by Angel Smits
“Maybe not you.” Wendy grinned. “I need to know.”
“Why is that, exactly?”
“I’m determined to fix him up with you. It won’t work if he’s not here.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Tara turned away, her hands full of receipts, her cheeks warm for a reason she refused to identify. “Don’t start that. We’ve been over this. I’m not interested.” She headed into the kitchen.
Wendy followed her. “Your words say that, but I saw the way you looked at him.”
“You’re imagining things.” Tara shoved open the office door with her hip, hoping Morgan hadn’t seen her gawking at him. Which she hadn’t been doing. Not really. It was her job, after all, to keep an eye on things. “We’ve got work to do.” She set the papers on the desk, ignoring the raised eyebrow from her waitress.
Thankfully, Wendy took the hint—this time—and went back to work.
It was easy to decide to focus on work, but while her hands separated the receipts into neat little stacks, Tara’s mind wasn’t as easily distracted. Where was he going? What was he doing here? She’d noticed on her walk back from the street fair that his truck didn’t have a logo that told her where he was based. That wasn’t unusual. Lots of the truckers who came in were independents. But none of them came in more than a day at a time.
Truckers didn’t stay in one place for long, always on the way to or from someplace else. He’d been here the last couple days and spent time at the street fair. Why was he sticking around?
“You’re thinking about him,” Wendy said softly from the doorway.
Besides being startled, Tara was irritated with her employee. “Cut it out. And stop pushing me at him. I’m. Not. Interested.”
Not sure who she was trying to convince more, she booted up the computer and stared at the spreadsheet. That would surely keep her busy for the next hour or more. She had to do something.
The loud crash in the alley sent both of them rushing to the back door.
“Ricky’s back,” Wendy said unnecessarily. The staff had christened the pesky raccoon, and the name had stuck.
“In the middle of the day?” She and Wendy stepped into the alley. Raccoons were nocturnal animals. “Not likely.”
“Then what?”
“Meoooooww!” A big gray tomcat, its fur matted, dirty and soaking wet, sat on the top of the brand-new, tipped-over trash can, pawing on the—thankfully—still-latched lid.
This was not happening again. What was with all these animals?
Tara rubbed her forehead. At this rate, she was never going to get the bills paid.
* * *
MORGAN LEFT THE diner before he ended up staying there all day. He couldn’t. It would be a mistake.
He walked slowly through the rain, across the worn flagstones of Tara’s patio. Even though he knew the stones had been there since well before Tara had bought this place, he thought of them as hers.
Today they were washed clean by the raindrops, but a year ago? An article in this morning’s paper had commemorated the wildfire that had raged through this valley last year.
He remembered hearing about the damage and the efforts that had gone into helping the people who’d lost so much. Some of his crew had trucked in loads of relief supplies. He’d been too distracted with his own loss to be any good to anyone.
Had these stones been blackened with smoke and ash? Had they escaped damage simply because they were stone that couldn’t burn?
Looking up at the rooflines of the buildings along the street, he realized they were old, as well, so perhaps the fire hadn’t touched this area.
A year. So much had changed in that year. The fire. Tara buying this place. Sylvie stealing Brooke away. The knot in his chest that never seemed to go away grew just a little bit tighter.
Time had dulled the pain, but nothing would erase it, not until he found Brooke.
Brooke.
She’d had another birthday since he’d last seen her. Surely last year’s gift, the purple dragon, was worn out by now. He’d bought her another gift, which was nestled in the lower cabinet in his truck. He carried it everywhere, just in case he found her.
So close. He was so close. He could feel it. The jerk at the street fair yesterday had led Morgan on a merry chase through town. Twice he’d thought the guy was going to stop and lead him to Sylvie or Brooke. Instead, it had been nothing more than a wild-goose chase.
Cold rain slipped down the back of his collar, reminding him that he didn’t have time to slide down this rabbit hole. Morgan glanced at his watch. He had a phone conference with Jack in an hour. He might be on the road, but he needed to do what he could to help the business, if nothing else to make sure he still had a livelihood to return to once he found Brooke. He needed to get to the truck, get online and work.
As he hustled across the parking lot, Morgan thought about his brother doing the majority of the office work. Morgan tried to step up and do his own work when he could, but his mind was elsewhere.
In this weather, there wouldn’t be many people out anyway. Even Sylvie was smart enough to get in out of the rain. He glanced down the street toward the park. At least, he hoped so. The idea of Brooke out in this made him shiver.
Maybe the woman from the T-shirt booth would call him today. He’d gladly stop by the booth again, but what good would that do? Frustration made him edgy. He kept walking to burn off energy.
He could go back and talk to Tara. Maybe she had more info about Sylvie from her application? An address maybe? But then she’d wonder why he needed it. Friends kept in contact.
He wasn’t going to explain to anyone here about Sylvie. He couldn’t risk it. He’d trusted before and been betrayed when they’d tipped Sylvie off. She’d run, and he’d had to start his search all over. He wasn’t sure he could go through that again.
He certainly couldn’t afford to.
Inside the cab, Morgan booted up his laptop and used the diner’s Wi-Fi to get online. He had nearly a hundred emails to get through; instead, he did a quick search that resulted in nothing. Who was that guy at the T-shirt stand? There was something there. He just didn’t know what it was.
Rubbing his eyes in tired frustration, Morgan sat back on the bunk, pulling the laptop with him.
The article about last year’s fire still stuck in his mind. Curious, he did another search. The Someday Café had a fairly good internet presence. The pretty owner, Tara, had paid decent money for the website. Hmm...they had takeout. He’d have to remember that.
Might be safer than sitting at that counter watching her move around...
There were promo photos of the diner, one of her in full chef regalia. She smiled at the camera, stirring a big pot in an obviously posed photo. A pretty picture.
Who was she? Really?
She hadn’t grown up in Haskins Corners, but a good chunk of the inhabitants knew her. He stumbled across an article from a small, regional culinary magazine. It referred to the fire and talked about how the volunteers had created meals for the fire crews in a school kitchen.
There, in the middle of the group, laughing in pure abandon was Tara Hawkins. She wasn’t dressed to cook, but in shorts and a tank top that left her arms and legs bare. Tanned and bare.
He liked the way she looked in this picture. At the diner, she’d looked pretty but stressed. In this picture, her hair hung loose and wavy past her shoulders. Not pulled tight against her scalp.
Reading on, he found her connection to this community. Her brother owned a ranch nearby. Had it been damaged in the fire? That wasn’t the focus of the article, so Morgan didn’t learn any more. If nothing else, it made him more curious about her.
His phone rang then, and after saving the picture to his hard drive, he answered.
“Any luck?” Jack didn’t bother with th
e niceties.
Neither did Morgan as he explained yesterday’s events. “Nothing great. I did find a place where she applied for a job. They didn’t hire her.”
“Damn. That would’ve made life easier.”
“Yeah.”
“What next?”
“I’m going to stick around for a couple days. But I gotta look like I’m here for a reason. Anything local I can do?” If he could do short hauls in the area, maybe that would buy him more time.
“I can see. I’ll call if I find anything.” The sound of rustling papers came through the line. “Anyplace else she might have applied for a job?”
“There’s not much here. Retail. The diner. That’s about all she’s qualified for.” He tried to envision the small town in his mind. “Maybe a couple of bars.”
“Check ’em out.” Jack’s voice was tinny all of a sudden.
“Did you put me on speaker?” Morgan hated not knowing who could hear him.
“Yeah.” Jack laughed. “One-handed typing sucks, so get over it, bro. I need your help with these numbers.”
For the next few hours, they worked on financials and tried to figure out budgets for the next six months. The places Morgan was going to check would be open well into the night, so he could afford to give Jack the time.
The rain was relenting and letting the clouds temporarily part when he finally stumbled out of the cab. He needed to find something to eat before he continued his search. Morgan thought about going to the diner, but besides the distraction it would prove, he did need to look elsewhere. While the sidewalks in this town practically rolled up at night, there were a couple bars.
Sylvie had been a party girl when they’d met, and settling down hadn’t agreed with her. Was she back to her old habits?
He’d just rounded the corner when the wind picked up and raindrops fell again. With a muttered curse, Morgan turned up his collar as he headed toward the flashing neon lights.
Suddenly, something—someone—plowed into him. He found his arms full of soft, damp, sweet-smelling woman.
CHAPTER FIVE
TARA GASPED, STRUGGLING not to drop everything in her arms. No such luck, as her purse and groceries tumbled to the ground. She didn’t suffer a similar fate only because Morgan caught her.
Morgan.
“You okay?” His voice was deep, his arms warm, solid bands through her jacket. His breath brushed her cheek and she wasn’t sure how long his gaze held hers.
“Uh, yeah.” She hastily pulled away once her brain kicked into gear. Cold replaced the warmth of his arms. Trying not to look at him or think about how close they were, she bent to gather her groceries. They’d scattered clear across the wet sidewalk. One of the plastic bags had torn.
“Let me help.” Morgan crouched beside her, and Tara couldn’t help noticing his thick, muscular thighs right there in front of her—or the enticing curve of his biceps as he easily took on the weight of the canned goods. What items she could grab, she shoved into the remaining bag before facing him again.
His arms were full of her groceries. And he was smiling at her. Damn. She’d wondered earlier what that smile would do to her. Now she knew. Her stomach did one of those annoying little backflips. Karma was a bitch. Hastily, she reached for the last few items and shot to her feet, berating herself for letting him distract her. She’d sworn she wouldn’t let that happen again.
When she’d bought the diner, she’d also found a sweet little apartment within walking distance of both work and downtown. What she hadn’t taken into consideration tonight—besides slamming into a solid, brick wall of a man coming around a corner—was weather. The fact that it had been raining on and off all day had made the trek long and cold. And wet. Very wet.
She knew her hair was plastered to her head, and she was sure she looked like a drowned rat. Maybe the late-day shadows would disguise her at least a little. Self-conscious, she tried to deflect the focus away from herself. “I—I thought you’d be leaving town.”
“Still working on that. Good thing, too. Looks like you need my help.” He winked.
He seemed entirely too happy about that fact. She scowled and fought the answering smile. “I can take—” Glancing down, she realized she couldn’t take any of it. The other bag was ripped beyond salvaging, and she only had two arms. Surely, there was a way to stack it, cram everything into the one bag.
“Where you headed?” he asked, settling the canned goods more solidly in his arms.
“Home.”
“Point me in the right direction.” He was still smiling. “I’ll help.”
Tara shivered, as much from the cold of the rain as the realization that she had no choice but to show this veritable stranger her home. Either that or leave her groceries sitting here on the curb.
“Come on.” She headed toward her apartment building, knowing that at least some of her neighbors were home. Mrs. Walton across the hall was always home. If Tara screamed, someone would hear her. But would they do anything?
She mentally rolled her eyes. She was being ridiculous.
Morgan walked beside her, his height and bulk blocking some of the rain, and Tara gave up resisting the urge to look at him. He was as soaked as she was, but why didn’t he look like a drowned rat? If anything, he looked better all wet.
His jeans drew her gaze. The damp denim plastered to the hard contours of his leg muscles. Definitely a bodybuilder, he had a grace most hulking guys didn’t. The T-shirt he wore was a dark color, so the damp didn’t look as obvious, except to make the definition of those muscles clear. Six-pack abs. Pecs that were solidly defined and wide shoulders that flexed with the flow of muscle, broad and strong.
Tara doubted she could circle those biceps with both hands... The idea of touching him so intimately sent a flush from her head to her toes and back again.
Thankfully, they reached their destination, and she hurried to the protection of the porch. The rain intensified, and she dodged the cold drops falling down her neck. The patter of the raindrops on the veranda’s roof seemed loud and insistent.
“Nice place.” He looked around with interest when he joined her. “How many apartments?”
“Six,” she explained as she opened the door of what had once been a great Victorian house. Much of the grandeur still clung to the facade, but the inviting hominess of the place had long faded. “I’m upstairs.”
Stepping inside the foyer, she gulped as his size overwhelmed the tiny space. His broad shoulders nearly brushed the sides of the narrow doorway.
Once the door was closed and the patter of the falling rain muffled, silence pressed in on her, making her question again the sanity of bringing him to her home.
“If you’d feel better, I’ll just leave these things here. They should be safe enough. You can come back and get them.”
She stared. “How did you know?”
“That you’re nervous about bringing me here?” Morgan laughed, but it wasn’t a teasing laugh or a laugh that mocked her. It was almost self-deprecating. “You’re not stupid, Tara. You should be cautious. I appreciate that.”
Carefully, he stacked the cans on the small side table by the metal mailboxes in the wall. He’d wrapped a couple pasta boxes in the torn plastic bag, and, pulling them out now, he examined them to make sure they were dry. One looked the worse for the wear. “Sorry about that.”
He turned to go, nodding at her as his hand curled around the old-fashioned door handle. “I’ll be on my way.”
He’d almost reached the other side of the porch before she broke out of her stupor and called after him. “Wait!”
Morgan looked over his shoulder at her.
He stood on the edge of the rain, the streetlight’s bright glow falling over him the same way the raindrops did. So close. He was so close. Body-heat-sharing distance.
Tasting the scent of him, she almost sighed at the rawness of him mingling with the damp night. She didn’t want him to leave. There was so much more to him, and she was intrigued.
“The least I can do to thank you is let you dry off.” This was ridiculous. She’d never been paranoid, never been inhospitable before. Why start now?
He turned around fully.
“I really do appreciate your help,” she added.
“You’re welcome,” he said softly, though the depth of his voice echoed around the empty foyer.
“Come on.” Reaching into her pocket, Tara pulled out her keys, then headed up the stairs.
* * *
MORGAN FOLLOWED TARA through the front door of the big, old house. He could see where it had been a grand place in its day, but where the foyer would have opened to several rooms, it was now a lobby of sorts, closed off and small. A door to the right had a brass A on it. B was across the hall, and straight ahead beyond the stairway was a door with C sitting a bit sideways.
A curved set of stairs led up, the carved handrail and delicate spindles showing definite signs of wear. As she stepped on the runner that ran up the center, each stair gave off a deep groan. He didn’t hesitate to grab the groceries he’d just set down and followed her.
Three more doors branched off the upper landing. She stuck a key in the door straight ahead. Apartment E. It opened soundlessly, and she led him inside. She tossed her purse on a small table and shucked her jacket, putting it on an old-fashioned coat tree a few inches beyond.
Fading daylight and the streetlight’s glow flooded the room through a turret-shaped alcove on the opposite wall. It looked inviting, and he took several steps before realizing he’d moved. He stood in the center of the room where he could easily turn and see everything. A small kitchen. The main room. Two wooden doors, both ajar. A bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a bedroom beyond. His gaze clung to that shadowed view. Rumpled bed, covers tossed up but not made.
Tara frowned but didn’t argue or try to stop his perusal. “Just put those on the kitchen table,” she directed, and he stepped into what seemed like a simple kitchen. Not what he expected in the home of a chef.
