by Melody Grace
But this woman wasn’t a sports fan, or maybe she just didn’t expect to see Jake Sullivan, star linebacker, moping in the dark of a small-town gazebo, because her expression smoothed out, and that playful smile returned.
“You’re not in costume,” she noted. “You better watch out, or someone will fine you for not having enough town spirit.”
“Some things never change. I grew up here,” he explained. “I’m just back for a visit. And who says I don’t have a costume? The best spies blend into a crowd.”
“Whoops. I’m not exactly blending in in this, am I?” She looked down, and Jake couldn’t help but follow her eyeline back to the skin-tight black bodysuit.
Damn. Incognito she wasn’t. Hell, she could stop traffic at twenty paces.
He snapped his eyes up. “That’s OK. You can stun the enemy into submission, while I sneak in unseen.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She smiled, and Jake wondered what her story was. Definitely another out-of-towner like him, maybe visiting friends for the party. She couldn’t have been a local. If they had women like this in Sweetbriar Cove, he would have found a reason to come back years ago, instead of flying his parents out to meet him wherever he’d been under contract around the country.
“So what about you?” the woman continued. “What would you be, if you could pretend to be anyone for a night?”
Jake felt the question ricochet straight to his heart.
God, if he could have anything, be anyone, he would pick himself—six months ago. Back when he had the world at his feet. Fame, money, women, a team he would have taken a bullet for, the chance to walk out on that field every Friday night and do what he loved best. He was living his dream, everything he’d spent his whole life training for, right up until the opposition linebacker smashed through the rest of his life.
But that wasn’t a story for this mysterious siren. He swallowed back the pain and bitterness, and forced another easy smile. “I don’t know. You’ve probably got the right idea. James Bond, I guess,” he added. “Maybe then you’d meet your match.”
“Is that right?” She arched an eyebrow, flirtatious. “You think you could handle me?”
He grinned. “You don’t strike me as the kind of woman who could be handled,” he quipped back. “But I’m sure I could give it a try.”
“Promises, promises.”
Their eyes met, electric, and Jake could have sworn there was something familiar about her playful stare. But he would have remembered if they’d met before.
A woman like this, you didn’t forget.
The moment stretched, and he couldn’t look away. For a moment, he could only hear his heartbeat, suddenly booming like thunder in his ears. They were alone in the dark shadows of the gazebo, and suddenly—inexplicably—he wondered how her lips would taste.
Would she kiss the way she laughed: warm and unbridled? Or were those gold-flecked eyes of hers hiding a wild, sensuous streak?
Then the woman glanced down, her cheeks flushing. “I should get back . . .” she said quickly, gesturing back to the Town Hall.
Jake knew he should let her get back to the party, and whatever lucky man she had waiting, but something stopped him from moving aside.
He didn’t want to sit alone in the dark any longer, counting all the ways his life had blown apart.
He didn’t want to face the fact that after ten years away, telling himself he was bigger and better than this small town, he was right back where he’d started, all over again.
He wanted to forget it all, just for a moment. Pretend that she really was some mysterious vixen, and that he was a man who had all the answers.
Before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them and reached to push a strand of that sleek dark hair off her cheek. Her eyes flashed with surprise, but she didn’t step away. She paused a moment, blinking up at him, and then her gaze dropped to his mouth.
Her lips parted. Her head tilted, moving in, and it was all the invitation he needed to slide his hands around her waist, pull her against his body, and kiss her, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And it was. His mouth found hers, and just like that he knew: kissing her was as easy as breathing, and necessary as air.
Jake tugged her closer, feeling those curves pressed against him all over again. But now, he took his time—slipping his hands around her waist and feeling her melt against him, molded perfectly, like she was made to fit. Her lips parted, inviting, so he slid his tongue deeper to taste her: warm and sweet, with a whiskey kick that took him by surprise.
He should have known there was more to her than meets the eye.
The woman kissed him back, passionate and unleashed, and God, he could have lost himself in her arms. For the first time in months, everything just melted away, and he felt whole again: exactly where he was supposed to be. It was like walking out on the field, making that perfect spiral pass to the twenty-yard line with the wind behind him and the crowd cheering his name. A moment of sunshine, pure and bright cutting through the stormy shadows—
She suddenly pulled away. Jake was still caught up in the rush, and how right she felt against him, but the dark-haired woman was shaking her head in disbelief. “What are you doing?” she said, almost to herself.
“Wait—” Jake reached for her again, needing just another moment of sweet escape, but she was already backing away.
“This isn’t me,” she blurted, “it’s the costume. And the boots. I told you, these are dangerous boots.”
And then, before he could say another word, she turned and fled, racing down the gazebo steps and out into the night.
Jake sat down with a thump, his heart still pounding in his chest.
What just happened?
He took a breath, and slowly the world shifted back into focus: the streetlights calm on the fringe of the square, empty streets, and the distant call of music. Everything was exactly as it should be, just another night in Sweetbriar Cove. There was nothing to show his world had just been tipped upside down by a mysterious, intoxicating stranger.
And he didn’t even know her name.
2
One week after Halloween, and Mackenzie hadn’t heard a peep about Jake—which was a Sweetbriar miracle, considering how fast news traveled in their town. She already knew that Hank at the market had changed the brand of honey he stocked, so she would have thought that their conquering football hero returning home after all these years would have warranted an all-alerts broadcast. But even though she kept her ears open—and her eyes alert for that tall, muscular frame—as she strolled through town, there was still no hint of him.
She should have been relieved. Her cheeks still flushed when she remembered that night in the gazebo, and how she’d wound up melting in his arms. It was madness, making out like that with Jake Sullivan of all people, especially when he had no clue that she was the woman he’d been kissing.
Mackenzie flushed again, this time with guilt. OK, so she should have said something. They’d been friends, once upon a time. Best friends. She’d teased him, expecting him to figure it out at any moment, but the teasing led to flirting, the flirting made her heart race faster, and then suddenly, he was moving closer with that reckless look in his eyes, and the moment for confessing the truth melted away in a rush of pure desire.
She was a bad, bad girl.
But oh, it had felt so good.
Mackenzie reached her gallery and unlocked the front door. Inside, the bright, airy shopfront was filled with colorful pottery, stacked on pedestals and shelving, with their glazes gleaming in the fall sun. She loved to change her work with the seasons (and those tourist-friendly festivals), so her fall collection was out in full force: rich reds, orange, ochre, and gold colors, with tiny painted leaves edging the bowls and tableware, pretty as a walk through the autumn woods.
She stripped off her coat and scarf and looked around. She had a million things to do: orders to process and pack, fresh pottery to glaze, last m
onth’s accounts.
They could all wait.
She headed in back instead, to the studio she’d affectionately named her mudroom. It had clay-splattered floors, shelving crammed with tools and misshapen experiments, and, in the pride of position, her potter’s wheel, waiting in the middle of the room.
She rolled up her sleeves, tied on an apron, and grabbed a handful of wet clay from the bucket waiting by the door. And just like that, her world made sense again.
Mackenzie smiled. She’d always been an artist. Even as a kid, her hippie parents had encouraged her to be creative, so she would spend hours in the yard making weird play figures out of twigs and material scraps, or mixing her own paints from a dubious collection of wild berries, eyeshadow, and cherry soda, but the first time she ever sank her fingers into a cool, squishy mass of clay, she’d known it was the beginning of a great love affair—one that had lasted twenty years and counting.
Now, she quickly kneaded the clay to remove any air pockets, then settled on her stool and threw it down hard in the middle of the wheel. It landed with a satisfying splat, so she nudged the pedal, and started it spinning.
What would she make today?
She had a list of orders a mile long, but Mackenzie could already see this piece taking shape in her mind: a beautiful serving bowl, with a gently-flared lip. Something simple; she would glaze in pure white and a cobweb of delicate snowflakes, her first nod to the winter season ahead.
She cupped the mound of clay firmly as it spun, exerting just the right amount of pressure with her palm and fingertips to guide the clay into shape. She formed the first dip in the center, gently bringing it wider, until the base of the bowl was formed, then pinched the clay up and out, shaping the slope of the body.
It was second nature to her by now, slipping into that focused dream state, totally absorbed by the project in front of her. She could have done it in her sleep, and sometimes, Mackenzie woke feeling like she had—hands molding around her blankets like she’d been shaping them into a new set of dinnerware. Today, she was glad for the distraction, putting all her attention on the smooth, steady spin, until she heard the bell jangle over the gallery door.
“Just a second!” she called, hitting the pedal and bringing the bowl to a stop. She rinsed her hands, then headed out to find a familiar face browsing the shelves. “Summer,” she greeted her friend happily. “If you tell me that bag is full of sticky buns, I’ll love you forever.”
“You’re easy.” Summer laughed. She had a blue knit cap pulled over her hair, and a brown paper bag wafting sugar and butter across the room. “And yes. Cinnamon sugar buns, and some blackberry turnovers too.”
“You’re so good to me.” Mackenzie wiped her hands off and skipped over. Summer’s sticky buns were no joking matter: they’d turned her bakery into a massive success, and even fueled a cookbook and TV show. “It’s kind of early for you to be out. Shouldn’t you be chained to the stove, turning out pastries for your adoring masses?”
“My assistants are taking care of the adoring masses,” Summer replied. Mackenzie took a bite of cinnamon dough and sighed with pleasure, as Summer glanced around the store. “I’m actually here on a mission. I need some new sets of plates for the bakery, I thought maybe I could commission you to do a special style.” She turned over one of the bowls, etched with acorns. “Could you maybe do something like this, but in a simple white, with . . .”
“Blackberries!” Mackenzie finished for her. It was the bakery on Blackberry Lane, after all.
“Yes!” Summer lit up. “That’s perfect. We could even sell them, so people can take a souvenir.”
“Done and done.” Mackenzie grabbed her order book and started checking dates. “When would you need them? I have to finish up an order for a gallery in Boston, but then I’m all yours.”
“There’s no rush,” Summer reassured her. “Whenever you can spare the time.”
“Then let me know what you need, exactly, and I’ll get started.” Mackenzie smiled. “I’ll even give you the sticky bun discount.”
Summer laughed. “Sounds good to me.” She checked her phone. “I better get back, before they burn something. Have you heard how Debra is doing?” she added, heading for the door.
“No, did something happen?” Mackenzie frowned.
“She got tipsy on Hank’s elderberry wine at the town meeting last night. She tripped and broke her ankle.”
“Oh no,” Mackenzie exclaimed. “Is she OK?”
“Aside from being laid up with a massive cast,” Summer said. “I was going to take her these muffins, but I really should get back. Would you mind dropping by today?”
“Of course, I’ll put together a care package,” Mackenzie said.
“Great. Tell her I said hi!”
* * *
Mackenzie closed up early for lunch and headed over to Debra’s farmhouse on the outskirts of town, stopping by the market first, for a stack of the trashy gossip magazines she knew Debra loved. She’d known the older woman for years; she’d been Mackenzie’s art teacher in high school, and now as well as running all the big town festivals, Debra was also a regular participant (slash wine-drinker) at their monthly book club. When she rang the bell at the farmhouse door, Mackenzie was greeted with a riot of barking.
“It’s open!” a call came from inside, so Mackenzie pushed it wider, and was promptly attacked by two fluffy German Shepard dogs.
“Brad Pitt! George Clooney! Down boys!” She managed to keep her balance under the cascade of wagging tails and enthusiastic licking.
“I’m in here,” Debra’s voice led her back to the cozy living room, where the woman herself was resting on the couch, her ankle in a massive cast that was propped up on a cushion. “What do you think?” she asked, nodding to the white shell. “I asked for something a little more colorful, but they only had white. Perhaps you can bring by your paints and jazz it up?”
“What happened?” Mackenzie asked, setting down her bag.
Debra sighed. “Contrary to what Franny says, I wasn’t drunk. Well, not very. But one of those rascals left a chew toy out, and before I knew it, I was ass backwards down the stairs.”
“Ouch.” Mackenzie winced. “Does it hurt?”
“Not since the nice doctor gave me something for the pain,” Debra grinned. “Speaking of, would you be a dear and grab my purse?”
“Here.” Mackenzie passed it over. “And I brought some supplies, too.” She unpacked the shopping. “Summer sends her best, and these muffins.”
“Ooh, I guess there is a silver lining, after all.” Debra swallowed a couple of pills and settled back, shifting position. “Cooper already came to fix my gutters, and Grayson stopped by with a box of rather naughty romance books from his store. I’ve half a mind to take to my bed every year.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Mackenzie laughed. “I don’t think Brad and George would cope too well.”
The dogs were still racing around, full of energy. One bounded over to nudge at Debra. “That’s my hint,” she said, rueful. “I don’t suppose you could take them out for a walk, could you? I let them out back to run around, but, well, you can see they’re used to a real hike.”
“I’d love to,” Mackenzie agreed. “Things are slow at the gallery, so I was planning to get some fresh air anyway.” She paused, scratching one of the dogs behind the ears as she fought her curiosity.
The curiosity won.
“I heard Jake Sullivan was back in town the other week,” she said, trying her best to sound casual.
“Mmmhmm.” Debra was busy picking through the bag of muffins. “Oh, yes, he’s back. Staying at his folks’ house while they’re off on that trip of theirs.”
Mackenzie’s heart stopped. Staying. As in, present tense?
“I thought he’d already left,” she said, her pulse suddenly racing. “He’s still here?”
Debra looked up. “For the winter, at least. You should stop by,” she said, getting a familiar gleam in her eye
. “Welcome him to the neighborhood. Didn’t I read in Men’s Health he’s still single? He was one of their top bachelors. I’ve got the article here somewhere—”
“No, thanks! I’m fine. Just . . . heard the gossip, that’s all.” Mackenzie leapt up, certain her cheeks were flushing bright red by now. “I should go take these guys out before they cause any more damage.” She gathered her bag and the leashes, and was heading for the door when she added, “If you need anything else, just call.”
“Well, there is one small thing.” Debra said, stopping her. “The Starbright Festival.”
“What about it?” Mackenzie paused. It was the pride of Sweetbriar Cove, a huge set of festive events leading up to the big candle-lighting ceremony on Christmas Eve, and Mackenzie loved every minute of it.
“I need you to run it.”
Mackenzie snorted with laughter, but Debra looked deadly serious. “Wait, what?”
“I usually steer the whole thing, but as you can see . . .” Debra wriggled the toes peeping out of her cast.
“But . . .” Mackenzie blinked at the enormity of the project. “It’s a huge festival. Thousands of people, and dozens of events!”
“Oh, don’t worry, it practically runs itself.” Debra waved away her concerns. “But, I suppose, if you don’t have the time to help . . .” she sniffed, giving Mackenzie a frail look. “I could try and soldier on, and hope I don’t do any permanent damage . . .”
“Don’t play ‘weak old lady’ with me.” Mackenzie stopped her with a grin. “You’re in better health than the rest of us.”
“But I can’t get around.” Debra pointed out. “Besides, I’ve been running the damn thing for over a decade. This time, I deserve to sip my eggnog in peace. Look, it’s all here.”
She heaved a massive binder up, stuffed with loose pages and handwritten notes peeking out. “The local businesses all know the drill,” Debra continued, “you just need to crack the whip and keep them on schedule.”
