Love and Leftovers by Lisa Scott

Love and Leftovers
    By Lisa Scott
Tate Carson juggled four bags of groceries as he fumbled for the keys to the beach house. A smart man would set everything down and then figure out how to open the door, but he was impatient to get inside and start dinner. Hopefully, in this gorgeous setting, inspiration would strike and lead to a fabulous new recipe. It had been a while since he'd made anything that could be called fabulous, and if that didn't happen soon, his career was over.
    He fished the keys out of his pocket then jabbed at the lock again and again, but no luck. There were four keys on the ring and none of them wanted to fit into the keyhole. With a sigh, he looked around for someone who might be able to help him, and he spotted a woman next door rinsing off under an outdoor shower in the backyard of her home. A very beautiful woman, in a very small black bikini, was arching her neck. The water cascaded over her, sliding down her curves and pooling at her feet. Her eyes were closed, and she smiled as she ran her fingers through her long hair.
    The bags slipped from his grip. Melons, onions, apples, and berries bounced onto the porch and down the side stairs, rolling onto their connected driveways. All the produce he'd carefully selected at the farmers' market was now dirty and bruised.
    He swore under his breath and jogged down the stairs to salvage what he could, squishing blueberries and peas as he went.
    The woman under the shower turned off the water and chased after a melon rolling her way. Her dark hair was slick against her head and her pale green eyes twinkled as she scooped up the fruit. He forced himself to look away so he wouldn't be caught gawking.
    Damn it. He didn't need a sexy distraction next door. He came here to get work done, not check out beach babes. But he was staying at a seaside home in Saco, Maine. Why hadn't it occurred to him he'd be seeing plenty of scantily clad women? Probably because he hadn't been looking in a long time. Not since his last breakup three years ago.
    "I think this is yours." The woman held the cantaloupe in front of her with one hand.
    He struggled to swallow. The melon was perfect and round and positioned right between her own perfect, round ...
    He coughed. "Thank you. I can't believe how clumsy I am." He took the melon from her, avoiding further checking out her cleavage.
    "I'll help you pick up the rest." She held out her hand. "I'm Lucy."
    He took her hand in his. Her fingers were small and smooth. "I'm Tate. Nice to meet you."
    He waited for the spark of recognition most people had when meeting him, but she just smiled and said, "You, too."
    Then she grabbed a beach bag hanging on the railing of her back deck and shook out the sand. She plucked the fruits and vegetables littering the lawn, dropping them one by one into the bag.
    "There's probably not much I can do with this stuff now," Tate said, grabbing a squished tomato. "It's all dinged up."
    "I hope this wasn't dinner." Lucy set a smashed apple in the bag.
    "It was."
    She winced. "You should join us tonight for dinner! Please?"
    Tate's heart caught on the word "us." She was here with someone. Of course she was. Someone like Lucy wouldn't be alone.
    But that was good news; the last thing he needed was a summer fling. He was here to work on a cookbook, and that was all. The fact that his agent, Rebecca, had ordered him to spend six weeks at her beach house and finish this book had showed him how desperate the situation really was. After two seasons of falling ratings on his show, a hit cookbook seemed like the only way to turn things around. Rebecca had promised this was a magical place. He certainly hoped so.
    Lucy shrugged. "We're casual with dinner around here. It's no big deal, really."
    "Dinner would be wonderful." His spoiled produce had ruined any flicker of interest he had in cooking. Hopefully, the mishap wasn't a sign. "I'd offer to bring wine, but it's my first night here. I haven't stocked the bar