Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2)

by Melissa Tagg

  Even in its weathered state, the inn still breathed with stately charm. A surprising shoot of pride flickered through Autumn. “What can I do for you?”

  Dylan cleared his throat. “We’ve been talking about our reception location. I felt badly about cancelling last week.”

  “Oh, please, don’t worry about it. It was—” she met Mariah’s eyes—“understandable.”

  “Turns out the Hunziker Hotel is already booked on the date of our wedding. I know showing up out of the blue like this probably doesn’t work into your schedule, but I wondered if you’d mind if I showed Mariah around.”

  Hope slid in, gooey and warm. She could handle being Plan B. Especially if it meant a deposit. Her own words to Harry came floating back in: “Right when we needed it most, Dominic Laurent fell in our lap.”

  And now this.

  “I wouldn’t mind that at all.”

  Dylan’s eyes brightened. “We’re thinking of an outdoor reception, but it’d be good to look at the guest rooms. Dining room, too. Might make a good rehearsal dinner space.”

  Mariah snaked an arm through the crook of Dylan’s elbow. “My man is quite the event planner.”

  Was it Autumn’s imagination, or did Mariah place special emphasis on the my?

  Dylan patted her hand on his arm. “I just want to make our special day perfect.”

  Mariah eyed Autumn. “He’s always so thoughtful. I admit, I was concerned when I found out Dylan’s ex-fiancée ran this place. But he assured me things ended a long time ago.”

  Autumn’s eyebrows lifted. “Uh, yes.”

  “I realized I was being silly. After all, Dylan couldn’t possibly be more committed, loving. We’re like . . . Romeo and Juliet.”

  Okay, honey, you made your point. “Right. Well, I—”

  “There you are, Red.”

  Autumn gasped, turned. Oh no, please no. Blake? How long had he been here? And why was he hurrying to her side, flashing that smug, dimpled grin, then . . .

  Kissing my cheek? Warmth rushed up her neck and flooded her face.

  Dylan glanced at Autumn. “Red?”

  Blake pulled her close, crushing her to his side. “My pet name for her,” he practically cooed. “Between her hair and her fiery spirit, it fits, don’t you think?”

  “I, uh . . .” Dylan stammered.

  She felt the ribbon of muscle in Blake’s arm around her back. Too close. And he smelled like a forest, if a forest could smell so clean and . . . masculine. Oh, please . . .

  “And you are . . .” Dylan prodded. Right, Dylan hadn’t moved to town until after Blake left.

  “Blake Hunziker. Nice to meet you.” Blake ran his hand up and down her arm. And she was torn between pulling away and . . . What? Snuggling up? You are not enjoying this. You are not enjoying this. You are not—

  She met Blake’s eyes, read the “play along” in his wink. “Yes, uh, yes. This is Blake. Blake, meet Dylan Porter.” Such a bad idea.

  “Oh, the ex-fiancé.”

  He knew? Betsy must have said something.

  “Well, thanks for leaving Red here for me.”

  “I wasn’t the one to—” Dylan froze midblurt as Mariah shot him an accusing glare.

  Blake’s hand stilled on her arm. Ha, so he didn’t know everything.

  “Well, Dylan and Mariah, please feel free to look around at your leisure. I’ll have Harry open up a couple rooms upstairs. Look around the yard, too.”

  Dylan glanced once more at Blake, then her. “Thanks.”

  Mariah only nodded. Harry stepped in then, gesturing toward the staircase. Only when they’d started up did Autumn yank away from Blake. “What was that?”

  “Good acting. Just making sure I haven’t lost my touch since Randi Woodruff.”

  She’d have pinched that grin right off his face if she could have. If a pathetic piece of her hadn’t halfway enjoyed the past three minutes. She folded her arms. “Who knows what Dylan thinks now?”

  “I wasn’t acting for Dylan. It was for the snarky blonde. Romeo and Juliet? Do you think she even knows how that ended?” He took a step closer, peering down at her. “Besides, tell me you didn’t get a kick out of the surprise on both their faces.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Say it, Red.” He reached around to his back pocket, pulling out a curled copy of a magazine. “Or I’ll have to tease you mercilessly about what I found on your bookshelves. It’s why I came over.”

  She groaned as he held it up it by its corners in front of her, his own face grinning from the cover. The only tabloid magazine she’d ever purchased in her life and, of course, he’d found it. The headline mocked her: Randi Reveals Handsome Mystery Husband. She reached for it, but he snatched it away.

  “You bought a magazine with me on the cover.” If she’d thought he was smug before, he was Cheshire cat pleased now.

  “I happen to like Randi Woodruff’s TV show.”

  “Right.”

  She swiped for it again, but he held it over his head, eyes dancing with amusement. “Why’d you save it?”

  “Because I figured it’d make a nice target for a game of darts.”

  “Ooh, good one.”

  “Why you—”

  “It’s just not going to work, Dylan.”

  At the sound of Mariah’s voice trailing from the staircase, Autumn lost her footing, only Blake’s chest keeping her from going down. “Make that five.”

  At his whisper in her ear, she elbowed his stomach and straightened. “Five what?”

  “Five saves: bloody nose, wasp sting, closet mishap, playing boyfriend, catching you.”

  By the time he finished with the list, Mariah was out the front door and Dylan had halted in front of them, apology brimming in his expression. “Sorry, Autumn.”

  “You didn’t look around for more than two minutes.”

  “She’s used to five-star resorts.” He shrugged. “She’d rather change our date and book the hotel.”

  The indignation she should’ve felt at Dylan’s words was no match for the humiliation punching through her. Dylan might as well have labeled her inn a clay pot compared to the Hunziker Hotel’s crystal vase. And with Blake right there. . . .

  “I thought bringing her here might do some good. I got the feeling when I was here the other day . . . Well, anyway, I thought it might help you out.”

  She felt herself stiffen. “I don’t need your help.” Oh, but she needed his deposit.

  Dylan shook his head and followed Mariah out the door.

  “Man. Rude.”

  She pressed her eyes closed at Blake’s exhaled words, turned to face him. “I know, I shouldn’t have said—”

  “I meant the chick. And Dylan, all condescending. You don’t need his help. Tell ya what, festival plans can wait until tomorrow. We’ll spend all today on inn projects.”

  Irritation clashed with appreciation. But emotions aside, she couldn’t ask Blake to dust or polish woodwork or rearrange the furniture in the den. Any project worth his time would take money. Money she didn’t have. She should’ve told him as soon as he’d stopped by this morning. “Blake—”

  “Although, I will add it to the ever-growing list of heroics: Six, spends whole day helping at the inn. So what’s up first? I’m not good with anything plumbing or electricity related, but give me a paintbrush, a hammer, whatever. We made a deal, and I’m ready to work.”

  She stepped back. “I need to call our deal off.”

  “If it’s about me pretending in front of Dylan—”

  “It’s not. Believe me. That’s my past. I’ve let go.”

  “Then give me a project.”

  “You don’t understand. I don’t have a project for you because I don’t have money for a project.” She waved her hands. “Yeah, we need new carpet in half the guest rooms, and the third-floor suite could use a makeover, and if I could, I’d replace every window in the inn. But I don’t know what I was thinking making a deal for your
help fixing up this place when I can’t even afford to keep it open. The bank said no to a loan, which is understandable, since I am behind on the mortgage payments, and . . . ”

  She shook her head, stuffed her hands in her back pockets. Should’ve stopped herself. She didn’t want pity.

  She just wanted to save her inn, secure everyone’s jobs, keep believing that everything would work out so she could leave for France without disappointing anyone.

  Because she wouldn’t do what Dad had planned to—leave a broken mess in the wake of desertion. She wouldn’t.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll still help with the festival. Leave me Georgie’s notes, and I’ll take a look.”

  Blake grimaced. “That’s not what I’m—”

  Harry entered the room then, muttering something about another crack in the dining room ceiling. “I don’t think we can just keep plastering the cracks. Come look, Autumn.”

  She gave Blake a parting shrug and, as she followed Harry from the room, tried to convince herself it wasn’t disappointment she’d seen on Blake’s face.

  Clearly making the phone call had been the right choice.

  Blake reached down to ruffle Kevin’s shaggy hair as Jessie Banks circled the Firebird in his parents’ driveway. “Ooh, I’ve been waiting years to get my hands on this baby.” Jessie ran her hand along the hood of the car as she rounded it. She wore a bandana over her gray hair and baggy overalls under her plaid coat.

  He hadn’t expected when he asked Mom for her antique car hobbyist friend’s phone number that the woman would insist on stopping by that very night. But apparently Jessie Banks had been eyeing Ryan’s classic Firebird for a long time. She looked at it as if it were a diamond necklace.

  The sound of the wood swing’s creaking drifted from where Mom watched on the porch.

  “I know you once offered to buy it from Ryan,” he said.

  “That I did. He looked at me as if I’d just offered to hack off his right arm. He loved this car.”

  So true. When Ryan died, Blake had assumed his parents would store the Firebird, or maybe sell it. Instead, they’d given it to him. When he’d tried to refuse, Dad had taken him aside, given him a talk about the importance of not slumping into denial.

  He could still hear the buzz of his own unspoken replies. Denial? I watched the accident. I flew the plane. I couldn’t be in denial if I wanted to.

  Instead, he’d accepted the keys and when he’d left town just days after the funeral, it’d been behind the wheel of the Firebird. Of course, in the years since, the car spent more time in storage garages than on the road.

  “Before we talk offers, I need to know, Blaze—are you sure about selling?” Jessie pulled off her bandana and swiped it over a dust mark on the car.

  The fiery hues of sunset filtered through clouds and bare branches to streak the car’s shiny surface. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Because there was something oddly attractive about the idea of picking out his own ride. Maybe a soft-top Jeep or old Ford truck. Something sensible, of course, to fit his new life. But with a little fun to it, as well.

  Something that wouldn’t draw William Baylor’s, or anyone else’s, ire when he drove it down Main.

  Kevin left his side and bounded up the porch steps toward Mom. Funny how the mutt had bonded with his parents. Mom reached down to pet Kevin, then met Blake’s eyes.

  Was she okay with this? Or did she feel like he was giving away a piece of Ryan’s memory? And what about Dad? He hadn’t even thought to call him.

  Jessie beamed. “Then let’s talk numbers.” She rounded the car once more then angled to face him. “Have to be honest. What I can afford to pay you isn’t anywhere close to what you could probably get if you advertised. You wouldn’t believe what some enthusiasts would plunk down.” She tapped the roof of the car. “Especially for a ’bird with this kind of detailing.”

  “I’m not looking to make a bundle.”

  Jessie gave him a figure—one that sounded good to him. And within minutes, they sealed the deal. Just a little paperwork and they could call it done. Jessie waved to his mom before shaking Blake’s hand once more. She’d have a check to him within a few days. Which meant tonight he needed to find the vehicle title and registration and work out all the details—not to mention carve out time to shop for a new ride.

  After Jessie drove off, he turned back to the house, but Mom had already gone inside—Kevin with her.

  Inside the house, the smell of chocolate chip cookies led him to the kitchen. Mom turned from the stainless-steel stove when he walked in, hot pad over her fingers and pan in hand. “I suddenly remembered I’d popped these into the oven before Jessie arrived,” she said as he trailed to the middle of the room. She set the pan on the counter and turned.

  “You baked?”

  The recessed lights overhead spotlighted Mom’s eye roll. She tossed her hot pad at him and laughed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I am the only one allowed to make fun of my kitcheny skills.”

  “Why would I bother making fun of your cooking ability when I could tease you for using words like kitcheny.” He reached for a cookie but stopped at her playful swat.

  “So nice to have you home, son.” Mom’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but he didn’t miss the smile she shot his direction. Everybody’d always said he got his sense of humor from his mother, while Ryan got Dad’s serious streak.

  Mom pulled a plate from the cupboard and motioned Blake to sit. Felt like old times, sitting at the table in the kitchen Mom rarely actually cooked in. Modern appliances couldn’t steal the homey feel of the room—basket of fruit in the middle of the table, the refrigerator plastered with photos, wood sign with the words Bon Appetit hung over the doorway—where Mom used to sit with Ryan and Blake after school. The rule had been one Oreo for every tidbit they told her about their day.

  Now Mom placed a plate in front of him with two gooey cookies. He took a bite, gasping when it hit his tongue, sputtering. “Whoa. Warm.”

  Mom poured him a glass of water. “That’s what you get for mocking your mother.”

  He gulped the cool liquid. “Tasted good. Even if I do have third-degree burns in my mouth.”

  “Well, it better taste good.” Mom reached for something at the back of the counter, held it out in front of him.

  And he burst into laughter. A plastic tub full of Pillsbury cookie dough.

  He was halfway through the cookie when Mom sat down across from him. He could feel her stare as he ate, heard the unasked questions she let linger between them. Mom had always been amazing like that—without a word able to draw him out.

  “You want to know why I decided to sell the car so quickly.”

  “Or not quickly, as it were. You’ve had it for six years now.”

  True. “Always figured I would eventually. I don’t have enough car appreciation to own something so fancy.” He finished off the first cookie and looked up. “Think Dad will be mad?”

  Mom nibbled on her own snack. “You’re almost thirty years old, Blake. The time for determining your actions based on your father’s and my approval is long since passed.”

  “Just don’t want him thinking it was some act of denial. Truth is, a friend said something to me about not holding on to the past.”

  “That’s my past. I’ve let go.” Autumn had said it as if it were easy.

  He fingered the rim of his plate. “Anyway, I guess she got me thinking.”

  Mom’s eyebrows raised. “Ah, she’s a she. I like this.”

  A rush of warmth passed over him. “It’s not like that.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Mom . . . ”

  “I just want to know if her first name would go well with your last name.”

  Frankly, it was probably her last name that’d cause the most shock if he were to say it. Dad had literally burst a blood vessel in his eye the day he found out Ryan was dating “that Kingsley girl.”

  Oh no. Kingsleys and Hunzikers weren’t meant
to mix. And is it stuffy in here? “Did you remember to turn the stove off?”

  Mom jumped from her chair. “Goodness gracious, you’d think I left my brain in bed this morning.” She marched to the stove, poked a button, and turned to face him. “Anyhow, because I’m a good mother who now and then chooses to respect her son’s privacy, I will refrain from mentioning the fact that you’re blushing right now and stop fishing for information.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “And for the record, no, I don’t think your father will mind. Besides, he has more on his mind to worry about than what vehicle you’re driving.”

  Of course. The hotel. The town. Was he up for reelection anytime soon? One or all of them must be the cause for the dark circles under his father’s eyes and the tiredness that seemed to pull on his features.

  “You know what, Mom? I think I’ll start checking into townhouses. I should get out of your hair.”

  Mom used a spatula to drop another cookie onto his plate. “You’re not in our hair. We even like Kevin.” She sat once more, then leveled him with a serious look. “But if you want to do something to make your father happy, here’s a thought: go see that plane.”

  A bite lodged in his throat. “Already gave the keys back to Dad.”

  “They’re in his top dresser drawer.”

  “Mom, I—”

  “You don’t have to fly it. Just take a look. Your father spent hours poring over custom paint options.”

  “It’s too much of a reminder.” He’d only see Ryan jumping and hear Shawn yelling and . . . He closed his eyes, willing away the sudden smell of the airplane’s interior fusing with crisp sky air, the taste of fear and the numb of shock.

  “What if it helps you remember the good times?” At only his sigh for an answer, Mom’s shoulders dropped. “Please, Blake, just go see it.” She turned then, walked from the room.

  A shameful weight settled over him. How could he ignore such a simple request? Maybe she had a point. Maybe seeing the plane would help him remember the good times.