by Olivia Miles
She pushed aside her shame. “Sorry.”
He held her gaze for a beat, and his features relaxed. “You were protecting my dog. I can’t fault you for that.”
Anna looked fondly at Scout, who stood by Mark’s side, tail wagging, staring at her with big, soft eyes. She climbed the stairs, ignoring Mark’s watchful gaze, and crouched to stroke the dog’s smooth honey hair. He really was a sweet thing.
“He tried to sit on my lap while I was driving.” She smiled, giving Scout’s regal head a pat.
Mark took a sip of his beer and leaned against the doorjamb. “Probably my fault. He’s spoiled.”
Anna glanced up into those deep brown eyes and felt her breath catch at their intensity. Even now, after everything, Mark still had a way of looking at her that made all rational thought cease to exist. “No harm in that,” she said. She uncurled her knees and stood, shifting the weight on her feet under Mark’s penetrating stare. He was relaxed as he lifted the bottle to his mouth once more and then held it out for her. She shook her head at the offer, watched how a simple shrug could pronounce the curves of his biceps, the span of his shoulders. She inched backward. “I didn’t know you had a dog. He wasn’t at your Christmas party.”
Something in his gaze flickered. Awareness, perhaps, of the strange irony of their situation. They’d coexisted in virtual silence for years, but Briar Creek was small, and people talked. If you didn’t want gossip—and neither of them did—then you had to go along with the flow, keep up pretenses. Attend Mark’s annual bash.
She hated to admit how much she planned for that party each year. How much she dared to hope that he might come up to her, say something. But what? An apology would be a starter, but after that… Deep down she knew nothing could make up for their history.
Mark held the beer bottle by its neck, letting it hang at his side. “Seems you don’t really know much about me at all anymore.” He was watching her. Goading her, if she didn’t know better. Whatever it was, he was enjoying this entirely too much. “Sort of sad, isn’t it?”
“Very,” she said, her tone clipped and definitive. She scuffed the toe of her shoe along the worn floorboards of the porch. It was very, very sad.
“I kept thinking one day you’d come around, start liking me again.” His mouth tipped into that slow, easy grin and her heart skipped a beat. Damn him. He had no right. No right at all to be digging this up, to resurrect something they’d once had.
He folded his arms across his sculpted chest, pronouncing the thick biceps that used to hold her close. She knew how he felt—his arms, his skin, the heat of his body next to hers, the wave of his hair threading through her fingertips. She inhaled sharply, allowing herself one good hard look, for memory’s sake, nothing more. So the man radiated sex. So what? He knew it, and judging from the easy way he stood, watching her impassively, not seeming to feel the least bit awkward in her company, he liked it that way. For good measure, he reached up and scratched at his rib cage, causing the hem of his T-shirt to pull up and reveal a washboard stomach, taut and smooth. Oh, Lordy.
She looked away, across the dark sky, and then let her gaze fall on Scout, who had rolled up in a ball at the edge of the porch. His peaceful snores broke the silence. “You always did like dogs,” she murmured, remembering the way he’d light up when they passed one on the street or in the park, usually stopping to give them a friendly pat, or compliment them to the owner.
From the corner of her gaze, she saw Mark shrug. “I didn’t think it would be fair to get one, with my schedule and all. Seemed selfish in a way.”
Anna narrowed her eyes. Since when did Mark think about being selfish?
“Some things in life choose you, though, you know.” His stare bored through hers, locking the air in her chest, leaving every nerve ending on high alert. “Scout came to me about two months ago,” Mark told her. “I was walking by a shelter in Forest Ridge and there he was. A runaway, but he’s still a pup. Still has a wandering spirit.”
Anna pressed her lips together; all prior tingling screeched to a halt. Seemed they were a perfect match then. Mark never could sit still. He always had his eye on the next best thing. The next best someone.
“Well, I’m happy he’s home.” She took a step backward, then another, giving a tight smile by way of a goodbye, when Mark called out to her.
“Wait.”
She turned, her chest pounding with an emotion she didn’t want to feel. Something that felt an awful lot like hope. Or excitement. “Yes?”
He was close, too close, determined if she didn’t know better. But for what? To have his say, to make her talk, to make up for his laundry list of sins? His breath was heavy, his eyes steady, drifting ever so slightly to her lips. He wouldn’t—he couldn’t. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just waited. “You could come in if you want, have a drink. It’s the least I can do for returning my dog.”
Anna shook her head, even though her toes tingled to move forward, to follow Mark into his house, and close the door behind them. “It was no problem. Consider us even. Now we’ve helped each other.”
Mark hesitated, and she allowed herself one last, long look. Yep, still gorgeous. But still an ass, she reminded herself. “You know you’re welcome to use my kitchen, Anna—”
Now why’d he have to go and be nice? She waved a hand through the air. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been getting a lot done at home.” Her tone sounded forced. It was probably close to nine now. She’d be lucky to get four hours of sleep tonight.
Mark didn’t look convinced. “Well, you have the key. I… don’t mind the company.”
Anna felt her cheeks flush, and she was grateful for the darkness. “You know what they say about too many cooks in the kitchen.” She hesitated, rooted to the spot by the depth of that gaze. “I should go.”
She turned before she did something stupid, clutching her keys until they pressed into her palm. She was already halfway to the car when she heard his voice, low and husky. “Good night, Anna.”
She started to turn, half wishing she had accepted that drink and hating the part of herself that did.
“Good night. And good night, Scout.”
At the sound of his name, Scout’s eyes sprung open. Tail wagging, he bounded down the stairs and jumped up on her, the weight of him pushing her back against the car with a loud whoop of surprise.
“Sorry about that.” Mark looked tense. “Scout. Scout! Come here, boy.” He hurried to her, lunging for Scout’s collar, and set his hand lightly on her waist. “You okay?”
She couldn’t move. She swallowed hard, and a shiver ripped down her spine despite the way her skin warmed under his touch. Just as quickly it was gone. She shoved her hands into her pockets, nodding quickly.
“Don’t worry about it. He was just thanking me.”
“He likes you. But then, you were always easy to like.” There was that lopsided grin again. Yep, definitely time to go. With a small pang of regret, Anna climbed into her car and watched as Scout jovially ran up the stairs, making sure Mark had a firm hold of his collar before she started the engine.
They stood on the porch, watching her until their reflection in her rearview mirror faded into the darkness and her tires hit the main road. The image of those dark, penetrating eyes, and that hint of regret in Mark’s tone stirred up unwelcome emotions. Feelings that had no right being there but ones she still couldn’t shake.
A man with a dog as likeable as Scout couldn’t be all that bad. In theory. Like Mark, Scout was playful and charming, and completely irresistible. But unlike Mark, he was loyal and dependable.
Those were traits he must have learned from his previous owner.
CHAPTER
9
The alarm clock buzzed at four thirty but Mark was already awake. He set his coffee on the counter and wound through the house, Scout’s paws treading softly behind him. It was the normal routine, no different than any other day, but he couldn’t shake the restless feeling that had kept hi
m from sleep.
He sighed, looking around the empty bedroom. It was a man’s room with sparse bedding and furniture, just like this entire house was a man’s house, empty and functional, probably in need of a woman’s touch. Oh, he knew he liked to joke with Luke, comment on the various shaped soaps, throw pillows, or printed hand towels that filled his cousin’s place, first from his wife, and now, after her passing, from Grace, but a part of it gnawed at him. Living alone was getting old.
He looked down at Scout, managing a grin. At least he had him.
Showering and dressing quickly, he took Scout on a brief walk through the trail in the woods that bordered the back of his lot and then drove into town, drumming his fingers against the leather steering wheel to the beat of the music. He kept the windows down, inhaling the cool morning breeze, but still, coffee was in order. It had been a long night, filled with thoughts he didn’t want to acknowledge, with feelings that had no place coming to the surface, and the day was just beginning. He’d tried to forget Anna. At times he’d even thought he’d succeeded. Yet all it took was the sight of her standing at the edge of his porch, petting his dog, giving him that watchful stare, and he knew he was kidding himself.
She’d been special, and that’s why he’d run, farther and faster than he had with all the others. That day all those years ago on the beach when he kissed her, he’d wanted to think that he could do this. That for once, he could commit to someone, trust in them to do the same. They’d been inseparable those two years in culinary school, and they’d grown up together, too. But the closer they got, the more a part of him was already pulling away—from her, and from every plan they were setting in motion.
They had a vision: a big, gleaming restaurant with local ingredients, innovative recipes, and just the right combination of style and comfort. He often wondered if it would have been a success, or if he would have met the same fate as his father… bankrupt and dejected, with nothing else to do but run from the mess he’d created. He’d avoided that path. Rejected the mere possibility. Rejected the person who could make it all come true.
She’d wanted too much. A restaurant. A relationship. He’d wanted both, too. But he couldn’t risk one over the other. In the end he would have hurt her more, just like good ol’ Dad had all those years ago. Tavern on Main was his baby, and when that was gone, well… so was he.
Now, however, just the thought of flipping a pancake or scrambling an egg made him feel tired. He had to get out of here, move on to something better. So what was stopping him now? Money. But after that? His mom was better. Luke was out of his rut. He could focus on business without having to worry about it consuming him, or letting someone down. No one needed him. He was free. Just how he liked it, right?
This time, he’d take the risk. And hope to hell he didn’t make the wrong decision.
The problem was that a little part of him was beginning to think he already had.
Hastings was dark when he arrived, and Mark felt a twinge of sadness that another morning would pass without Anna’s arrival. How she managed to prepare all that food in her home kitchen escaped him, but the mere thought of it made him angry—at himself, at her. She was stubborn, and she didn’t back down. The part of him that wasn’t driven crazy by this was left admiring her for it. Even more than he already did.
He shouldn’t have gotten so defensive last week when she found those notes. He should have just let her stay, enjoyed the fact that they were speaking again, rather than pushing her away.
But then, wasn’t that what he did best?
He worked in silence for more than an hour, greeted the staff as they trailed in, and then turned the sign on the door. The coffee was percolating behind the counter, and he was just pouring himself an extra mug, trying to drum up some energy for the weekend rush, when the bell jingled, announcing the first customer.
He smiled in surprise at the sight of his aunt Rosemary.
“Good day to you,” she said, taking a seat at the counter and flipping over a mug that had been resting on its saucer.
Mark took his cue and reached for the coffeepot. “Don’t usually see you in here this early.” More like ever at all, he corrected himself.
“A dancer’s figure is hard to maintain at my age,” she explained, and then helped herself to a liberal dose of sugar. She blew on the coffee and took a sip. “I was up early, and so I thought I’d stop in.”
Mark nodded, knowing better than to pry. Rosemary was here for a reason. In time she’d let it be known. He handed her a menu. “Hungry?”
“Oh… I’ll have some wheat toast. No butter. And a side of strawberries, but only if they’re fresh.” She hesitated as her eyes slid to the menu on the wall. “You know, on second thought, make that a number six.”
Mark grinned. “Two eggs with bacon, biscuits, and a side of hash coming up. Did you still want the strawberries?”
Her blue eyes were wide in alarm. “Well, you don’t need to shout it! Yes, I’ll still have the berries. But only if—”
“Only if they’re fresh. I know, I know.” Mark clipped a ticket to the top of the service window. All that training, all those dreams, and he was running a place where people questioned the produce.
Rosemary waited until her meal was served before broaching the real reason she had stopped in. She finished telling him about his cousin Molly’s graduate school roommate and her hopes that Kara had finally figured out what she wanted to do in life, and then fell into silence, preparing herself for whatever was coming next. Mark leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he settled in for her explanation. His mouth twitched in amusement as he watched her bristle, clearly having an inner struggle, and then push her plate away.
“This was absolutely delicious,” she announced. “So good, in fact, that I think you could, and maybe should, be doing more with your talents.”
Mark didn’t bother pointing out that he hadn’t cooked the meal. “Oh? And what would that be?”
His pulse kicked as he thought of Anna, the notes she had found. Had she mentioned something to Rosemary in passing? He stopped himself—Luke. Even though he considered Luke to be nearly as much a brother as Brett, Rosemary could easily draw information out of him when she set her mind to it. He shouldn’t have said anything the other morning. Next thing he knew, his mother would be knocking on his door, asking if he had anything he wanted to share. It was just the problem with this town—everyone knew everything about you. Well, almost everything, he thought, his mind trailing to Anna. There were still a few secrets.
“Well, the Sugar Maple Culinary Competition, of course!”
Mark frowned. “Excuse me?”
Rosemary could barely conceal her excitement. “It’s a new contest for professional chefs. First prize wins a hundred thousand dollars.”
Mark leaned in. “That’s a lot of money.” Enough to break ground on a permanent place. Enough to get on with life once and for all.
“Indeed. You prepare three courses, each with the Sugar Maple brand’s maple syrup. The winning recipes will be featured on the back of the product and the winning team will be spotlighted by the Vermont tourist bureau.”
“A team.” He speared her with a look. “And let me guess, you thought I should team up with Anna.”
“Well, it seemed the obvious choice,” she said airily. “Although, I suppose there’s that guy over at Piccolino’s or perhaps one of the chefs here…”
Mark wasn’t buying it. Piccolino’s was stale and unimaginative. It still hit a nerve that it had survived for twenty-three years while Tavern on Main had tanked. “You know that Frank over at Piccolino’s is a giant ass. His food isn’t even good; it’s just the best in town for white tablecloth service. And Vince here isn’t a certified chef; he’s a line cook. So that leaves Anna.”
Rosemary jutted her chin. “What’s wrong with that?”
Nothing and everything all at once. “I don’t think she’ll go for it,” he settled on.
; Rosemary considered his response as she fished for her wallet, but Mark held up a hand. She demurred and patted her mouth one last time before setting down her napkin and hopping off the stool. “I must run. Rehearsals for the spring recital start today.”
“Break a leg,” Mark said, and Rosemary whipped around.
“Break a leg is for actors, not dancers.” She looked around, fist ready to knock on wood, but the entire joint consisted of metal, Formica, and vinyl.
Mark gritted his teeth, thinking of the restaurant he’d envisioned. Polished wood tables, lit by a single pillar candle. Wide plank bamboo floors in a warm stain. Beamed ceilings against ivory walls, and heavy velvet drapes in burnt orange. He could picture the gleaming bar with top-shelf liquor, the wine cellar just to the side, and a cluster of club chairs around a crackling fireplace. The kitchen would be sleek, with a manager at each station, buzzing and electric, just like his dad’s had once been.
He stopped himself right there.
Fifty thousand dollars would go far to support his plan. It would be enough to get it off the ground. To get him out of this town. To give him another chance at reclaiming the dream he’d somehow let slip away. Or thrown away, if he was being honest with himself.
“Hey, Aunt Rosemary,” he called just before she slipped out the door.
She turned, a knowing smile playing at her lips. “Yes?”
“When’s the contest?”
“Two weeks from Saturday,” she said. “And you have to register by this coming Saturday.”
He pulled in a breath. Just shy of three weeks, then. It would be a struggle, but it wouldn’t be impossible. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” she said, hurrying out the door.
Mark mulled the idea as he stepped back into the kitchen, daring to briefly skim his notes and plans before stuffing the papers into a drawer in his office, where no one would find them. He was still thinking about Rosemary’s suggestion when he cut out of the diner just after noon, having somehow survived the Sunday brunch crowd without a broken plate, screaming baby, or tripping waitress.
