Make Me Love You

by Elizabeth Bright

  “Dad, he arrested you,” she protested.

  “I’m aware.”

  “I can’t work with him.”

  “You can. You mean you won’t. There’s a difference.”

  Emma growled in annoyance.

  Her dad laughed. “Emma-bear, don’t you go holding grudges on my account. I can hold my own grudges just fine, thank you. In the case of Eli Carter, I choose not to hold a grudge. I have a lot of anger. I’m angry at cancer. I’m angry at a system that made it so easy for a middle-class, hard-working family to lose everything in the blink of an eye. But Eli was just doing his job, honey. I can’t be angry at that.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, I can,” she huffed.

  Because if she didn’t...well, if she couldn’t blame Eli then there was only one person left. Her. She had never told her dad the truth of that night, that she had been the one who had told Eli. What would he say if he knew? He might forgive Eli, but could he forgive his own daughter? That was a much deeper betrayal.

  “So what are you going to do?” he asked. “Let the town fall down around our ears for the sake of pride and vengeance? This isn’t a Greek tragedy. Don’t make it end like one.”

  “Fine. No launching a war to destroy my enemies.”

  He laughed, and she knew she had pleased him with that reference. He would love nothing better than a daughter who could discuss the themes and subtexts of Greek literature. Unfortunately, that was not Emma. She had, however, seen Troy, on account of the hot, naked men.

  “So what’s the plan, Emma?” he asked. “You always have a plan.”

  “Not this time.” She hesitated. “Maybe if I do a bad enough job of it, someone else will realize they can do better. Someone who knows how to balance budgets and plan events and all that kind of stuff that mayors do. I can’t do any of that.” She looked at him helplessly. “What am I supposed to do, Dad? How am I supposed to help? I’m the least qualified mayor ever.”

  “I don’t know anything more about being mayor than you do, honey. But I do know this. Whenever I’m lost, I think of that thing your mom used to say. Do you remember?”

  She remembered.

  “Leave it better than you found it,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “That’s right. Leave it better than you found it. That advice has never steered me wrong. Maybe you won’t be mayor for more than sixty days. Maybe you don’t know how to do the job they’ve asked you to do. All right. You can still leave it better than you found it. Just one thing, Emma. One small, tiny thing.”

  One small, tiny thing. Yes, even she could do that. She had never been able to fix big things, not for lack of trying. Her mom’s cancer. Her dad’s highly illegal side business. But a small thing, maybe she could fix that. She could leave Hart’s Ridge better than she found it, in that one small, tiny thing, at least.

  But what?

  ***

  Emma parked her truck outside Dreamer’s Cafe. She was ten minutes late to meet Eli. She was never late to anything, but she was late now, for the simple reason that this was the last place on Earth she wanted to be.

  Usually she would be thrilled to have lunch at Dreamer’s. It was, hands down, the best food Hart’s Ridge had to offer, even over Cesar’s burritos. It was a brilliant fusion of standard American fare and El Salvador flavors—kind of like Hart’s Ridge itself.

  Her mouth watered as she imagined biting into a lamb burger with a side of yuca fries. It could all be hers, but she had to suffer through an hour or two of Eli’s company to get it.

  She stepped down from her truck—it was an easy step, given her height—but she didn’t go in. Not yet. She stood on the sidewalk, keys jingling in her hand, her brain pinging between the two alternatives. Yuca fries. Run away. Yuca fries. Run away.

  Her stomach rumbled. Yuca fries won out.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she shoved her keys in her bag and strode into the restaurant. Delmy Garcia, the owner, nodded at her. “He’s over there. The table by the window.”

  “Thanks.”

  She looked to where Delmy had indicated. Her throat tightened. He was there, all right, and this time in uniform. She knew he hadn’t done it purposefully to remind her of who he was—he was on duty, after all—but that uniform was all she could see. In that uniform, he wasn’t Eli, her onetime best friend. He was Eli, Arrester of Fathers.

  Crossing the room was awkward with him watching every step she took, and somehow it made her forget what she was supposed to do with her arms. By the time she made it to the table, her body felt like it had too many elbows and knees.

  “Hey,” she said.

  He half stood from his chair, waiting for her to take her seat before he sat down again. “Hey. I wasn’t sure you would come.”

  “I said I would, didn’t I?” she said defensively, as if she hadn’t been on the verge of chickening out just a minute ago.

  “Yeah, and then you stood there on the sidewalk for a good five minutes looking like you would rather have all your teeth pulled.”

  Busted. She didn’t blush, because she wasn’t embarrassed. Why should she be? She hadn’t arrested his dad—who, once upon a time, had a terrible habit of driving drunk, before ultimately dying in a drunk driving crash not of his own making. At the time, Eli had said that at least his dad had waited until his eighteenth birthday to orphan him, unlike his mother. Eli’s sense of humor had always run pretty dark. Technically, though, Eli wasn’t an orphan. He just didn’t know where his mother was.

  Or did he? Had she called him in the last eight years? Had she sent him a postcard from God knows where? Maybe dropped by for Christmas dinner?

  Emma didn’t know. Suddenly it seemed wrong that she didn’t know.

  “Do you need a minute to look at the menu?”

  Emma looked up and smiled at the server. “No, thanks. I know what I want.” She glanced at Eli. “Are you ready to order?”

  “I had plenty of time with the menu while you were out there on the sidewalk, thanks,” he said drily.

  She bit her tongue to keep from sticking it out at him. Eight years ago, she would have done just that. But things were different now. She didn’t want to be fall into their old playfulness. “I’ll have the lamb burger, medium, with the yuca fries. And a glass of water with lemon slices.”

  The server nodded. “And you?”

  “The same. But a Coke, no water.”

  “Great. I’ll put these in and your food will be out soon.”

  And then they were alone again. Well, as alone as they could be in a restaurant full of people. Many of whom were sending curious glances their way. Everyone knew their history. Emma pressed her lips together and lifted her chin. She wasn’t about to give them anything to gossip about.

  “We should probably get started.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a notebook and pen. “I figured we should make a list of duties pertaining to the Fourth of July celebration and then divide them up.”

  “Sounds good.”

  She uncapped her pen with a flourish. “Item one, notify all the vendors that the Whittakers have left for California and that we will be handling matters from here on. Mayor Whittaker gave me the list and their contact information, so an email should do it.”

  “That sounds like the sort of official notice that should come from the mayor.”

  She nodded her agreement and wrote her name down in parenthesis. “Item two, the fireworks. That would include permits and waivers of liability and so forth.”

  “I can do the logistics, but my guess is that it will be your official signature that’s still needed.”

  She wrote his name down, followed by a slash and her own name. She frowned, staring at their names. Linked and yet separated. She shook her head. “What else?”

  “The pie-baking contest. Usually the mayor is one of the three judges. We need to make a change this year, because it can’t be you.”

  Emma narrowed her eyes. “Why can’t it be me? I like pi
e. This might be the only task of being mayor that I actually enjoy, and you want to take it away from me? I don’t think so.”

  “For the past three years, I’ve been one of the judges. This year I turned down the honor, because I intend to enter myself. Which means you can’t be a judge either, seeing as you’re biased as hell.”

  “I am not biased. When it comes to pie, I am completely impartial.”

  “You’re biased when it comes to me. Think about it, Ms. Andrews.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, eyes locked onto hers. “Would you really let me win? Are you going to stand there in front of everyone and tell me my pie is the best thing you’ve ever tasted? Shake my hand? Pin that blue ribbon to my shirt?”

  She stared at him. Her mouth went dry and heat spread through her. It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, that every word he said was punctuated by a bolt of lust. There was nothing sexual about shaking a man’s hand or pinning a ribbon to his shirt. And yet the thought of doing that, of her palm touching his and his fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of her wrists, of feeling the muscles of his chest as she pinned the ribbon...it made her hot and achy. It was ridiculous. And unfair.

  “Stop calling me Ms. Andrews,” she said furiously. “It’s weird.”

  “What should I call you, then?”

  “You know my name.”

  He held her gaze for a moment before looking away. He leaned back in his seat, putting more distance between them. “It doesn’t matter what I call you. You won’t ever let me win.”

  He was right, though she hated to concede. Not because she was so biased that she couldn’t recognize good pie when she tasted it, but because she knew if she were to shake his hand and touch his chest, she would burst into flames on the spot. Her brain said hell, no, not him. Her heart wailed about betrayal and broken friendship.

  But her body? Her traitorous body wanted him. She didn’t know what to do with that. Sure, back when they were friends, it might have crossed her mind once or twice that kissing him might be an interesting experience. But she had never let herself dwell on it. Because they were friends, and friends didn’t think about kissing. Or touching. Or how his hands looked like hands that knew things about pleasure.

  “Two lamb burgers with yuca fries, a glass of water with lemon, and a Coke,” the server said cheerfully, completely unaware of what he was interrupting. He set the food down. “I’ll be back to check on you when you’ve had a minute to try everything.”

  “Thank you,” they said in unison, both slightly subdued.

  Emma shook out her napkin and spread it on her lap, glaring at Eli the entire time. Still glaring, she grabbed a fry, popped it into her mouth, and chewed. It was hard to stay angry with so much deliciousness happening in her mouth, but she managed it through sheer force of will.

  After swallowing, she said, “Fine. I’ll find someone else to replace me. Maybe Kate? She owns Sweet Things. You know, the candy store on Main Street by Nana’s Yarn?”

  “Sure...” His voice trailed off as his gaze drifted to something past Emma’s shoulder. His expression turned comically perplexed.

  “What? What is it?”

  “She’s taking a picture of her food.”

  Emma shrugged. “Yeah. People do that. I do that, sometimes.”

  “Not like this.”

  She turned to see what he was talking about. It was hard to miss. There was a girl—early twenties, maybe?—standing on her chair, aiming her digital camera down at the table. Her friend had a ring light that appeared to plug into her phone, and a white board they appeared to be using as some sort of backdrop.

  “Huh,” Emma said. “Maybe Delmy is about to get a stellar review in Food and Wine Magazine or something.” She turned her attention back to her food. “Anyway. What else do we need to do?”

  “A walk-through of the fairgrounds wouldn’t be a bad idea. Make sure we know where everyone is supposed to set up. What vendor goes where.” He studied his burger like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “We should do that together.”

  Together. Emma choked on a mouthful of burger. “Is that really necessary?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “The Fourth of July celebration is a huge deal. But if you want to ruin it for everyone, that’s your call, I guess.”

  Damn him. “All right. Together.”

  Funny how the more she tried to stay away from him, the harder fate threw them together. But she didn’t believe in fate. What she did believe in was this: Come July 5, the votes of Hart’s Ridge would be tallied, and she would never speak to Eli Carter again.

  Chapter Five

  It was one o’clock, which meant that it was time for Eli to make his standard Wednesday afternoon rounds. He usually began at the south side of town, where the Donnelly family had been raising chickens for three generations, and made his way to the north side and the Christmas tree farm, with several stops along the way. Checking in with neighbors. Heading off disputes before they could become a crisis. That was what he should do.

  Instead, he was rooted to the sidewalk, wondering what it was about seeing Emma swoop her pale hair off her neck and twist it into a tidy bun with smooth, efficient motions that made it difficult to breathe.

  “Ugh,” she muttered. “When will this heat wave end?”

  “I hear temperatures might go down to the sixties,” he said before he could stop himself. It was a mistake. They didn’t joke. They didn’t tease. They weren’t friends.

  She spun around on her toes. “When?” she demanded.

  He grinned. “October.”

  From her half-groan, half-laugh, she had forgotten, too. But not for long. He saw the instant she remembered. Her lips flattened and the light in her eyes turned cold.

  “So,” she said. “I’ll see you Saturday. For the walk-through.”

  “Right. Saturday.”

  She gave a crisp nod and took a step toward her truck...and then stopped. Her head tilted. He watched, fascinated, as she slowly circled the lamp post.

  “Dammit,” she muttered, making the most adorably grumpy face he had ever seen.

  “What?” he asked. He looked from Emma to the lamp post and back again. “What’s happening?”

  “The lamp post is in terrible shape, that’s what’s happening,” she said, looking like it was a personal affront to her. “They’re all in terrible shape.”

  He took a good, long look. She wasn’t wrong. The paint was chipped and peeling pretty badly. He shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, they’re what? A hundred years old? Of course they look bad.”

  “They would look better with a new coat of paint.” She tilted her head back, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand, as she studied the top of the pole. “See those curved hooks? It looks like they were meant to hold something. Maybe flower baskets? That would probably look nice.” She was visibly annoyed by the idea. “Dammit!”

  “What’s wrong with flower baskets?” he wanted to know.

  “Because now I have to figure out how I’m going to do that. So I can leave Hart’s Ridge better than I found it.”

  His heart stopped. A physical impossibility, maybe, but it was the only way to explain the sudden halt of blood flow to his brain, making him light-headed. “You’re leaving Hart’s Ridge?”

  “No.” She frowned. “It’s an expression. Leave it better than you found it. It’s—” She turned away abruptly, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  He remembered suddenly, with a flash of nostalgia that punched him in the gut. A picnic by the river that ran down Hart Mountain. How old were they then? Ten? Eleven? The empty beer cans littering the riverbank hadn’t been theirs, but Mrs. Andrews had insisted they pack them up anyway to throw away at home. Leave it better than you found it.

  “It’s what your mom always told us,” he said quietly.

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Okay, then. So the lamp posts. Fixing them up, that will be your contribution as mayor? To leave it better than you found it?”
>
  “Well, what else am I going to do? I can’t stop the processing plant from closing. I can’t do some math magic that fixes the deficit without raising taxes. I’m not...” She made a noise of frustration. “I’m not smart. Not the kind of smart a person should be, if a person is mayor. I got B’s and a few C’s from elementary school up through high school, and failed out of community college. You know that.”

  “Stop it,” he said, more sharply than he intended. He hated it when she put herself down like that. It didn’t happen often. Emma was pretty confident in herself, for the most part. But this had always been a sore spot with her. She had never been a great student, despite the fact that both her parents were teachers.

  In ninth grade, they had subjected her to all kinds of testing, trying to figure out what the problem was. He had hated that, watching her hope fade each time another test came back negative. No ADD, no ADHD, no dyslexia. No explanation at all. Generally speaking, Eli liked Emma’s parents, but in those moments he had wanted to shake them. What was wrong with B’s, anyway?

  “There are lots of different kinds of smart,” he said now, and meant it.

  Her wry smile made his heart twist in his chest. “Ever noticed how people only say that to people like me? No one ever says that to straight-A students.”

  “You’re smart.”

  “Not the right kind of smart, the kind who’s a whiz with numbers. That’s the kind of smart Hart’s Ridge needs right now. I can’t do that, but this, I can do. I can paint a lamp post.” A look of doubt crossed her face. “I think so, anyway.”

  Eli didn’t say anything to that. Not because he had any doubts himself in her ability to paint a lamp post. He didn’t have a single one. He had known her since the first day of preschool, and not once had Emma Andrews had an idea that she failed to follow through on.

  No, he stayed quiet because Emma always did her best thinking out loud, and he didn’t want to miss a word of it.

  “Cost isn’t a problem, if I’m providing the free labor,” she muttered, more to herself than him. “The town maintenance fund can cover a few gallons of paint.”