Cupcake Club 04 - Honey Pie Read Online Free Page B
ponytail, and didnât wear any makeup that he could tell. Even in this heat, sheâd covered herself pretty much head to toe. Definitely not a stripper.
But he hadnât actually been thinking about that. Heâd been caught off guard by what she was revealing, inadvertent though it had been.
The one truly memorable thing about Honey DâAmourvell was her eyes. Not so much because they were an interesting shade of green, although they were so light in color they were almost spooky. Probably just an effect created by the black horn rim glasses she wore. It was what was in those spooky eyes that had made him feel incredibly stupid for assuming anything based on a name. He, of all people, knew better.
Sheâd been staring across the back alley at the buildings that fronted the corner of the town square. Normally, the thought of the cupcake bakery brought a pleasant smile to his face. He wasnât one for sweets, so had never been through the front door of either part of the establishment, but in the short time his garage had been in its new location, heâd done the neighborly thing, nodded when waved to, observed the comings and goings, had even jumped a dead battery for one of the cupcake ladies, and fixed a flat for another.
Small communities usually bred far more familiarity, but he wasnât a chatty sort and didnât much care to air his personal business. Several generations of the Ross family had contributed more than enough personal business to the community grapevine. The recent loss of the original garage buildings due to a fire down by the docks had stirred up the old gossip all over again. But the cupcake ladies didnât pryâmuchâso heâd accepted the occasional baked treat and tolerated a little friendly chitchat.
Yesterday, however, thinking of them hadnât brought an automatic smile to his face . . . because they surely hadnât brought a smile to his newest customerâs face. Nor had they brought a frown. The look on her face had been . . . wistful.
Generally, Dylan stayed in the service bay and let Dell handle the people part of the business. The kid was a natural with any and all movable parts and could probably assemble an engine blindfolded, but he was equally good with the people side of things, which suited Dylan just fine. He could keep his focus on the work at hand. As he saw it, his job was to deliver reliable, dependable service, fixing what needed to be fixed for as reasonable a price as possible. It meant something to him that heâd kept afloat the family business that had been launched sixty-five years ago by his late grandfather and great-uncle, later joined by his father, then briefly by his older brother, and now operated solely by him.
He considered himself a rather observant man. Like any good mechanic, he put a lot of stock in the senses heâd been born with. Oftentimes he could decipher the problem with a car just by the sound it made, the feel of a certain vibration, or the smell it gave off. Observation skills also came in handy when judging his customers, figuring how best to deal with them. So it wasnât altogether surprising that heâd noticed her look of unfettered yearning. What did surprise him was that heâd reacted so viscerally to it.
He prided himself on his powers of observation, yes, but they were second only to his ability to maintain his objectivity in any and all situations. He didnât let things get personal, because . . . well, because he never let things get personal. And Miss Honey DâAmourvell was anything but personal to him. Heâd never laid eyes on the woman before.
So why that look on her face yanked a knot in his gut, he couldnât have said. Likely, it had been his inability to figure that out that had him clearing his throat a bit too forcefully, and doling out the bad news to her a bit more gruffly than absolutely necessary. Mostly, he just wanted to get her taken
But he hadnât actually been thinking about that. Heâd been caught off guard by what she was revealing, inadvertent though it had been.
The one truly memorable thing about Honey DâAmourvell was her eyes. Not so much because they were an interesting shade of green, although they were so light in color they were almost spooky. Probably just an effect created by the black horn rim glasses she wore. It was what was in those spooky eyes that had made him feel incredibly stupid for assuming anything based on a name. He, of all people, knew better.
Sheâd been staring across the back alley at the buildings that fronted the corner of the town square. Normally, the thought of the cupcake bakery brought a pleasant smile to his face. He wasnât one for sweets, so had never been through the front door of either part of the establishment, but in the short time his garage had been in its new location, heâd done the neighborly thing, nodded when waved to, observed the comings and goings, had even jumped a dead battery for one of the cupcake ladies, and fixed a flat for another.
Small communities usually bred far more familiarity, but he wasnât a chatty sort and didnât much care to air his personal business. Several generations of the Ross family had contributed more than enough personal business to the community grapevine. The recent loss of the original garage buildings due to a fire down by the docks had stirred up the old gossip all over again. But the cupcake ladies didnât pryâmuchâso heâd accepted the occasional baked treat and tolerated a little friendly chitchat.
Yesterday, however, thinking of them hadnât brought an automatic smile to his face . . . because they surely hadnât brought a smile to his newest customerâs face. Nor had they brought a frown. The look on her face had been . . . wistful.
Generally, Dylan stayed in the service bay and let Dell handle the people part of the business. The kid was a natural with any and all movable parts and could probably assemble an engine blindfolded, but he was equally good with the people side of things, which suited Dylan just fine. He could keep his focus on the work at hand. As he saw it, his job was to deliver reliable, dependable service, fixing what needed to be fixed for as reasonable a price as possible. It meant something to him that heâd kept afloat the family business that had been launched sixty-five years ago by his late grandfather and great-uncle, later joined by his father, then briefly by his older brother, and now operated solely by him.
He considered himself a rather observant man. Like any good mechanic, he put a lot of stock in the senses heâd been born with. Oftentimes he could decipher the problem with a car just by the sound it made, the feel of a certain vibration, or the smell it gave off. Observation skills also came in handy when judging his customers, figuring how best to deal with them. So it wasnât altogether surprising that heâd noticed her look of unfettered yearning. What did surprise him was that heâd reacted so viscerally to it.
He prided himself on his powers of observation, yes, but they were second only to his ability to maintain his objectivity in any and all situations. He didnât let things get personal, because . . . well, because he never let things get personal. And Miss Honey DâAmourvell was anything but personal to him. Heâd never laid eyes on the woman before.
So why that look on her face yanked a knot in his gut, he couldnât have said. Likely, it had been his inability to figure that out that had him clearing his throat a bit too forcefully, and doling out the bad news to her a bit more gruffly than absolutely necessary. Mostly, he just wanted to get her taken
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