A Risk Worth Taking

by Victoria James

  “Fine.” Claire crossed her arms and glared at her.

  Holly held up both her hands in Claire’s direction, wiggling her fingers. “I’m here for eight weeks. Eight. That’s it. Not long enough for you to dream up some crazy reunion of a pathetic little love story that never happened. So,” she said, taking a deep breath, “once again, Quinn is here for one reason and one reason only: the renovation.”

  “Right,” Claire said, giving her a salute. “The renovation. I’m not going to say another word. Especially not about Quinn, or about all the reasons I think you should move back here. Nope, not one word.” Her friend nodded, pursing her lips.

  Claire never gave up that easily. Holly eyed her suspiciously. “Good. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” Claire said, walking over and giving her a big hug. “I’m so happy you’re back, even if it’s just for a bit.”

  Holly returned the hug, relieved that conversation was over. Then Claire’s nose dug into her shoulder. Holly pulled back as Claire inhaled deeply and sighed.

  Holly scowled at her friend. “What on earth are you doing?”

  Claire smiled. “Quinn’s coat smells wonderful.”

  “Claire! I don’t care what his coat smells like. In fact, he could smell like Pepe le Pew and it wouldn’t matter. I’m not looking, or smelling, and Quinn’s not interested. He thinks I’m this cold, evil woman who just wants to flip this house and take off.”

  “Why would he think that? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking the house that your grandparents worked themselves to the bone to keep, that they raised you in, renovate, and then flip it. What could possibly be wrong with that?” Claire asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Holly wondered if someone evil had invaded her best friend’s body.

  “No. No way. Don’t you do this to me, too. I can’t move back here. You, of all people, should know that. This was not supposed to be my house. And every day that I spend here, I will be reminded of that, of what happened. I can’t. It’s not an option. And besides, what would I do here? How would I support myself and Ella? I have a job—a career in Toronto—a career that I gave up almost a decade of my life to pursue. I can’t pack it up and move back. I have bills to pay. Do you know how much it costs to raise a baby these days? I need to sell this place. I need closure.”

  “Hey, hey, relax. You’re not under attack. I’m sorry, I just… I want you to stay,” Claire said, tears filling her eyes. “I’ve missed you, and I think you need us,” she added, moving forward and giving Holly a hug. Holly felt her anger dissipate as she hugged her friend back, fighting her own tears.

  Babbling and cooing noises interrupted them, and they both turned in the direction of the living room. Holly knew they had just a few minutes before those adorable sounds turned into ferocious crying.

  “She’s awake?” Claire asked, clapping her hands. “I bet she’s grown, hasn’t she?”

  Holly smiled and shook her head. “You saw her three weeks ago. Though, I do think she’s gotten even cuter,” Holly said, taking her friend’s hand and tugging her toward the living room.

  “You know I’ve been training her to say Auntie Claire,” Claire said with a smug grin. “And now that I’ll be able to see her every day, I’m sure she’ll be calling my name in no time!”

  Holly’s smile faltered. “Seeing you every day is going to be so great. I can’t do this without you. But I’m serious. We’re not staying, okay? I need you to help me. But I can’t come back here for good.”

  “Enough said! You go get dressed, I’ll get Ella. Everything will go so smoothly, and you’ll soon be wishing that you never had to leave Red River!” Claire said, shoving Holly down the hallway.

  Holly was counting down the days until she could leave Red River.

  Today had been a lesson in faking it. Quinn had been by her side almost the entire time—and not one personal word had been shared between them. His remark about having no regrets about getting married to Christine played in her mind like a sad, pathetic reminder that she’d meant nothing to him. And his expression had been one of regret, which had only infuriated her more, because she knew he pitied her. She needed distance between herself and Quinn, and was thankful that Claire had reined in her meddling as much as possible and taken control over Ella’s needs for the day, which had enabled Holly to make lightning-fast decisions.

  It was now seven o’clock in the evening, and Ella was bathed and tucked into bed for the night. Holly had temporary furniture in place, enough that she and Ella would be able to function for the eight weeks. The cleaning crew had, as promised, scrubbed the house from top to bottom. It was starting to feel livable. The fridge was stocked, clothes and baby paraphernalia unpacked, and wireless Internet installed. All she needed to do was wait for Quinn to give her all the quotes and she’d be ready to start hiring tradesmen. She was expecting that would be tomorrow morning.

  Now that the day was almost over, she was exhausted. No, beyond exhausted. In fact, she half-seriously wondered if she could somehow have caffeine hooked up intravenously. Being a single mom, or aunt, or whatever she was, was more challenging than she ever thought it would be. She remembered her old life: working a full twelve-hour day at the office and then coming home to her condo had never zapped her strength like this. She used to think she knew the meaning of tired. She would come home from work and put her feet up, eat a bowl of cereal for dinner, and maybe read a magazine. Or maybe she would have gone out for drinks after work with her colleagues. But this level of fatigue was beyond anything she had ever known. No one could have prepared her for this. And it made her doubt everything she was doing with Ella. Her sister would have known exactly what to do. Jennifer had spent almost every moment planning for Ella, even before she was pregnant. Holly knew that she was a sorry replacement for her sister, and she hoped to God that one day Ella wouldn’t call her on her failings. Jennifer had always been able to let people close to her heart, she’d been so giving. But Holly had never been able to do that. She knew she held people at a distance. And she knew it was because she was afraid. She took a deep breath. Just try your best, Holly. That’s all you can do.

  She barely heard the soft knock on the front door, and then Quinn’s deep voice rang out a greeting. What was he doing here?

  “I’m in the kitchen, Quinn,” she called out softly. The impact his rich, masculine voice had on the quiet house at night was undeniably comforting. And that was undeniably disconcerting.

  “Hey,” he said, walking into the kitchen, holding a pizza box.

  “Hi,” she said, her eyes darting from the cardboard box in his hand to his face. He had obviously gone home and showered, his dark hair still damp. But he hadn’t shaved, his stubble accentuating his masculinity and his defined facial features. He was wearing a pale blue Henley with jeans that seemed to broadcast his tall, well-built body to a deafening pitch. She had been trying to avoid a conversation the entire day. Sitting down to dinner with him wasn’t exactly going to help.

  “I thought we could eat while we went over the quotes,” he said, placing the pizza box on the farmhouse table.

  “You got them already?” Holly asked, walking over to the table. Okay, she couldn’t deny being impressed. There was one quote in particular that was of utmost importance.

  He nodded, his expression tightening. “We’ve only got eight weeks, right?”

  Holly crossed her arms. That again. “Not a day over.”

  His jaw clenched. “Great. Well, I hope this dinner doesn’t put you behind schedule.”

  “It’s a working dinner, so I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Holly said with a smile as Quinn rubbed the back of his neck, looking at the ceiling. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a beer,” he said.

  Holly shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not much of a beer drinker. But Claire brought a few bottles of wine. Is that okay?”

  Quinn nodded, pulling out a chair at the table and sitting down. Holly walked over to the ant
ique china cabinet, which had been scrubbed and dusted, to grab her grandmother’s old wine glasses. In the freshly washed glass doors, she stared into her reflection and wanted to pitch herself through the glass to avoid having Quinn see her like this. She felt a slow, burning sweat, and quickly turned around to look at Quinn, who was silently flipping through the folder of quotes, paying her no attention whatsoever.

  “You know, I was just about to hop into the shower before you came in. Do you mind if I go now?” she asked, already tearing across the kitchen without waiting for his reply. “Help yourself to the wine in the fridge and go ahead and start eating,” she called out from the hallway.

  Holly stopped at the top of the stairs, listening as Quinn moved around the kitchen. She crept across the hallway to the main washroom and looked in horror at her reflection in the mirror. The formula-stained, bathwater-wet sweatshirt hung from her body like some blob that just emerged from the swamp. Her hair matted on her head like a pile of wet hay. And she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. Think fast, Holly. She turned on the shower. The sexiest man she’d ever known was waiting for her downstairs, looking unbelievable, while she looked like something…never mind. She showered in record time, then rummaged through her overnight bag. She found a pair of jeans, undergarments, and a pink T-shirt. Oh, well, it’d have to do. Exactly seven minutes later she was running a comb through her wet hair while frantically brushing her teeth.

  She looked in the mirror. Not great, but better than the pre-shower version of herself. She pulled at her T-shirt slightly, trying to loosen it. The image of Quinn’s ex-wife, who looked as though she only ate on holidays, popped into her head. According to Claire, Christine hadn’t aged or gained an ounce in ten years. Not that it should matter to Holly at all. What was it that she and Claire had nicknamed Quinn’s girlfriends? She closed her eyes and then snapped them open. What did it matter anyway? After another tug at her T-shirt, she opened the door and walked down the stairs to the kitchen.

  …

  Holly’s approaching footsteps forced Quinn to focus. He had to explain what he’d said this morning about not having regrets. He felt like a jerk. Somehow he was going to have to tell her without giving her all the details. He didn’t want to talk about his marriage to Christine. And there was no reason to, anyway, since Holly would be leaving.

  Holly whizzed into the room and he sucked in a breath. Her damp hair tumbled around her shoulders in soft waves and smelled citrusy and fresh. Her high cheekbones were a pretty shade of pink, yet he noticed she wasn’t wearing any makeup. How could a woman look that good without makeup? Christine had even worn makeup to bed. He could still picture her pillowcase with the leftover markings of smudged mascara, foundation, and red lipstick—it was like sharing a bed with Bozo the clown. Holly being even more gorgeous than ten years ago was something he was going to have to get used to.

  “Sorry I took so long, I just really needed a shower after today.” She sighed and sunk into the chair across the table from him. While she was upstairs, he’d gone ahead and opened the wine and poured them each a glass. He had a feeling he’d be needing a hell of a lot of alcohol if he was going to discuss Christine, renovations, and prices with Holly.

  “Thanks for the pizza,” she said, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear.

  “No problem. Here. I hope you like pepperoni,” he said, placing two slices on her plate. He noticed she avoided eye contact. He hated the tension between them.

  “Yum,” she said, licking her lips. He paused, his slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. His reaction to her lip-licking was immediate and totally unexpected. Focus. Tell her what you meant this morning.

  Holly reached for the file. “Can I have a look at the quotes?”

  Quinn nodded, forcing himself not to look below her chin as he slid the folder over. Maybe he’d hold off a few more minutes before he told her.

  Holly took a deep breath before opening the folder. She flipped through the pages but didn’t stop to study any particular estimate. “These aren’t all the quotes,” she said a moment later, her brows knit together as she glanced from the papers to him.

  “What’s missing?” Quinn asked, reaching for the folder. He was sure everyone had bid today. He had made it clear that this was a fast, bang-it-out reno.

  “The, um”—she gave a little cough—“the pest control company,” she said, quickly taking a gulp of wine.

  Oh, so that was it. Quinn tried not to smile. “Well, I spoke with them,” he said, trying to figure out if she was deathly afraid of mice, or if it was just your garden-variety female aversion to mice.

  “And?” Her hand tightened on the wine glass and she leaned forward, perched on the end of her chair precariously. Not garden-variety fear.

  Quinn hated lying. But there were times in life that lying to spare the people you cared about was the only option. Maybe he’d just tell her half of the truth. And then, if it looked like she could handle the rest, he’d tell her everything. “So, they uh, found some evidence of mice—”

  Holly’s dramatic intake of breath could have probably been strong enough to suck in the contents of what was on the table. Her face went white and she chugged down the remains of her wine, which was practically the full glass.

  She leaned forward. “What does that mean exactly?”

  Quinn reached over and picked up the wine bottle. He raised his eyebrows and she nodded. He quickly refilled her glass while searching for the right way to tell her the attic was a thriving mice metropolis.

  “It means that they’re going to put out some traps—”

  “Traps? As in, Tom and Jerry traps?”

  Quinn bit back his grin. He really tried his damnedest not to laugh as he stared into her wide eyes. “No, I think they’re a little different.”

  “Are there going to be dead mice lying around?”

  Quinn shook his head. “You’re not going to notice anything,” he said, opening the pizza box for another slice. He looked at her plate; she had taken maybe three bites. “I thought you were hungry.”

  She shoved her plate away. “Well, that was before I found out that mice are crawling around the house!”

  Maybe now was the perfect time to talk about his ex-wife. “I wanted to explain what I meant this morning,” Quinn said, clearing his throat.

  Holly put her wine glass back on the table with a thud, the liquid swirling close to the rim. “You mean, when you said you were still in love with Christine?”

  Quinn frowned. “I never said—”

  “You said you had no regrets.”

  “There’s a big difference between not having regrets and I’m in love with Christine,” Quinn bit out, trying to keep calm. He took a long drink of his wine and then looked at her. She crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows, clearly not buying a word of it.

  A loud, high-pitched cry nearly made him jump out of his chair.

  “I’ll be right back,” Holly said with a sigh, already on her way out of the kitchen. Quinn followed without thinking. He stood in the bedroom doorway as Holly walked to the crib.

  “Hey, Ella-Bella,” Holly whispered in the softest, sweetest voice he’d ever heard. Ella stopped crying the minute Holly picked her up.

  Quinn couldn’t move, consumed by an invisible mountain of memories that made it impossible to breathe. The sweet, fresh smell of the baby’s room, the soft glow of the pink ballerina night-light, and the white crib carried him back to a place he thought of daily—and one that taunted him at night.

  Holly snuggled Ella against her chest, patting her back in a slow, circular motion.

  “I think she might be getting a new tooth,” Holly whispered, walking around the room.

  As Holly turned, Ella’s eyes locked onto his. He shouldn’t have made eye contact. He shouldn’t have looked into those innocent, wide, green eyes. Ella held out her arms and Quinn was held hostage on the threshold of past and present. He looked at Holly, and he could see the confusion in her face. He opened
his mouth to say something, while in his head he commanded his feet to back up and get the hell out. But then Ella’s face scrunched up and her eyes filled with tears as he stood there, stupidly staring, not moving.

  “Quinn, I—”

  Quinn walked into the room, telling himself he could do this. He felt a cold sweat break out as he opened his arms and settled Ella against his chest. When her head instinctively cuddled into the nook between his neck and shoulder, her soft, fluffy hair tickling his chin, his arms constricted. Her fuzzy pink sleeper, her precious weight, her innocence touched every part of him that he’d closed off.

  Ella’s fingers curled around his shirt and she cuddled into his chest. So much trust. God, as he stood there holding her, he wanted nothing more than to keep her safe. He wanted to be able to promise the world to the both of them.

  He felt Ella sigh, and every part of him ached. He couldn’t do this. He didn’t deserve this baby that was cuddling against him. He’d lost that privilege years ago. Breathing became laborious as fear replaced the air in his lungs. He was a coward. And he needed to get the hell out of here.

  “Holly, I, uh, I have to go,” he said, cringing at the vulnerability in his voice.

  He handed Ella over, and he didn’t look into either of their eyes, knowing disappointment would be stamped across them.

  Get out, Quinn.

  Chapter Four

  Holly sat cross-legged on the uneven, wide-plank wooden floor in the attic. She was surrounded by boxes filled with mementos from her childhood. The sun streamed through the large, arched window, its light ushering in reassuring warmth. The smell of musky old books was comforting as she pulled out an old photo album. Holly rubbed her hand over the floral vinyl cover, trying to psych herself up for the onslaught of memories that opening the album would evoke.

  Holly flipped through the sticky pages, pausing as she came across a picture of her mother. She had no real memory of her—she had died when Holly was only three—but photographs of her mom always brought a sense of longing and loss. She knew only what her grandparents had told her—that she’d been kind and gentle and loving. She knew where her mother had gone to school, what her favorite foods were—all the things a child would think to ask. And she knew the general details of their father, as told to her and Jennifer by their grandparents. Not long after their mother had died, their father had left them. She often wondered if he had ever loved them at all, to just walk away from them in their time of need. But their grandparents had been the most wonderful parents they could have ever asked for, and they had raised them with so much love and care that Holly and Jennifer had never wanted for anything.