by Zoe York
She forced a laugh and gave her head a brisk shake. “No, it's okay. Richard and I, well, we weren't exactly made for each other, you know? And Cara, his new wife? She's...just as cute as a button,” she added before she could stop herself.
“Uh.”
“Wow. Sounded bitter, huh?”
He shrugged. “I suppose you have a right—”
“I'm not, though. Not really. I mean, how's a woman my age supposed to compete with a twenty-two-year-old?”
“Twenty-two?”
“She's twenty-four now,” she hastened to explain. “Twenty-four and pregnant.”
His grimace was genuine. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm sorry. It has to be hard.”
She opened her mouth to issue her standard denial, but the moment her eyes met his she snapped it shut. Her mute nod morphed into a helpless shrug. “I don't know why I told you.”
He tilted his head and stared up at her. “I won't say anything.”
“It doesn't matter. It's not like I know anyone around here, and back there...Well, everyone knows.” She flashed a nervous smile. “I should let you get back to—”
“Yeah, the porch isn't about to fix itself.”
The wooden legs of his chair scraped across linoleum as Bram rose from his seat. “Not that I wasn't enjoying.” Lynne stiffened when he crossed the room in three long strides. She tipped her head back as he drew to an abrupt halt in front of her and stared down at her.
“You're easy to talk to,” she whispered. Her heart lodged in the hollow of her throat. Her pulse fluttered. A ghost of a smile tilted his lips. Tiny vibrations of anticipation skittered up her spine.
“Are you free for supper?”
“Supper?” she asked breathlessly. He nodded once in answer. “I, um.” She fumbled for the right words.
He took a small step back, and the additional six inches of space seemed to grant her lungs permission to commence operation once again. He cleared his throat, but a deep red flush began to creep up his neck. She stared at the blooming color, mesmerized.
“I'd like to keep talkin' with you, but if I don't get back out there, a job that should take one day will end up taking three.”
The low, gruff growl of his voice wrapped its way around her wayward heart, tugging it back into place with a sharp jerk of reality. “Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to keep you. You have other things to do.”
“Please don't misunderstand—”
“Oh no, I understand,” she said too quickly.
Bram's brow knit and he shook his head slowly. “I don't think you do. I think you're easy to talk to, too,” he murmured, closing the distance between them.
“You do?”
He nodded. “I'll pick you up at seven, if you don't mind eating at my place.” His breath tickled her cheek. Her body swayed. “Please say yes, Miss Lynne.”
“Yes.”
He nodded again then backed up. She gawked at the broad expanse of his shoulders as he crossed to the door. He stepped into the mudroom and hesitated, his fingers gripping the doorknob so tight his knuckles shone white.
“Your ex-husband?” His low growl captured her full attention. “The man's a fool,” he said quietly and pulled the door closed behind him.
The Heartsfield hotline worked with its usual breathtaking efficiency. Bram nailed another board into place a little after four-thirty. He glanced at the stack of cut lumber awaiting his attention and chalked them up to another day. Lord knows spending another day hanging around Lynne Prescott's porch would not be a hardship. He didn't even bother to knock on her door to tell her he was leaving. Instead, he gathered his tools, tossed them into the bed of his truck, and beat a path toward the center of town.
He rushed through the door of Feltcher's Market at ten minutes to five, startling Marcie Pennington from an intense study of the latest tabloid. “Hey, Mr. Bram,” she called after him.
“Marcie,” he grunted, making a beeline for the butcher counter.
Before the clock struck five, Willene Hatchett hung up the phone, a troubled frown creasing her brow. By five-fifteen, Ada Hatchett slid a peach cobbler into the oven. At five-twenty, Jerry Johnson, Heartsfield's part-time postman, had the grave misfortune to be the one to break the news to Anna Albertson.
Long, vermillion nails tapped the mirrored gazing ball perched on a pedestal in the middle of her front lawn. She transferred the long-handled pruning shears she held from one hand to the other. A thrill of satisfaction prickled her skin when Jerry eyed the viscous looking lawn implement with trepidation. “What?”
He licked his lips and darted a glance at the stack of undelivered mail on his seat. “Marcie said he bought two rib eyes, two bakin' potatoes, and a cake.”
“A cake?”
“Chocolate.”
“Chocolate cake? Bram doesn't care for chocolate.”
“Maybe Ms. Prescott does,” he said with a shrug. Anna took a step closer, her fingers curling around the open door of the mail truck. “How do you know it's that Prescott woman?”
“Uh, Abe might have mentioned something....”
“Abe?”
Instinct kicked in, and she jumped back when he eased his foot off the brake. Waving the thin stack of envelopes out the window, he glanced at the road. “I gotta go, Miss Anna. Running real late today—gotta finish my route.”
“Runnin' late because you've been runnin' your fool mouth again, Jerry Johnson.”
She advanced one more step, and he panicked, dropping her mail on the ground. The moment she swooped down to retrieve the envelopes he pressed the gas and zoomed down the road.
Frustration clawed at her throat. Her arm swung, gaining momentum as she rose. The smooth wooden handle of the pruners slipped from her grasp. Her squeak of surprise morphed into a gasp of horror as the tool sliced through the air. The heavy metal shears smashed into her new gazing ball. Shards of mirrored purple glass shimmered in the waning afternoon light as they rained down on her lawn.
Bram opened his front door and ran straight into the covered casserole dish his father held. He stumbled back. “What are you doing here?”
“Deliverin' dessert.” Al thrust the dish into his hands. “Your mama must love you—she broke out the peach preserves.”
“Thanks.” He carefully extricated the pot-holder-covered handles from the older man's grasp. He carried the still-warm dish to the kitchen counter. “I suppose everyone knows.”
Al scratched his cheek. “I imagine they do by now.”
He sidled past his father, shooing him from the house. “Marcie's a piece of work.”
“She had help. Besides, it scored you a peach cobbler. Everyone knows Feltcher's cakes are crap.” He reached out, capturing his son's arm in a surprisingly strong grasp. “Just so you know, you've made your mother very happy.”
“Dad, it's only dinner.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” Al answered easily. “Either way, I'm fairly happy, too.”
“It takes so little.”
“We're just glad you're moving on.”
“I'm not moving on,” he snapped.
“Moving forward, then.” Al raised one hand in a wave. “You can't keep making love to a memory, boy. You'll go blind or grow hair on your palms.”
Bram snorted and jerked open the door to his truck. “Go home, you dirty old man. Nothing cookin' around here but steaks.”
Chapter 9
Lynne stared at the scant few hangers swinging from the rod that spanned the closet. She tugged at the hem of her powder blue sweater, smoothing her damp palms over her jeans. “It's not a date,” she whispered, casting a longing glance at the lone skirt she'd tossed into her suitcase at the last minute.
She'd packed in a rush, tossing sweaters, jeans, and nightgowns into the suitcase without thinking. The gauzy skirt was a last-minute addition. Then again, so was her hairbrush. The entire trip to Arkansas was one big impulse.
I'm getting good at being impulsive in my old a
ge.
A short bark of a laugh caught in her throat. Whirling from the closet, she rushed into the antiquated bathroom across the hall. Her hair crackled as the brush bristles slid through. She studiously ignored the stubborn silver strands streaking through the blonde highlights and leaned closer to the mirror, groping for her mascara again. Lynne bobbed and weaved over the sink, trying to find the magic spot where her reflection swam into focus. She swiped another coat to her lashes and capped the tube, tossing it aside and stepping back from the sink.
“Enough. It's just dinner. Not a date,” she said, eyeing her reflection sternly.
A firm knock on the front door made her jump. She pressed her palm to her hammering heart then smoothed the clinging cashmere over her stomach. She snagged her purse on the way to the door, ran a nervous hand over her hair, and breathed lightly into her palm to check her breath.
Plastering a smile to her face, she yanked open the weather-warped door. “Hi, neighbor.”
“Hello,” Bram answered, a startled smile twitching his lips. The smile spread, lighting his face and crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Are you ready?”
She nodded and stepped onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind her. “I hope you stocked up. I'm starving. I didn't have lunch.”
He chuckled, pressing his broad palm to the small of her back. “Well, then, I'd best get you fed.”
Lynne nibbled her lip, hoping to stem the flow of nonsense. He steered her around the hood of his truck. That warm hand slid from her back to her elbow. She glanced up when he helped her into the truck, and the dam broke. “You look nice.”
He smiled again. “You look beautiful,” he answered gruffly and closed the door.
He hadn't lied.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop staring at her. It was rude. If his mother were nearby, she surely would have pinched a healthy chunk of flesh from his arm. Bram was glad his mother wasn't near, because he didn't think he could pry his gaze off Lynne Prescott with a crowbar.
The sweater she wore was blue. Not any old blue—the exact blue of a bright summer sky before the sun starts to sink behind the hills. Soft. It looked so soft. Not that he dared to touch the fuzzy wool. That would have been too much.
Besides, I'm busy boring holes into her skull like a moron. He followed her movements as she deftly sliced off the charred edge of her steak. Her fork didn't stray to the potato split open on her plate, and he didn't blame her. The stupid spud exposed its half-baked guts, pasty white chunks spilling from its casing.
Kinda like you, moron. Is your mouth open? Close it before you drool all over the poor woman. Try to say something. Anything. The potato is doing a better job of this than you are.
He winced as she deftly nudged the blackened strip of steak to the edge of her plate and cut a portion from the center. “I'm sorry. I used to be better at this,” he mumbled. She glanced up, and his wince grew into a full-on grimace. “Grilling. I used to be better with a grill. I don't cook much since Willie moved out.”
Her lips quirked. “Willie?”
“My daughter, Willene.”
“I've met her,” she said with a reassuring smile. “How'd that come about? Is it a family name?”
He shrugged and began dissecting the singed remains of what had once been a nice looking rib eye. “In a way. Turns out, Susie's daddy got his nose a bit out of joint when Abe was named after me and my dad. When we found out we were expecting again, she promised to name the baby after him.” Bram liberated what appeared to be the only edible- looking hunk of meat and heaved a heavy sigh. “She was sure it was another boy.”
She chuckled. “His name was William?”
“Still is. He and Arlene sold up a few years ago and moved to the Dallas area to be closer to their other daughter, Sarah.” Lynne placed her fork on the rim of her plate and reached for her glass of tea. Bram winced again. “I'm sorry. I didn't have time to get a bottle of wine.”
“This is perfect,” she assured him and took a small sip of the tea. She cocked her head as she lowered the glass. “Is this county dry?”
He nodded. “Yep—and every county around us.”
A laugh bubbled from her lips. “That's so weird.”
“Weird?”
“That there are still blue laws down here. Back home, I can stop at the grocery store on a Sunday and outfit a whole bar.”
“Did you find you often had need to?”
The laugh returned, and she shook her head, folding her hands on the table in front of her. “No. I guess I'm just experiencing a little culture shock.”
He pushed his nearly untouched plate away, unconsciously mirroring her posture and leaning closer. “I don't know. I think people are much the same anyplace you go.”
She seemed surprised by his statement. “Really?”
He shrugged and sprung from his chair. She jumped, startled by his sudden movement. When he cleared their plates, she opened her mouth to protest, and he cut her off. “Sure. You've always got your gossips living next door to good-hearted people,” he said evenly, dumping the plates on the counter near the sink. “The know-it-alls, mealy-mouths, and your run-of-the-mill jerks are everywhere.”
“I suppose they are. Bram, the steak was—”
“Like eating a hunk of charcoal,” he finished for her. With a flourish, he placed a covered casserole dish at the center of the table. “Looks like we're having peach cobbler for dinner.”
“Peach cobbler?”
“I might as well confess now. My mother made it.” He pulled two saucers from the cabinet and yanked a serving spoon from a crockery pot on the counter. “That means two things: One, this cobbler will be so delicious you may think you've seen God.”
Her blue eyes shone with laughter, slicing like a laser through whatever defenses he had left. The heavy glass lid clattered against the dish when he lifted it. He gripped the little knob on top, trying to mask his trembling hand.
“What's the other thing?” she asked, gazing up at him with a brilliant smile.
He cocked an eyebrow, a sardonic smile twitching his lips. “That I'm an unholy mess of a man who thinks because a store-bought cake is chocolate it might be good enough, and doesn't have enough sense to keep a decent bottle of wine in the house.”
Her smile faded a notch. She lowered her gaze, fixating on the glass lid he still gripped. With a touch that rivaled a butterfly's wings, she brushed the back of his hand. His fingers unfurled. Blood rushed in his ears. His breath roared like an Ozark thunderstorm.
“I'm not much of a wine drinker.”
“No?”
A tiny shake of her head was all it took. Tawny waves of golden-brown hair tumbled over her shoulder, shielding her face. His free hand moved of its own volition, stroking the silky strands in a gesture frighteningly new but stunningly right. She tipped her head back and met his gaze. “I do like a cold beer on a hot summer day.”
The air crackled around them. His chest tightened as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. He wet his lips. “What is it about you?”
He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until he saw her eyes widen. She released his hand and lowered her gaze. His knees shook. Bram squatted beside her chair, reaching for her face. His fingertips grazed petal-soft skin, turning her head.
“Oh no, Miss Lynne...you're misunderstanding me again,” he whispered. Before she could speak, he covered her mouth with his.
He hadn't meant to kiss her at all—at least not until he'd walked her to her door—so he couldn't claim he meant the kiss to be gentle. But her startled little gasp lit him up like a match to a kerosene lamp. Sweet lips softened further under his. He tasted sour cream, salt, and a hint of charcoal, and nearly exploded with need. Framing her face in his hands, he dropped to his knees and angled his head, brushing the seam of her lips with the tip of his tongue, fully prepared to beg if he had to.
She shifted in her seat. Her lips parted. The plush velvet of her tongue caressed him, wrapping him in he
at so intense his blood began to boil. Her quiet moan of surrender made his skin tingle. Soft breasts pressed against his chest and his mind melted.
His fingers sank into her hair. She tilted her head, and he took the kiss deeper, giving them both up to the flash fire raging through his body. Her fingernails pierced his shoulders. Her palms pressed against his chest. It took three full seconds for him to realize she was pushing him away. He reared back as if he'd been scorched to the soles of his feet.
Bram's breath came in ragged pants. He gaped at her, mesmerized by her wet, kiss-swollen lips and terrified by the confusion in her wide blue eyes. “I'm sorry,” he rasped.
Lynne dismissed his half-hearted apology with a brisk shake of her head. Her fingertips grazed her lips, and he hung his head. A cold rush of shame consumed the desire that flared in him moments before.
“Holy cow,” she whispered through her fingers. She drew her hand back and a soft, tinkling laugh tumbled free. “And I haven't even tasted your mama's cobbler yet.”
A soft spring drizzle muffled the sound of gravel squelching under tires. Anna Albertson pulled the hood of her fuchsia rain slicker tight under her chin as she dashed for the back porch. Even the crickets knew to stifle their little symphony when she approached.
She cursed colorfully when her toe connected with something hard. She pressed the button on the tiny flashlight attached to her keychain, her jaw tightening when it illuminated the stack of fresh-cut lumber next to the storm door.
“Hmmph,” she grunted and yanked the door hard enough to pop the ancient latch. She stumbled through the mudroom, fingering the keys she'd swiped from the unlocked desk Percy Jenkins kept in his unlocked office.
“Percy's just too darn trustin',” she mumbled, fumbling with the doorknob. The door held, and she smirked. “I guess we're not as smart as city folk.”
She held the flashlight steady as she tried key after key. When one slid home at last, Anna's smile widened, her Passion's Promise lip-gloss gliding against her teeth.
