by Irene Hannon
As Katherine walked toward him, he added more foam to cover up his mistake and handed the drink to the waiting customer.
After giving the bustling shop a scan, she pulled out the dark sunglasses she’d worn on her first visit and slipped them on.
He managed to call up a smile. “Good morning. You look like a skinny vanilla latte woman.”
Her lips bowed up. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Nope. Only the special ones. You want a small—or are you going to splurge and go medium today?”
“Small works.”
“I’ll have it ready in three minutes. If you want to find a seat, I’ll even deliver it.”
“Could you join me for a few minutes?” Twin furrows dented her brow as she gave the interior another survey. “Or is it too busy? I know coffee shops can be crazy in the morning. I should have thought of that.”
“The rush hour—or what constitutes rush hour in Hope Harbor—is slowing. Frank can cover for me while we chat. Go ahead and claim a table.”
She headed for the booth for two tucked into the back corner, where they’d sat the day he’d brought her here to sample Eleanor Cooper’s fudge cake after their impromptu taco lunch on the wharf.
The one that offered the most privacy.
Confirming his conclusion she had news to share.
As he prepared her drink, gave Frank reign over the counter, and walked over to join her, he tried to psyche himself up for the conversation to come.
There was no question that taking the role was the right decision for her. After all the years she’d worked to reach this pinnacle, she owed it to herself to plant a flag on the summit—whatever she decided to do afterward. Coming this close to realizing her dream, only to walk away when it was within her grasp, would be a decision she’d regret the rest of her life.
That’s why he’d sucked it up and played devil’s advocate on the beach last night. And it was why he’d continue to support her choice, despite the risk.
The significant risk.
Katherine might think she was burned out on the Hollywood lifestyle and lack of privacy, but if the movie was a success and other similar offers began to pour in, she could succumb to the allure of fame and forget all about her idyllic time here making blackberry truffles, painting at Hope House—and walking on the beach with the local barista.
Being a star had to be a power trip of the first order, one that could mess with a person’s head—and priorities.
But if the two of them were meant to be, it would happen.
He had to keep believing that.
After setting her latte in front of her, he slid onto the bench seat on the other side of the small table. Rather than wait for her to lead up to the news, he plunged in. “You decided to take the movie role.”
She removed her glasses, studying him as she set them on the table. “How did you know?”
“Call it intuition.” He hitched up one side of his mouth. “Am I right?”
“Yes. You’re the first person I’ve told.”
“Simon doesn’t know yet?”
“No. I’m meeting him for lunch at the Myrtle.”
“He’ll be happy.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you happy?”
She sipped her latte, the creases reappearing on her forehead. “Relieved is more like it. I’m glad the decision is behind me.”
“What was the tipping point?”
He listened as she told him about her conversation with Reverend Baker in the St. Francis garden.
“It wasn’t as if he said anything I hadn’t already thought about—or anything you and I hadn’t discussed. But he did help me realize that my fear about taking the role was due to lack of trust. And for that I apologize.”
He frowned at the non sequitur. “Sorry. You lost me.”
“Let me back up and talk about God first.” She linked her fingers on the table. “I realized I have to trust him to lead me in the right direction career-wise. I’ve agonized over this for weeks. Prayed about it. Weighed the pros and cons. I wish the direction I’ve been searching for had been written in the sky, but sometimes you have to interpret the guidance you’re being given as best you can. I finally concluded that after all the work I’ve put into this career, I owe it to myself to finish it off with a bang.”
Finish it off.
That was encouraging.
His spirits took an uptick.
“I won’t dispute that—but why the apology?”
She sipped her latte, watching him over the rim of the cup. Set it down. “I also realized I have to trust your promise that you’ll be here after the movie wraps. I don’t come from a background that breeds trust, but you’ve given me no cause to doubt your word—or to be afraid you’d forget me. I’m just not used to someone being willing to wait when there aren’t any guarantees.”
“I hear you. And the truth is, I might not be inclined to—if I didn’t think the potential outcome was worth waiting for.” Follow her lead and put your own concerns on the table, Garrett. “As long as we’re laying it all out there, I’ll admit to a few fears too. If this movie is a success, it could tempt you to stay in Hollywood . . . despite all the negatives about the lifestyle.”
“I hope success, if it comes, doesn’t skew my perspective.”
“But it could happen.”
She fiddled with the lid of her cup. “I know.”
That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.
Despite the tension thrumming through his veins, he managed to maintain a conversational tone. “I imagine the lure of stardom would be powerful.”
“Yes—but so can the lure of a life without paparazzi digging into every personal detail”—she locked gazes with him—“and the possibility of finding a real-life happily ever after with a guy who puts all the Hollywood heartthrobs to shame.”
Some of the tautness in his shoulders eased. “Thanks for the ego boost—and infusion of hope. In the spirit of candor, I want you to know I’ll be counting the days until the movie wraps. Only my better angels have kept me from using every possible means of persuasion to convince you to ditch Tinseltown now for Hope Harbor.”
“Why didn’t you try?”
“For the same reason you decided to make the movie. After all the years you’ve devoted to your career, you owe it to yourself to claim the brass ring.”
She let a beat pass, never breaking eye contact. “Other types of rings are also worth claiming.”
Whoa.
That was direct.
A soft flush tinted her cheeks at his lack of response, and she dipped her chin. “Sorry for putting you on the spot. What I meant was that down the road, maybe we—”
“Hey.” He covered her fingers with his and waited for her to look up. “Don’t apologize. I feel the same way. I just didn’t want to say it too soon and risk spooking you.”
“It is too soon to be thinking along those lines. We shouldn’t let ourselves get carried away or jump to too many conclusions after only a handful of weeks.”
That was true.
Yet the same ability to read people—the same instincts that had served him well in business relationships in his previous career—told him his feelings for Katherine weren’t premature. While he wouldn’t rush their courtship if she came back, he was pretty certain he knew what the outcome would be.
“Don’t worry. I’m not the impulsive type. We’ll take our time—assuming Hope Harbor doesn’t lose its appeal for you.”
“That won’t happen. I’ve loved this town since the first day I set foot in it years ago.”
Whether her affection for the town—and for him—was sufficient to bring her back, however, remained to be seen. Even if she left Hollywood behind for another career, whatever new direction she took could lead her elsewhere.
For now, all he could do was pray for the outcome he wanted—and enjoy her last couple of days here.
“I agree with you. It’s a special place. So . . .” He c
hecked his watch. “You have lunch with Simon. Are you up for a dinner on the beach tonight?”
Now that her decision was made, he intended to do everything in his power to create a few romantic memories she could call up while she was away to remind her of all she was missing . . . and all that awaited her in this small Oregon seaside town.
“That would be wonderful.”
“Does six o’clock—”
“Zach—sorry to interrupt.” A frazzled Frank stopped a few feet from their table, flashing her a silent apology before refocusing on his boss. “We got slammed with a tour group.” He motioned behind him, where the order line snaked out the door.
“I’ll be there in a minute.” He slid out of the booth as Frank hustled back to the counter, then turned toward Katherine, his back to the shop to block the patrons’ view of her. “Until tonight.” He leaned down and kissed her, hands flat on the table, lingering as long as he could.
When he straightened up at last, her cheeks were pink again.
“I’m guessing our take-it-slow-and-easy rule has been suspended for the duration.”
“Uh-huh. Unless you have any objections.”
“I can’t think of a single one.”
“In that case, be prepared for a memorable evening.”
Her eyes began to sparkle. “That sounds promising.”
“Count on it.” He ran a finger along her jawline with a whisper-soft touch.
“Can I . . . bring anything?” Her question came out a bit breathless. “Like, um, truffles for dessert?”
The lady was distracted.
Also promising.
“Truffles are always welcome—although I had another sweet dessert in mind.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.
“I think I should have ordered one of your icy drinks instead of this latte.” She fanned herself.
In his peripheral vision he caught Frank giving him a desperate glance. Reluctantly, he stepped back. “I have to go.”
“I know. I’ll be waiting for you at six.”
Calling up every ounce of his willpower, he forced himself to walk away, plunged into the fray behind the counter—and for the next twenty minutes barely had a moment to breathe.
In fact, they were so busy and the milling crowd in the shop so dense he didn’t see Katherine leave.
Not a problem.
In seven hours, she’d be all his.
And from the instant he closed up shop for the day until six o’clock, he was going to put all his efforts into creating a beach picnic worthy of a big-screen chick flick.
What in the world?
Katherine jolted to a stop as she entered the great room and spotted a man on her deck.
He was off to the side, his back toward her, and she had only a partial view—but it wasn’t Zach.
Their beach picnic wasn’t scheduled to start for another forty-five minutes, even if she was ready to go and counting the minutes.
She detoured into the kitchen and unplugged her phone from the charger. Peeked around the corner of the wall toward the deck again.
The man was gone.
Nevertheless, a tiny quiver of fear rippled through her.
But that was silly. This was Hope Harbor, not LA. The police chief here no doubt had the easiest law enforcement job in the state. Her unexpected visitor was probably a tourist who’d wandered off a trail somewhere and—
Ding-dong.
She froze.
Maybe that guy was looking for her.
But why hadn’t he rung the bell to begin with?
Phone at the ready in case she had to call 911, she walked to the door.
Though the peephole distorted his features, the man appeared to be normal. And from the glimpse she’d gotten of him while he’d been on the deck, he hadn’t come across as a vagrant or someone with nefarious intent.
It was possible he had a legitimate purpose for being here. A friend of the owner, perhaps, who didn’t know the house was currently occupied by a vacation renter.
To be on the safe side, however, she left the chain on as she cracked the door—and she positioned her thumb to tap in 911.
“May I help you?”
The man smiled at her, but his eyes were assessing. “You aren’t one of the owners of this house.”
Her assumption must have been correct. “No. I rented it for a few weeks.”
“Then my information was correct—but I wouldn’t have recognized you. Kudos on the disguise.” He swung up the arm that had been concealed behind his back and began snapping photos with the camera in his hand before she could process what was happening. “I understand congratulations are in order. Any comments on your movie deal?” All the while he kept clicking.
She finally found her voice. “You’re on private property. If you’re not gone in thirty seconds, I’m calling the police.” She slammed the door. Sucked in a lungful of air. Tried to rein in her stampeding heart.
There was only one explanation for this.
Simon.
Punching in his number, she stalked into the living room and began to pace as the phone rang.
He took his sweet time answering.
Four rings in, on the cusp of rolling to voicemail, he picked up and greeted her.
She dispensed with any pretense of politeness. “What have you done?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t give me that, Simon. Someone from one of those gossip rags just rang my bell.”
“Goes with the territory if you’re starring in a major motion picture—as you are, my dear, now that you’ve signed on the dotted line. I snapped a photo of the contract and sent it to the studio as soon as we finished lunch. Tomorrow I’ll deliver the hard copies in person and gear up for a major publicity blitz.” He could hardly contain his glee.
“The blitz has already started.”
“What can I say? Leaking a few crumbs to the press stirs up interest.”
“My location is not a crumb.” She forced the sentence through gritted teeth.
He didn’t try to deny he’d sicced the media on her. “I’m surprised someone’s already shown up. They must have contacted stringers in Portland or happened to have people in the vicinity. I guess they pulled out all the stops to try and get a juicy exclusive.”
Her stomach began to churn.
Once again, she’d lost control of her life.
This was what she hated most about Hollywood.
“I don’t want these people on my doorstep, Simon.”
“Call the police if anyone else trespasses—or fly back with me to LA tomorrow. You have to be there Monday morning anyway for a meeting at the studio.”
Leave tomorrow and give up two more days with Zach?
Not happening.
Besides, she still had two dozen truffles to make for the Hope House benefit. The finished ones on the island, boxed and ready to go, weren’t sufficient for the sold-out event.
“I’m not leaving until Sunday.”
“Suit yourself. I’m out of here at the crack of dawn tomorrow.”
“Good-bye, Simon.” She jabbed the end button, already wrestling with second thoughts about her decision.
But she’d signed the contract. She’d have to see this through.
However—she wasn’t going to let Simon’s zeal for publicity ruin these next two days with Zach.
Phone in hand, she opened the sliding door in the great room . . . peeked both directions . . . and stepped out. She needed to calm down, and the view from the deck would help her chill. If that guy—or anyone else—ventured onto the property, she was dialing 911 without bothering to issue a warning.
She walked over to the railing and gave the sea a sweep.
Frowned.
A sleek white cabin cruiser had dropped anchor very close to shore.
Strange.
In all her weeks here, no boat had ever ventured near the beach.
A twinge of suspicion began to niggle at her.
Pivot
ing, she reentered the house, picked up the binoculars from the coffee table, and returned to the deck. After lifting them into position, she adjusted the focus.
One person was on the deck of the boat—but the camera with the long lens in his hands wasn’t pointed at Trixie, who was prancing about in the water, giving a fine aquatic show.
It was aimed her direction.
“Crud.” As she muttered the word, she swung around and stomped back into the house. Slammed the slider closed. Locked it.
Her private Hope Harbor haven was ruined.
And her beach picnic with Zach was a bust.
Heck, they couldn’t even eat on either of their decks, not with that guy in the boat watching her every move.
Crud, crud, crud, crud, crud.
She set the binoculars down, rubbed at the ache beginning to throb in her forehead, and resumed pacing.
Knowing Zach, he’d insist they have their picnic and modify the setting to accommodate this new development—but any rendezvous was dangerous. What if a camera caught them together?
She cringed as a series of melodramatic headlines strobed across her mind, all of them scandalous, shocking, lurid, sensational—and false.
But true or not, they’d be hurtful and upsetting.
Having been down that road already, she could handle the overblown hype—but subjecting someone she cared about to such nastiness would be wrong. Especially a decent man like Zach, who lived an exemplary life and ran a business that depended on the respect and goodwill of his regular customers in town.
Unfortunately, unless she took action fast, he was going to show up at her door in thirty minutes.
So as soon as she psyched herself up for the call she didn’t want to make, she’d key in his number and break the news.
27
Smiling, Zach picked up the loaf of French bread he’d asked Sweet Dreams bakery to put aside for him, tucked it into the antique picnic hamper Frank had loaned him, and set the basket on the floor next to the two throws he’d retrieved from the linen closet.
“Now that’s a picnic.” Stephanie wandered into the kitchen and surveyed his gear.
“I hope my neighbor agrees.”
“You can’t go wrong with a wicker picnic hamper. It appeals to the romantic in every woman.”
