A Wedding on Lilac Lane by Hope Ramsay (best book clubs .txt) 📕

Had she just told Ashley Scott that she had her grandmother’s fried chicken recipe?

This transgression was far worse than sleeping with Dylan. And the avarice in Ashley’s eyes confirmed it.

“Um, well, uh…damn. I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Granny is sure her fried chicken will convince Dylan that a beach party is the way to go.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll help you fry this chicken, and then I’ll share my hummingbird cake recipe with Nancy. Don’t you fret about it. We’ll work it out.”

“I don’t know… I’m starting to think I should have called Annie Robinson to cater this picnic.”

“Maybe you should have, but since you didn’t, why don’t we get busy?”

“Thanks. You’ve been so incredibly kind to me.”

“Nonsense. Kindness has nothing to do with it. I’m getting your grandmother’s chicken recipe. Honey, you have no idea how valuable that is.”

“Yeah. I have a feeling I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

*  *  *

Dylan arrived at Howland House at six on the dot to find Ella waiting for him. Once again, she showed up in a shapeless India-print dress with her damp hair piled up on top of her head in its usual messy bun. She’d obviously just stepped out of the bath, and the scent of sandalwood rose from her skin, making him a tiny bit dizzy.

He wanted to scoop her into his arms, bury his nose in the nape of her neck, and drink in her sandalwood scent. And after that, he wanted to carry her upstairs and have his way with her, after he’d taken all the pins out of her hair.

Yeah. He had fallen into lust for his soon-to-be stepsister. Tonight was going to be agonizing.

“Can you help me carry the cooler and the hamper?” she asked, with a smile that threatened to melt his bones, except for the operative one.

“Sure,” he said, picking up the cooler and the hamper and following her like a little puppy right out the door. The breeze stirred the edges of her skirt giving a glimpse of leg, while the early-evening sun through the gauzy fabric created a silhouette of her slim body that turned his mouth into the Sahara. She had this lovely way of walking, with a sexy little sway to her hips.

Dammit, he wished he hadn’t noticed.

He stowed the picnic hamper and cooler in the trunk, and they set off for Paradise Beach, which was on the other side of the island. They didn’t say more than three words during the drive, but the tension in the car was thicker than overcooked oatmeal. When he pulled into Cloud Nine’s driveway, he was ready to concede the whole beach party point and take her right back to Howland House.

Coming out here was a bad idea. Who could fight her beauty or the blended scents of sandalwood and fried chicken? He took one look at the beach and decided she had a strong case for the beach party idea, or any other idea she might have for the evening.

The night was perfect, with a gentle sea breeze tempering the constant humidity. As they walked out onto the sand, the sky was just turning a deeper blue, and the calm ocean sparkled as if someone had scattered diamonds on its surface.

She spread an old quilt in shades of faded green and pink over the sand, and he anchored the corners with the cooler and picnic basket.

Yup, this was a perfect spot for making out. Only he wasn’t here to make out with her. He saw multiple cold showers in his immediate future.

He stopped to shuck off his boat shoes before stepping onto the blanket but took another moment to glance at her. Her hair was starting to dry, and the breeze sent tendrils into her eyes and around her beautifully shaped ears.

He settled on the blanket, and she turned those big, sad anime eyes on him, inspecting him. Her mouth softened a little. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wearing a shirt with a collar with the top button undone.”

Except for that time on the boardwalk when she’d unbuttoned it herself or last night when she’d seen him without any shirt. But he decided not to mention that.

She bent over, the loose dress sliding down one shoulder. Oh man.

She opened the cooler and withdrew a bottle of Magic Hat #9. “Thirsty?”

Yes, he was thirsty. But not for a beer. Instead of admitting the truth, he asked, “How did you know I liked Magic Hat?”

“I know a guy,” she said, dropping to the blanket and hastily readjusting her dress. He was so disappointed. If he couldn’t touch her, looking at her was still good.

“So, what’s for dinner?” Maybe the food would distract his one-track mind.

“Fried chicken, coleslaw, and potato salad. I made it myself.”

“Oh?”

She gave him a glance that he couldn’t quite read. Was she annoyed? Amused? What?

“I did. But the recipes all belong to Granny, and Ashley Scott may have given me some tips on how to keep the oil hot when frying chicken.”

“You know,” he said, taking a swig of his ale, “any other woman wouldn’t have felt the need to admit that she had help.”

“Oh, so you’re an expert on women, then?” She reached into the hamper and pulled out a couple of red-checked napkins. Man, she’d gone all out, hadn’t she?

Why? Did she want to win the argument about party venues, or was it about something else? He so wanted it to be about something else. Although that would complicate everything.

She handed him the napkin. “So I’m taking your silence to mean that you are an expert on women.”

He snorted. “I’ve been around the block a few times. How about you?”

She didn’t answer his question. Instead, she reached into the hamper and pulled out several Tupperware containers, a couple of paper plates that had been tucked into wicker holders, and real silverware.

When her silence had stretched out for an eternity, he said, “I guess, being a musician, you have vast experience with the male gender.”

“Why