesday. What Autumn Pulaski would no doubt be doing on Tuesday, too. Because Tuesday was the Fourth of July. And everybody who was anybody in Marigold would be at the Annual Independence Day Picnic in Gardencourt Park. It was practically a requirement of citizenship.

Throwing his truck back into gear, Sean smiled. Yep, Tuesday would be a very good day for seeing Autumn again. Somehow he could just feel it in his bones. Their destinies were about to collide, for sure. And he couldn’t help but thank his lucky stars for that.

Three

Sean found Autumn precisely where he’d known she would be on Tuesday, right smack in the middle of Gardencourt Park, at the Autumn’s Harvest bread booth, hawking her wares. The Fourth of July was a very big deal in Marigold, Indiana, and pretty much the entire town closed down and showed up to celebrate it. Many of the local retailers, however, opened booths at the picnic, alongside the local craftspeople and artisans, selling specialty items or products that commemorated the day. Autumn, for example, he noticed as he approached the booth, was offering cranberry scones, white chocolate and macadamia nut cookies, and blueberry muffins—presumably in honor of Old Glory.

And he was glad he’d dressed up for the occasion in unripped, only marginally faded blue jeans and navy polo shirt, because Autumn, looking quite fetching, was dressed in what he, with his very limited knowledge of history—Rory was, after all, the historian in the family—assumed must be Betsy Ross attire. Except that ol’ Betsy probably hadn’t filled out her Colonial garb quite the same way Autumn did. The full skirt of her multicolored, vertically striped gown flared nicely over her hips, and the top part hugged her generous breasts with much affection.

So affectionately, in fact, that had it not been for the white apron loosely covering her torso, the picnic would no doubt have had to be called on account of mass licentiousness. But the little mobcap perched atop Autumn’s head went a long way toward tempering what Sean had decided was just her naturally sexy state.

Well, to the casual observer, the mobcap tempered her sexuality, anyway. Sean himself found the lacy little ruffled number to be surprisingly arousing. Then again, Autumn could be dressed up as George Washington’s faithful springer spaniel, Buddy, and Sean would still find her attractive. Then again, maybe that wasn’t an admission he should be owning up to. Still, she did look extremely delicious—or, rather, her baked goods looked extremely delicious—so what else could Sean do but step up to the booth and ask to sample her—or, rather, them?

“Excuse me, miss? I’ll have one of those plump, luscious-looking scones, please,” he announced, proud of himself for completing the request without a trace of suggestiveness.

Autumn’s head had been bent when he approached, but she snapped it up quickly at the sound of his voice. Immediately she blushed, something Sean considered to be a very good sign, then her lips parted fractionally in clear surprise. “I…what?” she asked.

He jabbed a finger toward the rich bounty of baked goods before him. “I’d like a scone, please,” he said, reading the hand-lettered sign in front of the selection. Otherwise he would have had to call it “one of those big lumpy things with the red spots,” because he had no idea what a scone actually was. He just hoped the letter c in the word was a hard c and not a soft c, otherwise, he’d just made a fool of himself. Then again, maybe that was why she was looking at him the way she was looking at him—as if she weren’t sure what language he was speaking.

He was about to correct himself—he hoped—and repeat his request, asking for a “sone” this time—or, at the very least, a “big, lumpy thing with red spots”—when Autumn blinked twice, something that seemed to break whatever spell she’d fallen under.

“Right,” she said. “A scone.”

Sean breathed a silent sigh of relief when she pronounced it the same way he had. Then he expelled a soft groan of frustration as he watched her lean forward to collect a particularly fat one from the front of the pile—because when she did so, her apron fell forward a bit, offering him a view he was certain Betsy Ross never would have offered, even for the sake of her country. Then, as quickly as it had been given, that view disappeared, because Autumn straightened to drop the scone into a small paper bag.