by Melissa Tagg
Besides, who falls for someone in two weeks?
Autumn pulled her hair loose from her ponytail and shook it free.
Fine. Apparently he did. But he’d force himself to brush free of it, like the way Autumn combed the knots out of her hair with her fingers.
“I wish I knew how to thank you, Blake. Or should I say Blaze?” A tease lit Autumn’s voice.
Going to be a lot easier said than done.
He shook his head and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his dust-covered jeans. The work of the day had turned his white T-shirt beige, and he hadn’t washed the caulk from his hands after working upstairs.
“All my effort trying to get people in this town to forget the Blaze thing and Randi ruins it in one day. But, um, I think it was worth it.”
“What was worth what?”
Miranda came up beside them, wiping a trail of dust from her cheek.
“Bringing you here was worth the resurrection of my nickname.”
Miranda gave him a playful punch. “Hey, I did my very best to call you Blake. But I can’t help that I slipped up all day. I guess you’ll always be Blaze to me. Besides, consider it payback for all the terms of endearment you threw at me when we were ‘together.’” She accented together with air quotes.
“Terms of endearment?” Autumn asked the question while fiddling with the zipper of her sweatshirt. His sweatshirt.
“Punkin, sweetheart, dumpling. He tossed ’em out like candy at a parade.”
“To which she usually threatened to fake divorce me.” Blake gave Miranda a side hug and mussed her hair. “Wifey, I don’t think we were ever meant to be.”
Miranda laughed and pulled away. “Pretty sure Matthew would agree.” She checked her watch. “Speaking of which, I’m eager to get back and see him. Looks like we’re about loaded up. You’re driving us to the airport?”
He nodded. “Yep.” The crew had taken a private jet into Detroit—since the local airport didn’t have a jet runway—and then caught a puddle-jumper to Whisper Shore, thanks to Ike Delaney.
Autumn followed them to the porch, thanking the crew one by one, insisting they could all stay at the inn for free anytime they happened to get up to Michigan. He watched as she hugged Miranda Woodruff, the sheen of celebrity awe still not quite dissolved.
He shot Autumn a “see ya later” smile before following the crew to the porch and out to the parking lot. Minutes later, they motored down the road.
He glanced over to the passenger seat as he drove. Miranda’s gaze was fastened the opposite direction, to the dunes rising and falling in the east in ripples of white against a cerulean sky.
“Different view than your mountains back home, yeah?”
“Very different. You know, I’d never even been to Michigan before?”
Miranda’s home was in the heart of the Smokies. When he’d been there, the colors of early fall had painted the landscape in a firestorm of hues. He’d only spent a month there, but he’d come to appreciate the place.
Michigan was scenic in its own way, though—coastal blues and greens dancing against the rocky shore. Sunrises worth the efforts of early risers in their unpredictable patterns of color—some mornings a pale palette of pastels and others bold oranges and yellows. No mountains, but it’s home.
Miranda shifted in her seat to face him. “So when are you going to tell her?”
“Tell who what?”
“Oh, come on, Blaze. We lived in the same house for weeks. I do know you a little.”
It was true. The marriage might have been phony, but the friendship had gelled into something genuine over the weeks.
“You like her.”
“Randi—”
“She likes you.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened. “There are extenuating circumstances. Complications.”
Her laughter bubbled. “Complications? Let’s take a little trip down memory lane, why don’t we. Do you recall that when I fell for a snooping reporter from Minnesota, I was trapped in a fake marriage at the time? Had the whole country believing I was married to, oh, who was it again? You.” She punched his arm. “If those aren’t complications, I don’t know what is.”
Fine. So she had a point. But things had a way of working out for some people. People like Miranda Woodruff who, underneath the sham of an identity she’d built for herself, had a sincere heart. People who were worthy of their dreams.
And Autumn . . . she was worthy of her dreams, too. And her dream was France.
Not him.
He might be her hero today, but that would wear off, and he’d mess things up, and one day she’d pull away.
“Sooo . . .” Randi pried.
“I think you’ve been around your reporter boyfriend too long.” In other words, she’d turned nosy.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Anyway, she’s moving to France soon.”
Miranda scoffed again. “For a guy who spent years traveling the world, that should not be an issue. Follow her there.”
But he couldn’t. No, he’d come home because it was time to settle down. Be responsible. Following a girl he’d only connected with a couple weeks ago halfway around the world . . . That was anything but responsible.
Old, reckless Blaze might’ve gone for it.
New, dependable Blake?
He flipped down his sun visor. “Anyway, how is Knox?”
“Handsome. Sweet. Getting ready to propose.”
“He is? That’s fast.”
“Yeah, but when you know you know, right? Anyway, he thinks he’s being super secretive about it, but I have my sources. Namely, my manager.”
“Oh, he’s still crashing in the dude’s basement?”
She nodded. “Yeah, but not for long if I can help it. Soon as he pops the question, I’ve got a proposal of my own.”
Not hard to read the mischief in her eyes. “You want to elope.” Her TV-star status had never quite overcome the woman’s need for privacy.
“Yeah, to avoid the media craze.”
He turned onto the road leading to the airport. “Funny thing, that. You want to avoid the media. I sort of . . . need it.”
“Why?”
“This festival-coordinator gig I told you about? They only gave it to me hoping I’d put Whisper Shore in the headlines. You know, as the guy who, well . . .”
“Played my stand-in spouse? I can’t believe that was only a month and a half ago. It seems a lot longer.”
A lot longer. “Problem is, the only media I’m getting calls from are crummy tabloids. If we really want to draw people in to the festival, we need attention in tourist mags and travel columns, not—”
He broke off at the sound of Miranda’s gasp. Glanced over, then followed her gaze out her window to where the cars filled the airport parking lots. Not only cars . . .
Cameras. Dozens of them.
“Blaze, I think your wish just came true.”
14
Autumn, get in here!”
Harry called the words as he waved at Autumn from the fireside den. But hesitance held her in place at her perch behind the check-in desk. If she abandoned her post, she might miss Dominic Laurent’s morning descent from his suite.
She’d promised herself she’d stake out the lobby all day if she had to for the chance to finally corner the businessman. Her plan was simple: boldly ask for a meeting. And then discover whether the off-chance to which she’d tethered her hopes for the inn’s future had any possibility of coming to pass.
“Hurry before you miss it!”
Quiet chatter rolled in gentle waves from the almost packed and newly remodeled dining room on the opposite side of the lobby. At least they finally had a full house. In the past couple days, news of Randi Woodruff’s one-day stop in Whisper Shore combined with the coming festival had finally pulled in the reservation rush she’d been hoping for.
She had Blake Hunziker to thank for both.
Autumn leaned over, elbows perch
ed atop the desk, head tilted to look around Uri rolling a luggage cart past. “What is it?”
Harry stepped to the doorway as his wave turned frantic. “The commercial break’s almost over. They said he’d be on after.”
He who? And why was Harry watching the flat-screen in the den? They usually kept the thing turned off in the morning. “Already told you, I’m not leaving this desk until Dominic comes down.” She closed her fingers around her almost empty cup of coffee.
“He won’t leave before eating. You won’t miss him. C’mon.” He returned to the den.
Curiosity finally propelled her off her high leather chair. Harrison was right—Dominic would likely stop for breakfast before disappearing for the day.
The jingle of a commercial rang her into the den, and the warmth of an already lit fire embraced her, along with the scent of evergreen from the potpourri they’d placed around the artificial tree. Harry stood in the center of the room, arms crossed over his usual sweater vest—this one in Christmas burgundy and hunter green—and eyes trained on the television.
Autumn reached his side, coffee mug in hand, just as the familiar voice filled the room. Her gaze jumped to the screen. “No way, is that—?”
“Your man Blake? Yup.”
It looked like a satellite interview, for Blake stood in front of the gazebo in the town square. The cold of the morning was apparent in the red of his cheeks and puffs of white air when he spoke. “He’s not my—”
“Shh.”
“ . . . so we’re excited about showcasing our town and giving visitors an event they won’t forget.” Sunlight glinted in golden flecks in Blake’s eyes as he spoke.
She sipped her coffee. It wasn’t the first time Blake had been on TV since Randi’s impromptu stop in town. He’d been so busy with local and state media she’d hardly seen him. But it was the first time he’d been on a national morning news show. And oh, he looked as natural as if he’d been giving interviews his whole life—dark hair pushed away from his forehead and easy smile directed at the camera.
Well, it’s not as if this is exactly new to him. After all, he’d done the TV rounds back when he was pretending to be Randi’s husband.
“And it’s our understanding Whisper Shore recently had a visit from a celebrity you’re well acquainted with.” The reporter conducting the interview, probably from New York City, appeared in a split-screen shot next to Blake.
Was it just Autumn or did she catch the barest hint of a wince in Blake’s expression? The tiniest crack in his camera-perfect pose . . . and then he simply nodded. “Yes, Randi Woodruff did visit. Actually, she stopped at the Kingsley Inn, one of our finest lodging establishments here in town.”
Harry broke into a cheer. “Go, Hunziker.”
The interview lasted another thirty seconds, with Blake steering the conversation back to the festival. The city council should award him a medal. He’d accomplished what they’d asked of him—used the media’s residual interest in him to turn the spotlight on their town. And just in time for the festival.
Though she had to wonder how Blake felt about the community leaders putting more stock in his media draw than his talents. They needed to open their eyes. The man could do a lot of good for Whisper Shore. He had such an easy way with people. He’d proven himself handy around the inn—that’s for sure. And he’d taken their nearly extinct festival to a whole new level.
He had a wealth of ideas, but more impressive than that alone was his ability to get things done. She couldn’t help wondering what the Kingsley Inn would be like if someone like Blake at been at its helm the past few years—someone more skilled at seeing what the place could be rather than someone anxious to leave it behind.
Harry turned to her. “You’re quiet.”
“Just wondering what Mayor Hunziker would say about Blake plugging our place instead of theirs.” The fireplace crackled behind her, and she pushed up the sleeves of her black sweater.
“I’m sure their rooms were booked long before ours.” He lifted the remote to turn off the television.
“And even if not,” a new voice sounded from behind, “the man’s so smitten it probably didn’t even occur to him that his own family may not like him promoting the competition.”
Autumn turned. Her sister leaned against the doorframe with arms folded, but the casual pose contradicted the testiness in her tone. After Saturday’s party, things had somewhat settled with Mom and Ava—as if someone had dropped a gauzy sheet over the wrinkles in their past. See-through enough to know the problems were still there, but a soft enough cover to “pretty up” the mess.
But it appeared the smooth sailing of the past couple days might be coming to a choppy end. Ava’s eyes were still on the now-black screen.
Probably best to ignore the “smitten” comment. Ava was wrong, of course. Blake’s kindness in securing Randi’s help and comforting Autumn after the bathtub incident didn’t erase the impracticality of anything more than a friendship.
Just like Harry turning off the TV doesn’t erase that image of Blake smiling at the screen? The kind of smile that could convince single girls from across the country to travel to Michigan for a chance at the man.
Autumn gulped the thought down, opting for a “Hey, Ava” that came out feeble and unconvincing. “What brings you here so early?”
“Coffee. Mom’s out.”
Uh-oh.
Harry made the apology for her. “You may be out of luck. Our inventory is due in today. ’Til then, we’ve been rationing.”
Autumn held out her mug. “Only had half a cup myself. There’s a swallow left if you want it.”
Ava’s sigh matched the exasperation in her eyes. She straightened, uncrossing her arms and holding out a stack of envelopes. “Here. I met the mailman on the way in.” She handed the bundle over. “And I’ll take that drink.”
Autumn relinquished her cup and started flipping through the mail on her way back to the lobby. Bill, bill, advertisement, travel mag, bill . . . bank envelope. She didn’t need to tear into the thing to know what it held. A reminder of the short-term loan payment due next month—or of the mortgages payments that were past due.
Oh, why had she given Ava the last of her coffee? She could’ve used a dose of steely resolve in caffeinated form right about then.
She deposited the mail on the desk, looking up to see Ava gazing into the dining room. “If you’re thinking about stealing a leftover cup of coffee from an empty table, don’t.”
“How’d you know what I was thinking?”
“Because I was considering the same thing a few minutes ago. Bad form, though. Maybe instead we talk Harry into making a bakery run.”
Harry joined Autumn behind the desk. “I’m not your errand boy.”
“Caramel macchiatto for me,” Ava said.
“Hazelnut blend, black.” Autumn tucked the bank envelope to the bottom of the mail pile. “Pretty please?”
Harry looked between the sisters before letting out an exaggerated moan and reaching for the coat he’d stashed behind the desk. “Fine. But you both owe me. You can pay up by figuring out which bulb is causing that entire string of lights on the porch to flicker.”
Autumn wrinkled her nose. “Scratch the plan. I’ll go to the bakery.”
But Harry had already reached the door. “Too late. Besides, you need to wait for Laurent. See ya.”
A burst of cold rushed in when he opened the door, and Autumn instinctively huddled into the bright pink scarf around her neck. “I hate it when Harry makes a good point.”
Ava trailed over to the desk. “Laurent. That’s the guy from lodging biz, right?”
Autumn nodded.
“I saw him drive away in a rental car when I pulled in.”
Autumn slapped her palms atop the desk. “Seriously?” She’d missed him again? It was feeling less and less likely that the man had any intention of conducting business while in town. Maybe he really was just on vacation. “This day . . . I want a redo, and it
’s barely eight a.m.”
She trudged past Ava, yanked her coat from the coat tree and slipped outside, wishing the view were enough to calm the wavy tension rolling in her stomach. Minutes later, after checking outlets and extension cords, she settled on the porch bench, strand of lights in her lap, and fingered through the bulbs one by one.
She heard the front door creak open, footsteps over the porch boards. Quiet dangled in the air, like the icicles hanging from the porch roof. And then Ava sat, picked up the opposite end of the flickering strand, and started jiggling bulbs. The wind chimes in the corner made up for the lack of conversation. Until . . .
“It’s really that bad?”
“The inn, you mean? Yeah.” The sound of lake water wrestling with the wind chugged in. “Truth is, I almost feel guilty about Blake getting Randi Woodruff here, all the work they did, when we could be closing up come New Year’s.”
She could feel Ava bristle beside her. Both Ava and Mom had stopped by the inn on Sunday as soon as they heard a celebrity was there. But if Autumn wasn’t mistaken, both had done a masterful job avoiding Blake that day . . . and every day.
“Look, I know you and Mom don’t like Blake. But he’s been more help to me than . . .” You or Mom. She cut off before the biting words escaped.
But Ava seemed to hear them anyway. “That’s not fair.”
Maybe not, but it was the truth.
Another rustle of the wind chimes. “Autumn, you could’ve told Mom you didn’t want to run the inn. You could’ve walked away any time.”
Autumn twisted another bulb. Resisted the urge to chuck the whole string to the ground in frustration. “It’s not that easy. I felt obligated.”
“Why? No one else in the family did. Not even Dad.” Ava’s words along with a snagging chill scraped over her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on. You know as well as I do Mom and Dad were on the brink of splitting up before he died.”
She knew? And all this time, Autumn had thought she was doing such a noble thing by pretending . . .
“He was ready to leave this place behind. And Mom . . . she signed it away as soon as she had the chance. I don’t know why you’re holding on so tightly—especially when you’ve got that opportunity in France.”
