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  HOT BUTTERED YUM

  HOT BUTTERED YUM

  by

  Kim Law

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2013 Kim Law

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  eISBN: 978147786756

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Table of Contents

  Episode One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Episode Two

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Episode Three

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Episode Four

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Episode Five

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Episode Six

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Episode Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Episode Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Episode Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  About the Author

  Kindle Serials

  Episode One

  Chapter One

  Strains of Rachmaninoff flowed from the Steinway grand piano, mixing with the ocean breeze that casually drifted in through the open dining room windows. Roni Templeman lifted slightly off the piano bench, one foot working the pedal, and picked up the tempo of the song. If there was anything she could get lost in, it was being at the keyboard. It had been that way her entire life.

  Her hands flew in front of her. Up, down, pounding, caressing to the song’s crescendo. She lifted her face to the cool breeze and sucked in a deep gulp of the morning dampness, knowing her cheeks had to be pink from her exertion. There was nothing like playing in the mornings when the rest of the world was still asleep.

  Of course Turtle Island, just a ferry ride away from the southeasternmost corner of Georgia, had begun waking up well over two hours ago. Roni had welcomed the sunrise as she’d sat in her dining room—where most people would have a table instead of a black-lacquered, six-foot piano—as she did every morning. Tucked into the curve of the large bay window in her beach cottage, she had her routine, and she stuck to it. Occasionally, however, she did go beyond her allotted piano time and into her run-on-the-beach time. Because some mornings demanded she stay right where she was for just a bit longer. Today was one of those days.

  As she neared the last stanzas, she watched through the plate-glass window as a distended bead of water clung to the leaf of a potted cabbage palm sitting on her deck. The sun had greeted the morning behind a hazy, slow rain, and though the sky was now a clear blue, promising a glorious early-December day, everything remained damp.

  The droplet of water shook slightly, as if wanting to let go, but not quite certain it was ready to be free. Roni set her back teeth together and concentrated on the song, on the movement of her hands across the ivories, yet she couldn’t take her eyes off that single leaf with the lone bead of water.

  As she reached the final bars, her arms tensed with exertion, her breaths grew short. She was exhausted from the longer-than-normal session, yet at the same time, exhilarated. Playing had that power.

  The tiny orb seemed to grow in size as she played, puffing up with bravery for a brief second before it vibrated with hesitation. Then, as if in desperation to move forward, it broke free, slipping silently along the leaf’s vein and rolling down its length toward the tip. As it leaped from the greenery, Roni hit the last note and a crystal-clear, rich sound filled the room.

  She let out a ragged breath.

  Then her muscles went lax, and her body sagged against the bench as the bead of water splatted to the wood deck and the final note disappeared in the room.

  Everything seemed overly quiet in the seconds that followed. But it wasn’t, not really.

  If she listened carefully, she could pick out the faint hiss from the gas fireplace burning in the connected living room. She heard the motorized hum of half a dozen ornaments hanging on her Christmas tree, slowly rotating while tiny people danced away inside.

  She could hear the ocean a story below her deck; the swish and lap of the water was always there. Even more so after the wet greeting to the day.

  Yet without chords coming from the piano, everything seemed so perfectly still.

  She let out another slow breath and relaxed her shoulders before inhaling and filling her lungs once again. Then she blinked and looked around as if coming out of a fog.

  She took in the cozy rooms with the cluster of unique furniture she’d handpicked from local stores. Her home wasn’t tiny, having once housed a family of eight, but it wasn’t too big, either. She liked having a bit of space. It was far nicer than the cramped apartment she’d rented in New York City. Or the hotel rooms where she’d spent the majority of her childhood.

  The best thing about the house, though, was that it sat surrounded by almost an acre of land. This meant she could play in the mornings with her windows open to the sea and not worry that she’d wake her neighbors. The size of her yard was unheard of for a beachfront property in this day and age, but she’d lucked out when she’d moved here almost three years ago. The older lady who’d owned the property had refused to sell, even though she’d already moved into the smaller two-bedroom next door, until she’d found just the right owner.

  Upon hearing that Roni intended to put a piano in the dining room instead of a fancy table for twelve, the eighty-year-old white-haired sweetheart had held out her gnarled hands, grasping Roni’s in hers. “Welcome home,” Mrs. Rylander had said. Roni had grown misty at the words.

  Yes. It had felt like home. Turtle Island had always done that for her.

  It was the place where she’d once met her two best friends. Where she’d spent every summer with them, from eight until eighteen. It was her home away from the hotels. She’d loved her summers here, not only because they were spent with her friends, but because it was uninterrupted time with her mother and brother. Her mother, a college professor at University of Alabama in Huntsville, had been able to take summers off, pack up her two kids, and spend the months at the beach.

  Turtle Island was also the place Roni and her friends had all promised to return to someday. And they had. Only, Andie had married and moved to Boston earlier this year, and now Roni was …

  What?

  Unsettled? Bored?

  She shook her head. No, she was happy. She loved the island. She loved her life.

  She loved her house.

  Though, granted, she hadn’t been in any one place this long since she’d been six years old.

  It was just this time of year. She always got a little melancholy in December.

  The sound of “The Little Drummer Boy” sounded at her hip and she looked down to where she’d laid her cell before she’d sat down at the piano. It was her brother. She’d known Danny would call today. He always did.

  Instead of answering, she pressed the button to send the call to voice mail and then headed across the room as she brought up the small text window. She keyed in a short message.

  I’m fine. Really. It’s been three years. I’m over it.

  She ran a fingertip over the tiny Christmas village sitting on the mantel while she waited on Danny’s reply. The glass pieces had been hand-blown by a local artist who rented space in the art gallery.

  The phone sang out the words, “and a partridge in a pear tree.” She had a text. At the same time, she caught sight of the usual spot of pale yellow bobbing across her yard and heading to the house next door. The tiny body below the scarf hustled faster than Roni thought an eighty-year-old probably should.

  She looked down at her phone.

  Then answer the phone when I call.

  Roni smiled. She loved her brother.

  I’ll see you in three weeks. You’ll see then that I’m fine.

  Too long to wait. I’ll call you later this week.

  And she suspected he would. She would talk to him then. But right now, on this day, she didn’t want to have a conversation with her brother about what she’d lost in the past.

  It was over. She’d moved on.

  Instead of dwelling, she wanted to head out to the beach and get in her morning run.

  She wanted to wave good morning to the locals and tourists she passed. To enjoy her life—because it really was a good one. And she wanted to head over to the ho
tel and meet up with her friends for lunch while they giggled and fantasized over the idea of what they could all do with the twenty-four amazingly hot men that would soon be parading all over the island.

  Because it wasn’t every day a girl had that to look forward to.

  Four hours later, a crisp breeze hit Roni in the face, lifting her dark bangs, as she sat at an outside table at the Turtle Island Hotel restaurant after downing a scrumptious meal. The morning rain had burned away and the temperature had risen to a pleasant seventy-two. Slightly higher than normal December temps, but perfect for lunch on the patio with the girls.

  “I totally think you should go for it with one of them, Roni,” Savannah Marconi said across from her. “When will you ever get that kind of chance again?”

  Eight women, four on each side of shoved-together teakwood tables, all silently turned their heads to the eight men sitting two tables over from them. They. Were. Gorgeous.

  Roni had met each of them briefly the evening before when they’d arrived at the hotel. Contestants one, three, eleven, twelve, fourteen, nineteen, twenty-one, and twenty-four. They had names, of course, but she couldn’t remember them. She only knew their numbers now because each of them had a two-inch button attached to his shirt.

  She’d met them with Kayla Morgan, head of Seaglass Celebrations, after the limos had brought the men from the ferry to the hotel. As master of ceremonies for the first-ever Mr. Yummy Santa competition, Roni had been asked to be there to greet all arrivals. Kayla had been with her, of course, to make sure everything ran smoothly and on time. And to hand out the welcome bags—which included the numbered buttons the men were asked to wear anytime they were in public over the course of the next thirteen days.

  “Why don’t you go for it?” Roni returned. She forced her gaze back to Savannah—because geez, they were pretty, pretty men. And because yes, she would like to go for it with one of them. It had been a while since she’d had that kind of fun. However, Kayla would have a conniption if she found out Roni even entertained the idea of having a fling with a contestant.

  Not that it would really matter in the grand scheme of things. Roni got the same exact amount of input into the voting as everyone else did. But something told her Kayla would see it differently.

  “Because she’s married, you dolt.” Samantha Greene chimed in. Samantha was Savannah’s twin sister, and was sitting beside Savannah. Two long-haired, blue-eyed beauties, both with the Southern charm of Nashville that they’d brought with them—though Samantha was a bit more blunt and outspoken.

  Samantha had moved to the island and opened a women’s clothing boutique a year after her sister had arrived here with her husband. She eyed the men now as she took a long drag of her piña colada.

  Roni shrugged at Samantha’s words as if being married didn’t matter, but the nonchalance was faked. She would never encourage a married person to have an affair.

  “I’ll do one.” This came from the far end of the table, from shy and quiet Cookie Phillips. Everyone at the table knew there was no way Cookie would make the first move.

  A couple of the men glanced over at them before turning back to their table.

  “Me too,” Ginger Atkinson spoke up at Roni’s left. “I’m not married.” Ginger’s green eyes were glazed and dreamy as she eyed the tableful of ripped bodies. She was best friend number two, whom Roni had spent the summers with when she was young. The best friend who had been born on, and who remained on, the island. In fact, other than two years away at college, Ginger had never left.

  Roni nudged her with her elbow. “Go for number nineteen. Did you see the size of his hands?”

  “I saw.” The words were said in sync, all with a tone of awe, by at least five of the ladies at the table.

  One of the men leaned back in his seat at that moment, laughing heartily at something one of the other guys had said, and every single woman seemed to hold her breath. It truly was a crying shame Roni was out of the market for this impressive showing. These guys were taut, lean, chiseled, polite—if the brief greeting last night was anything to go by—and just downright doable.

  A real crying shame.

  “I really do think you should dip your toe into some of that,” Savannah leaned forward and urged. “Maybe number one. His shoulders are broadest, and I know you like that.”

  His shoulders were broadest. And yes, she did like that. She’d also caught him checking her out a couple times during lunch.

  “Imagine if you two fell in love,” Ginger said in her dreamy, everything-is-romantic voice. “You’d have access to that body every single night.”

  “Only until he went back home,” Roni clarified. Ginger turned everything into happily-ever-after. Roni kept it casual.

  She picked up her own drink—a lemon drop that was far stronger than she should be having, considering she was about to meet Kayla to greet the remaining sixteen contestants—and gulped as she studied number one.

  Dark hair, muscled chest and arms, pleasant face. It wasn’t that she was so wildly attracted to him. Granted, he was good looking, and he had been super sweet the evening before. But it was mostly that she wanted something to take her mind off the next two weeks. December wasn’t her best month. Plus, there was the master of ceremonies thing.

  She might be the designated local celebrity—though she’d been out of that game for going on three years now—but that didn’t mean she wasn’t nervous about being the figurehead for this contest.

  If she were to be entirely honest, though, the idea excited her more than she wanted to admit. She hadn’t done much more than hang out on the beach with her friends or play hostess and entertainer at Gin’s bar since moving to the island. So yeah, she was secretly thrilled at the idea of doing something new. Plus, it would help Turtle Island.

  All of the women at the table, with the exception of Roni, were business owners on the island. They, along with several other merchants, had each contributed five thousand dollars, plus time and merchandise from their businesses, on the trust that this contest would up winter tourism on their tiny little island. They were literally betting their hard-earned money on twenty-four hot men drawing a crowd. Roni being the face that crowd would be seeing day after day.

  It was a bit nerve-wracking.

  Taking note of the number of tourists who had come and gone among the lunch customers, the majority of them women, Roni had felt a satisfied warmth spread inside her. Looked like the business owners had gotten it right. Mr. Yummy Santa was a good idea. It would be a success.

  As long as Roni didn’t screw it up.

  Which meant no casual fling with one of the contestants. No matter how much fun it would be.

  She sighed and turned back to the men, digging money out of her purse to cover her bill at the same time. “It’s not going to happen, ladies. Kayla would—”

  At that moment, eight handsome faces turned in their direction and a chorus of squeaks and giggles bounced around the table. The women straightened in their chairs, all looking dead ahead at the women sitting across the table. Not at the men.

  But the guys were still watching them, Roni could tell.

  It was as if a tanker of testosterone had been dumped in the middle of their table and none of the ladies could do anything but let out feminine giggles and wiggle in their seats.