by Melissa Tagg
Because obviously ice cream would be enough to not only wipe out their rocky past but also convince the woman to help him with the festival. Right. “Did you get stung anywhere besides your arm?”
“No.”
“You can put the umbrella down, you know. I think the wasp’s gone.”
“Maybe I’m protecting myself from you.”
“Ha, funny. What were you thinking, poking that nest? That’s like something . . .” I would do. But she didn’t need to know how many times he’d been stung, bitten, or snapped at in the course of getting too close to an animal’s habitat.
All in the past. Risk-taking Blake was gone, and in his place . . .
Well, so far just a guy with ice cream dribbling over his hand.
“Can I look at your arm?”
She held it up, and with his free hand, he fingered the soft skin around the red spot. Good, the wasp’s stinger hadn’t stuck in her skin. “You should put some ice on it. Sometimes they swell up. And you need to get inside. It’s cold, and you don’t have a coat.”
A whoosh of lakeside air breezed around him as he opened the inn’s front door for Autumn. He nudged some stray leaves back outside with his foot and followed her in.
“Sorrysorrysorrysorry,” a woman in a white apron flustered as soon as they crossed the threshold. “I know we shouldn’t have left you out there, but the wasps . . . ” She stopped at the sight of Blake—or maybe the ice cream cone in his hand. Probably both. “Oh. Hi.”
“By which Betsy means, can we help you?” the man behind the desk tacked on.
Blake jutted his elbow toward Autumn. “Ice pack?”
“In the kitchen.” The man leaned over the counter, a smirk covering his face. “Most guys opt for flowers, by the way.” He eyed the ice cream.
“Harry.” Pure irritation laced Autumn’s tone. Hopefully directed at he-who-must-be-Harry, but by the way she looked at Blake now, he wasn’t so certain.
“Come on, let’s find that ice pack.” He looked around. “Kitchen?”
Both Harry and Betsy pointed the way, and as they stared, he tugged Autumn along by her unstung arm. Dude, kind of an ogling crew she had.
“Y-you brought me ice cream?” she asked as they crossed the empty dining room. Must not be serving dinner tonight? Or were there that few guests staying at the inn?
A row of sconces along the wall offered the only light in the space, the sky’s drifting clouds momentarily covering the lingering sunset.
“I felt bad about the other night. Didn’t know what flavor you liked, and Kevin wasn’t talking, so . . .” He waited for a laugh as he stood in the doorway to the kitchen. Even a chuckle. Okay, a shadow of a smile would do.
But she only stared.
“Anyway, it’s kind of melted.”
She blinked, finally seemed to focus. “Oh, yes, I . . .” She accepted the cone and brushed past him into the kitchen. “Kevin’s your dog?”
“Mine for the moment, I guess.” Should he tell Autumn she had dirt from her tumble on the porch all over the back of her white shirt? “I think he’s a stray. Funny thing is, I randomly started calling him Kevin and he actually responds to it.”
“As in . . . Bacon?”
“No, the kid from Home Alone.”
She nodded from her spot in the middle of the kitchen. She held the cone awkwardly, ice cream melting over the edges and from the bottom of the cone.
“It’s plain old chocolate, by the way.”
She bit her lip. “Chocolate’s good.”
And suddenly he felt all kinds of stupid, which is why he hung back in the doorway as Autumn went to the island counter in the middle of the room, pulled a bowl from a dish rack, and deposited the cone. The kitchen had the feel of a restaurant operation—stainless steel and pots and pans hanging from hooks in the ceiling—and yet, it retained a lakeside quaintness with honey-colored walls, wicker basket decorations, and a chalkboard menu.
The lingering scent of something savory and appetizing set his stomach growling.
Autumn stood over the sink now, running her hands under water, shooting him a questioning glance over her shoulder. He approached her, jutting his sticky hands under the water beside her.
“You really should ice your arm.”
“If you say so, Doc.” She shook her hands dry, crossed the room, opened a deep freeze, and pulled out an ice pack. She draped it over her arm, then gave him a “now what?” look.
He glanced at the bowl holding the mess of ice cream and soggy cone. “You going to eat that?”
“Well . . .”
“I did drive all this way, Miss Kingsley.”
“A whole mile out of town. However did you make it?”
He chuckled at the tease in her tone. Would’ve been a lie, in that moment, to deny the attraction that crawled up his chest. Between those amazing blue eyes and the flush in her cheeks . . .
Man, remember who she is. Yes. And why he’d come.
“Listen, I didn’t stop by only to bring you the cone. I . . . ” He watched as she lifted the bowl with her free arm up to her lips.
She paused. “What? You told me to eat it.”
“You’re going to lap it up like a cat?”
She held the bowl out for him to see inside. “It’s practically soup.”
“Which most people eat with spoons.”
She rolled her eyes. “Then I’d have to wash the spoon.” She slurped from the bowl. “Mmm, good stuff.”
His laughter bounced through the room. A dimple dented one cheek as she grinned, setting the bowl down. He rounded the counter and came up beside her. He inched closer, she inched away. “What?”
“You’ve got ice cream on your nose.” He swiped it away with his finger. And when he looked down at her, caught a whiff of her hair—something appley and sweet—suddenly he really, really wanted her to say yes to helping him. Last name or no.
“You, um, were saying?” she prodded, left hand now covering the ice pack on her right arm.
Was it wrong to give in to the instant urge to drag out this conversation? Linger in the company of the first woman to pique his interest since . . . who knew when.
He cleared his throat, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You know the Christmas festival?”
She nodded. “Of course. It’s my favorite time of year around here.”
Good. He had that in his favor. “Well, turns out it’s on the brink of not happening this year. The coordinator went off to get married, and—”
“Georgie really did it? She’d been talking about this guy she met on the Internet. Wow.”
“And anyway, they—the city council—want me to take over.”
“You?”
“Me.”
“You.”
“I know I’m not Georgie Snyder, but I’m available and apparently the only willing stand-in.” He’d decided to leave out the part about being a media draw. Because hadn’t his fifteen minutes of undeserved fame stretched long enough already?
Autumn’s eyebrows raised. She was waiting.
“I was hoping maybe you’d be willing to co-coordinate it with me.” He rushed through the request, words tripping over each other.
“Me?”
“You.”
“Me.”
“I think we just had this conversation.” He chuckled. “Look, I know it’s out of the blue, but it was actually Tim Jakes’s idea. He said you helped Georgie sometimes and obviously you run this place, so you’re organized and stuff.” Just say yes.
Because, media and the city council’s motivation aside, sometime between that basketball game with Tim and now, he’d pushed a few steps past his reluctance. Far enough to realize he’d just been handed the chance to grasp the very thing he’d come home for: a place to fit and a purpose to fulfill. Maybe even the possibility of a full-time job. What if this was God answering his prayer for direction? Plus, what was it Hilary had said after the meeting?
“You’ve got the chance
to play town hero, Blaze. Seriously, if you had any idea how much our small businesses are struggling . . .”
Town hero. The words tasted sweet.
Only he needed help to make it happen.
Autumn laid down the ice pack and folded her arms. Not a good sign. “Blake, it was . . . nice of you to think of me. And to bring out the ice cream. But between running the inn and trying to keep up with repairs since we don’t have a handyman, I don’t have a spare second. And I’ve got this VIP coming . . .” Her gaze shifted to the window. “All that and I’ve got some other pretty big things on my mind lately.”
He wanted to ask what, but why should she tell him? So they’d shared a few laughs over melted ice cream. It’s not like they were friends. “I could make it up to you. You mentioned repairs. I can help.” Hadn’t he spent a month watching a celebrity DIY guru at work?
“Blake—”
“And I’ll buy you another cone. And books—you said you like books.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip.
She’s thinking. That’s good.
“Why ask me, of all people?”
“Like I said, Tim Jakes suggested it.” A sliver of moonlight now streaming through the window painted streaks of reddish-gold in her hair. “And maybe it would be good. For our families, I mean. Maybe even the whole town . . . to see some closure.”
From the sudden stillness in Autumn’s stance, the way she hugged her arms to herself, he knew he’d hit a nerve. But whether or not it was a good one, who could know? Because she didn’t say anything. Finally, when the silence stretched, he gave into the question that had poked him ever since running into her on Saturday. “Autumn, is Ava still in town?”
“Why?” Her one-word question was barely a peep.
“I always wondered why she didn’t come to Ryan’s funeral.”
She snapped into focus. “Are you kidding?” Anger—or was that hurt?—fueled her gaze. “After your father, the mayor of this town, practically called her out right in the town square, in front of everyone. Blamed her for breaking Ryan’s heart when all she ever tried to do was help him get—” She cut off her own words.
“I remember that.” And he remembered feeling embarrassed for his father. Even worse, devastated by his own guilt. Because while Dad blamed Ava for Ryan’s reckless actions, Blake blamed only himself. “I’m not saying Dad was right. But he’d just lost his son.”
“Yeah, well, none of it was Ava’s fault.”
Her words burrowed under his skin, gnawing and sharp. “I know that.” He could hear the darkness in his own voice. “I know.” And Autumn had no way of knowing how his heart choked on the truth. Why were they even having this conversation?
He searched for the words to close the topic he never should have opened.
But Autumn spoke first. “I think closure might be a pipe dream, Blake.”
“Maybe.” But inside, his heart and his brain protested. Because if that was true, then his whole reason for coming home in the first place was a hopeless quest.
4
The blaring of her phone yanked Autumn from an already restless sleep. She rolled over with a groan, legs tangled in her flannel sheets.
Before she could bring herself to reach for the phone, the ringing cut off. She waited for the trill to signal a voice mail, but instead, seconds later, the ringtone began again.
“Fine. I hear you.” She pulled herself up and grabbed for the phone on her nightstand. “The inn better be on fire, Jamie, or some other disaster for you to be calling at . . .” She glanced at her alarm clock declaring the time in bright red numbers. “Five thirty a.m.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Kingsley. So sorry.”
How many times had she told the college kid who manned the desk at night to call her Autumn? She stood, bare feet padding over the chilled floor, a picture of Jamie’s freckled face prompting reproach at her tone. “Nah, I’m sorry, Jamie.”
She reached for her robe. Ooh, why the ache in her arm when she thrust it through her sleeve? Oh yes, the wasp sting. And Blake. A replay of last night came swooping in.
Including the memory of how awkwardly their conversation finally ended. Her stammered decline. His disappointed nod. Her surprise at her own regret. She had always enjoyed Whisper Shore’s regular lineup of festivals—the Christmas one best of all. Might have been fun to help again.
If not for the timing. And the person doing the asking.
Though, Blake wasn’t so bad. In fact, she’d even had the crazy thought—in a completely platonic, distant observer sort of way—that he’d looked kind of cute standing in the middle of the lobby holding that ice cream cone.
But as she’d second-guessed her decision on the short walk from the inn back to her cottage last night, she’d remembered all the reasons any association at all with Blake Hunziker went on the bad-idea list. The business competition. Ryan and Ava. The fact that just last week she’d heard rumblings about Mayor Hunziker blaming Autumn’s mother and her role on the state tourism board for Whisper Shore’s lack of grant funding.
Hunzikers and Kingsleys didn’t go together. That’s all there was to it.
“So no fire?” she asked Jamie now.
“No, but you gotta get over here.”
She caught her reflection in the full-size mirror attached to her closet door. “Jamie, I’ve already grouched at you this morning. I have no desire to add to that by scaring you with my morning hair.” Which totally had the bird’s-nest thing going on. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s an emergency.” The line shuffled for a moment, and she heard Jamie’s muffled voice, as if he cupped his hand around the speaker. “I’m so sorry. I’m getting our manager now.”
“What kind of emergency, Jamie?” she asked.
“Just get over here.” He hung up.
Another glance in the mirror. Her white-and-pink-striped pajama pants peeked out from under her lime-green robe. Fuzzy slippers, makeup-less face. Surely she had time to change. But if it really is an emergency . . .
With an exaggerated whimper, she pocketed her phone and hurried through her chilly house. She grabbed a knit scarf from where she’d left it on the kitchen table last night, pulled on matching mittens, and stepped outside.
A lazy morning fog drifted from the lake, and frost-covered grass slicked under the soles of her slippers. Times like these she wished she’d rented a place in town. Living so close to the inn meant she was at the business’s beck and call.
She entered the inn from the back door and trailed down the hallway. She found Jamie in the lobby, hands sunk in his back pockets as he faced a disgruntled guest. And what was that noise? A thumping, loud, from outside.
“I really do apologize, Mr. Glass.”
The guest thumbed his salt-and-pepper mustache, rumpled long-john shirt evidence of his disturbed sleep. Jamie glanced over his shoulder, following the man’s focus. “Oh, good.”
“What’s going on?”
Jamie jabbed a finger toward the ceiling. “That. It’s waking everyone up. I tried to get him to stop, but he just laughed at me.”
“Who?”
Another thud.
“Some guy who said you knew he was going to be helping out around the place. I asked for a work order, but like I said, he just laughed.”
Who in the world . . .
Thump.
Her eyes narrowed. Of course. “Mr. Glass, I echo Jamie’s apologies, and assure you, I’m going to take care of this.”
The man gave a gruff thanks and shuffled toward the open staircase.
“I’m sorry, Miss Kingsley. I tried to take care of it. As soon as I woke up and heard the hammering . . . ” He broke off, sheepish expression taking over.
She held back a chuckle. If Jamie didn’t realize she knew how often he slept through his shift, well, she’d go ahead and let him keep thinking what he wanted. Anyone else might deserve a scolding, but the guy worked five nights a week while keeping up a full course load at a college forty-five minu
tes away.
One more reason not to give up on her inn. One more reason to secure its future before leaving for France.
“Don’t worry about it, Jamie. I’ll take care of this.”
She marched to the front door, jerked it open, and stomped down the stairs, neck craning for a view of the man she knew she’d find plodding around the porch roof.
“Blake Hunziker, what do you think you’re doing?”
His head appeared over the edge, dark hair flopping over his forehead and brown eyes dancing in the light of the sunrise. “Patching your porch roof. What’s it look like I’m doing?”
“More like what it sounds like you’re doing. Which is performing a jig at the crack of dawn when my guests are trying to sleep.” She crossed her arms, cutting off the morning chill from breezing up the wide arms of her robe.
“Wanted to get an early start. Busy day today.”
“What, you’ve got other inns to terrorize?”
His grin faded just the slightest. “Red, the first big snow of the season is going to cause a flood on your porch. I don’t know how you managed through the summer rains.”
They’d learned to duck the drips falling from leaky spots, that’s how. She’d done as much patching as she could. And . . . Wait, what had he called her? “Red?”
“It fits. How’s your arm by the way?”
“Blake, I—”
The front door opened, and Jamie hurried out. He brushed his fingers through his hair in a worried move as he hustled down the porch steps. “Now somebody called the front desk about all the yelling.”
Blake’s head and shoulders disappeared.
Jamie’s head tipped. “What are you going to do about him?”
“Guess I’m going to go up there and make him come down.” Because that’s what managers did, right? Solved problems.
And Blake Hunziker? Problem with the capital-est of Ps.
Slippers brushing through frosty grass, she headed for the ladder. For the second time in less than a week she’d brave her fear of heights and conquer the climb. This time, at least, irritation powered her determination.
Seconds later, she peered over the edge of the roof to where Blake sat cross-legged, eyes on the horizon.
