Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2)

by Melissa Tagg

  How about their employees, for one? The historical significance and family legacy, for another. And maybe just the idealistic desire to leave something sweet and successful behind her—rather than broken-down evidence of her own shortcomings.

  But the arguments clogged in her throat. Instead, she watched as Ava tested one bulb, then another. Three. Four. Five. It added up to the total amount of times she’d seen Ava since her sister moved. Five Christmases. No shared birthdays or Thanksgivings. After Ava first moved, Autumn had repeatedly offered to fly out and visit. Ava found an excuse every time.

  Ava looked up now to catch her staring. “What?”

  “Why me?”

  Ava’s brow wrinkled as she pushed back her hood. “Huh?”

  “I get why you moved away, I do. I get that you were hurt. But why did you push me away? You didn’t even come for my college graduation.” Now that the dam burst, she couldn’t stop the flood. “It really hurt.” Years of bottled emotion released in three little words.

  She’d imagined this conversation with Ava so many times. Always pictured her older sister apologetic and emotional, their certain embrace like a sentimental scene from a Hallmark movie.

  Instead, Ava only directed her gaze to the lake as she dropped her end of the lights into her lap. Shutting down once again. Once again leaving Autumn to wonder what she’d done wrong.

  To wonder why Ava, just like Dad, had decided she wasn’t worth sticking around for. Frustration pumped through her, and her palm stung where she’d grasped the wired lights, pointy bulbs poking into her flesh.

  Then, finally . . . “It wasn’t about you.”

  “Felt like it. Were you mad I couldn’t talk Blake into helping Ryan?”

  “Wasn’t about Blake either. But you know what, let’s talk about him. He’s a bad idea.”

  “Ava—”

  “I saw the way you were smiling when you saw him on TV. Don’t give up the dream you’ve had your whole life for a guy who’ll only break your heart.” The clanging of the chimes accented her words.

  “He’s not Ryan.”

  The words suspended in the air for what felt like a full minute before Ava jerked to her feet, her end of the stringed lights dropping to the ground. Autumn waited for her argument. Even in the midst of the shards of sharp emotion, a sliver of hope suddenly glinted.

  After all, they were sisters. And sometimes sisters fought. Better that than continued distance. Maybe on the other end of this conversation the pieces of their relationship might finally fit back together.

  Or maybe that was wishful thinking. Because seconds later, Ava stalked out of sight, only those stupid chimes filling the silence.

  Where is Autumn?

  From his perch behind the waist-high wall around Whisper Shore’s outdoor rink, Blake watched the colorful flock of skaters circle, blades scraping over ice. Overhead, the rickety lights fastened to two poles flickered on, the sun having started its slow descent.

  She’d said she’d be there. An hour ago.

  “So your little town does this festival every year?”

  Blake’s focus snapped back to the reporter beside him—the one with the nasally voice and toothy grin and digital recorder pointed at his mouth. One day before the festival, and he’d spent most of it giving interviews while the volunteer committee did the actual work. Didn’t feel right.

  But at least the city council had finally gotten what they wanted—media attention. It had ratcheted up to dream levels in the four days since Randi Woodruff’s appearance in town. He only hoped it wasn’t too late to impact the festival. This afternoon’s appointment with the entertainment columnist from Chicago was the final step in the PR effort to pull in last-minute travelers.

  And he’d wanted Autumn to be a part of it. After all, she’d done just as much work as he had.

  But she hadn’t shown.

  And he was torn between worry and irritation. Probably busy at the inn or working on last-minute festival stuff.

  Hands clasped over the edge of the wall, he attempted to concentrate on the reporter’s questions. She’d asked to do the interview “somewhere Whisper Shorey.” Her words. “Yes, the festival is an annual thing. Although this year we’re doing quite a few new events.”

  He launched into the same spiel he’d given the travel blogger from Detroit yesterday, the morning show anchor this morning—all about the tree lighting, the winter sports, the food stands, the musical entertainment.

  When he realized Sissy—yep, really her name—had stopped taking notes, he trailed to a close. “It’s going to be great.” He hoped, at least. Assuming he and Autumn hadn’t forgotten anything. Assuming Mother Nature cooperated and they got another batch of snow tonight. Assuming everything went as planned.

  And then he’d get that Chamber job. Prove himself dependable. Finally be taken seriously.

  “Now, readers of this article will mainly recognize your name due to your ‘connection’ with Randi Woodruff.”

  Oh well, so much for being taken seriously. “That is probably true.”

  “Tell me how a man goes from television fame to small-town event organizer.”

  He gets home and realizes he doesn’t know what else to do.

  The thought plunked like a kettlebell. One he hefted away as soon as it landed. Because it was all sorts of untrue. The job with the city was a perfect fit for him. It was everything he’d prayed for leading up to his return—a normal, sensible, respectable job here in his hometown.

  Sounds boring.

  He blinked. Was boring so bad?

  “Blake?” Sissy’s bleach-blond ponytail swayed as she prodded him. In her white parka and hot-pink earmuffs, she reminded him of a rink bunny at a hockey game.

  “Truth is, I fell into that role. And while both Randi and I have acknowledged the situation certainly wasn’t honest—I’m thankful for the opportunity I had to make such a great friend.” He recited the same shtick he’d given during each interview that wandered into Randi territory. He paused, gaze drifting to the rink, the swirl of colors moving in disjointed circles. “But at the end of the day, this is where I belong. Whisper Shore is home. And this festival is a big part of our community.”

  Sissy chuckled and lowered onto the bench behind the rink. “You’ve got the art of the subtle redirect nailed.”

  “I’ll add it to my résumé.”

  “Perry, are we set for photos?” She directed the question at her photographer on the bench beside her.

  He nodded. “Mostly. Could use a few more skating shots.”

  Blake almost sighed in relief. So they were almost done. “In that case, I’ll lace up my skates.” He wobbled to the bench on his blade covers and sat.

  “Wait, one more question.” Sissy waited until Perry moved into place by the wall, prepping for his shots. “I did a little pre-interview Googling on you. Got curious when I came across an online obit . . . for your brother.”

  The biting cold found flesh. Sissy’s surprise comment iced through him, freezing any response or smooth topic switch of his own.

  “I realized why your name sounded so familiar to me back in October when I first saw it in headlines. I went to U of M. Two years older than your brother. I was at the game when he led the team to the Big Ten championship. He was only a sophomore then, right?”

  Blake chucked off his blade covers, letting them clatter on the cement. He nodded.

  “I remember reading a few years later about him . . . passing away.” She inched closer on the bench. “The obit said it was an accident. Car accident?”

  He shifted, and his blades scraped against the cement. Ever since the media circus began, he’d been waiting for—no, dreading—questions like this. Amazing that they hadn’t come earlier. After all, when Ryan first died, it had been all over the sports news. One of the country’s most promising athletes . . . gone.

  “Not a car accident.” He heard the tightness in his voice, felt his nerves pull taut.

  Sissy’s mitte
ned palm found his knee. “Whatever it was, it must have been difficult for you.”

  It was all he could do not to jump away. “Difficult. Yes.” And then he did move away—just enough that her hand slipped to the bench—as if physical distance could also protect him from the pain her questions threatened.

  “No wonder you left the country . . . and then took up with Randi Woodruff. You were looking for distraction, weren’t you? Poor man.”

  And that’s when he heard it—the lilt in her voice pushing through her reporter’s probing. She wasn’t digging for information about Ryan’s accident.

  “You could’ve found distraction a little closer to home, you know.”

  She was . . . flirting.

  And what had started as snaking hurt slithered into anger. He jerked upward, ankles holding steady over the blades of his skates. “Listen—”

  “Blake Hunziker, this is how you celebrate our month anniversary? Skating without me?”

  Blake glanced over his shoulder. Autumn, fists on her waist and pout on her face. She gave the quickest wink. He read the Play along! in her expression as she came up to his side and gave him the kind of smile that, on another day, would’ve started a fire in his senses.

  And on another day, he’d have slipped into the charade with gusto.

  But thought of Ryan dissolved any playfulness he might’ve otherwise felt. His “of course not” came out feeble and dry, not at all worthy of the ruse he knew she was putting on just to save him from Sissy’s flirting.

  Despite his poor performance, though, it worked on Sissy. In less time than it took Autumn to drop her skates to the ground and wind her arm through his, the reporter muttered a “thanks for the interview” and hustled off to join Perry the photographer.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Autumn dropped to the bench and pulled off her boots. “I am goooood.”

  “You’re also late.”

  “Yeah, sorry about that.” She jutted her right foot into her skate. “It’s been . . . a day. But I’m here now. And I just provided an exit route from what looked like an overly friendly interview.” Left foot. “Unless . . . Wait, you weren’t into her, were you? You looked uncomfortable, but—”

  “I was.” Except uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe the tornado of emotions in the last ten minutes. Enough to induce a pounding headache and an energy drain that not even Autumn Kingsley’s presence could revive.

  Autumn stood. “As long as we’re here, we might as well skate, right? Let’s go.”

  As if on autopilot, he followed her into the rink, blades scratching over the nicks and grooves of well-worn ice. The laughter and Christmas music, the buzz of the overhead lights, it had all felt merry and carefree when he arrived an hour ago.

  Now it goaded him, pulsing like the pain in his temple.

  Autumn looked over her shoulder. “C’mon, Blake, keep up.”

  A kid slicked past him, bumping his side and throwing a “sorry” behind him. Blake could practically hear his own scowl. And Autumn’s confusion as she watched and waited for him to catch up.

  But instead of moving his feet to slide toward her, he fisted his hands inside his gloves and scraped his way to the rink’s exit, ignoring Autumn’s voice calling after him.

  Why were sounds coming from the inn’s kitchen at ten p.m.?

  Autumn paused halfway down the open staircase, her palm sliding to a halt. Betsy had gone home an hour ago, but Autumn had stayed behind—hoping paperwork might help her forget about that mortgage statement from the bank, the fact that she’d once again failed to talk with Dominic Laurent . . . and Blake’s disappearing act at the rink. It had been a déjà vu moment—too similar to Ava walking away from her earlier in the day.

  But when she realized she’d been staring at the same spreadsheet for fifteen minutes, she’d finally given up and padded upstairs to turn out the lights and be on her way.

  But then the sound of movement in the kitchen . . .

  She heard the tap of a cupboard door closing—as if the intruder was trying not to be heard. She took another furtive step, turning her head to peer over the railing toward the kitchen. The line of sconces along the wall offered little light.

  Maybe it’s only Harry.

  Except he’d said something about catching a movie tonight. Reaching the bottom of the staircase, she rounded the corner, hesitance slowing her movement. What if someone had broken in?

  Autumn dropped her hand from her throat, padded to the recreation closet in the hall. She inched the door open, wincing when it creaked. They’d moved all the summer equipment to the outdoor shed earlier this fall, but maybe, if she got lucky, she’d score a left-behind baseball bat.

  Autumn felt around the closet, fingers connecting with a handle. She pulled it free, stepped back into the light. A badminton racket. About as threatening as a baby bird.

  Make that birdie. Ha. She clamped her fist to her mouth. Hel-lo, burglar. No time for lame jokes.

  She lifted the racket and with one hand pushed herself through the swinging door. “Who’s there—”

  A grunt and a shower of white. Cloudy flour fell in a haze all around her. Only when the foggy white cleared did she see him.

  Blake. Empty hands posed midair. Empty bag of flour at his feet. Narrowed eyes.

  Autumn brushed the flour from her shirt. “W-what are you doing here? Raiding our pantry?”

  Blake crossed his arms, his navy blue shirt stretching across his shoulders.

  “I was not raiding your pantry. I brought my own flour, thank you very much.” Which he’d very obviously dropped when she’d very obviously surprised him.

  “How Betty Crocker of you. But why?”

  He stepped aside, arm gesturing to the counter behind him. She stepped over the powdery puddle at their feet to survey his spread. Skillet. Eggs. Butter. Sugar.

  “Crepes, Red. I was going to make you crepes.”

  “Crepes.”

  Blake sighed, ruffling the flour out of his hair. “The other day you said it’s one of the things you couldn’t wait for . . . for France.”

  Her eyes flitted to the creased paper on the counter—a recipe, one he must’ve printed from the Internet. She spun around to face Blake, badminton racket still dangling from her hand.

  “I felt bad about abandoning you at the rink.”

  “If this is how you do apologies, you should ditch me more often.” And after the day she’d had, his gesture felt all the weightier. She almost hugged him—even let herself picture it for an undisciplined moment: arms around his neck, chin against those ridiculously broad shoulders and forehead brushing against his scruffy cheek. Warmth trickled up her neck and into her face.

  Suddenly the phrase “be still my heart” made all kinds of sense. “I, um, I . . . thank you,” she finally forced out, then lifted her racket. “Guess I don’t need this.”

  “Impressive choice of weapon, though.”

  “I thought you were a burglar.”

  “And you were going to attack me with that? Gutsy, but maybe consider a tennis racket next time.”

  She thwacked him—lightly, laughing—then abandoned the racket to the flour-covered floor.

  “So how clean is the floor? We’ve missed our five-second-rule window.”

  Even after her ruining his surprise, he still wanted to make the crepes? She should back out, use her need for sleep as an excuse. Because every hour spent with the man was one more challenge to her ability to think logically—I’m leaving, he’s staying, it wouldn’t work.

  But the words wouldn’t budge from her throat. Not with his slightly crooked smile flashing her way and a streak of flour across his cheek. Instead, her feet carried her toward the pantry. “No worries. We’ve got all-purpose flour, bleached, non-bleached, whole wheat.”

  “Not whole wheat,” Blake called after her. “I’m all for healthy eating, but not defiling crepes.”

  Autumn returned with an unopened bag. “How’d you know I’d still be here?�
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  “Your car’s in the lot.

  Blake cracked two eggs into the bowl. While Autumn watched, he added flour, milk, water, a pinch of sugar and salt, then whisked the mixture. “You’d make Betsy proud.”

  “I like to cook. I can make lasagna that’ll have you feeling like you’re in Rome sitting across the table from . . . um, some famous Italian. I can’t think of any. Mussolini?”

  Autumn leaned over the counter. “He was a ruthless Fascist. And he was executed.”

  He dropped a dab of butter into the skillet. “Please don’t tell me your book collection includes a biography on him.”

  “Mussolini’s favorite drink was a strawberry sherbet frappe. Doesn’t sound very dictatorial, right? And near the end of World War II, someone was supposedly lynched by an anti-Mussolini mob just because he ordered the man’s favorite drink.”

  Blake pointed a spatula at her. “Okay, you seriously need to get out more.”

  “What? I like reading biographies. I like learning about other people’s lives, what makes them tick. I picture myself in their shoes.” She leaned her chin on her fist. “I’d like to live a life worthy of a biography.”

  Blake stirred the batter. “You don’t think you already do?”

  She chuckled. “Um, no. Not a biography. Not even a . . .” She stopped.

  “What?” He used a measuring cup to pour the thin, whitish-yellow batter into the skillet.

  She slid onto a stool. “Well, my dad took thousands of pictures in all his travels. He had shoeboxes full. And I remember when I was kid, sitting by him while he sorted through all the photos, organized them into piles and years, filed them into photo albums.” The albums still lined one of the hallway shelves in Mom’s house. “Some evenings he’d pore over those pictures for hours, entertain Ava and me with all his stories.”

  Blake looked up from the skillet, his eyes like dark chocolate, sweet and serious at once. “And you don’t think you’ve lived a life worthy of a photo album.”

  He’d seen right through her. Did he have that ability with everyone . . . or just her? In the skillet, the batter crackled, tiny bubbles popping to the surface. “Let’s just say I’ve never gone to scrapbooking night at the church.”