by Unknown
“Half the fun is planning the trip. I’ll be heading out soon to get ready for the rehearsal. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
Samantha went back outside with her vintage dress and borrowed shoes. She wondered what came next. Cold feet and a return to her senses, probably. It was absolute madness even to consider attending the wedding tomorrow.
Especially with Justin Sloan.
She’d let herself get caught up in events. Guilt, maybe, after misleading everyone. At least Louise Frost seemed to appreciate the distraction of helping her find a dress and shoes.
It was cool outside, a refreshing breeze stirring in the trees across the brook. Samantha didn’t expect to see Justin there, but he was tossing a stone in the millpond, bright red leaves reflected in its clear water. She walked down to him, struck by just how incredibly sexy and good-looking he was—rugged, fit, in sync with his surroundings in a way she wasn’t. She couldn’t help herself, but she’d have to be a rock not to notice the shape of his strong shoulders and thighs, how his black canvas shirt hung over his hips. His square jaw and his eyes as he turned to her, as clear and penetrating a blue as the September sky.
He pointed to her dress and shoe box. “Looks as if you’re all set.”
She nodded. “I got lucky. I tried on one dress and it fit, and one pair of shoes and they fit.” She smiled, trying not to look as if she had any interest at all in the shape of his shoulders. “I should shop at Frost Millworks more often.”
“Anything you’d wear in Boston or London?”
“Absolutely.”
He stood close to her. She noticed the collar on his canvas shirt had a frayed edge. He wouldn’t be a man who replaced things that still did the job, even if a bit worn. He looked comfortable out here, at ease with the rocky brook flowing behind him, the faint smell of sawdust in the air, the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze.
“What are you thinking about, Sam?”
No way was he getting a complete answer. “Just taking in the day,” she said.
“Do you like weddings?”
“Sure.” She hadn’t expected his question. “I haven’t been to that many, but I’ve always enjoyed them.”
“Any at a country inn on a dead-end road?”
“Not one. This will be my first.”
“Olivia’s new to event planning, but Maggie’s a pro. It’ll be good.” He gave her an easy grin. “Just have to keep Buster out of the punch bowl.”
Samantha laughed, relaxing somewhat. “Definitely.” She felt the soft wool of the dress on her arm. “You can change your mind about having me there, you know.”
“You’ll do fine.”
“I should warn you that I’m not that great at small talk. My grandfather wasn’t, either. His sons took after him, but my mother has managed to teach my father the basics in the art of social chitchat. She’s a natural.”
“Francesca,” Justin said. “Marine archaeologist.”
“That’s right. She has a knack for making people feel comfortable. I remember as a teenager going to a cocktail party in London. I didn’t know a soul. Grandpa and Uncle Caleb were in a corner having an intense conversation with a geologist about Antarctic ice formations. My mother and father were laughing with a half-dozen people, talking about their favorite restaurants.”
“Where did you fit in?”
“I eavesdropped on both conversations.”
“Unnoticed?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I didn’t care one way or the other. I was the only kid there. My cousins are much younger.” She smiled, not sure why she’d told Justin so much about herself—wondered if he’d even wanted to know. “I had an unusual upbringing, maybe, but it was great. No complaints. It’s not like you and Mark Flanagan and the Frosts and the O’Dunns. You all have known each other forever.”
Justin picked up a small flat stone. “‘Forever’ is a long time. We grew up together.”
He skimmed the stone across the millpond. He wasn’t as curt and irritated as he had been after the fire—but at that point he’d just recognized her name, knew she was the woman who had misled Duncan McCaffrey. She’d put him on high alert right from the start. A man to have on your side in a fight, she thought. He was straightforward if not uncomplicated, and she appreciated this easier, less intimidating side of him.
“It must be great to know someone since nursery school,” she said. “And you have a big family, too.”
He winked at her. “Always something going on and someone with an opinion.”
“My uncle and aunt have four kids, but they live in England. I don’t know if it’ll be forever, but I don’t see them as much as I’d like. I saw them more, of course, when I was in London sorting through my grandfather’s apartment there. Still more to be done but I moved on to Boston.”
Justin toed another stone loose in the mud and grass on the edge of the stone walk. “What about friends?”
Samantha pushed back a sudden surge of self-consciousness. Friends. Why were they talking about her friends? What was it about him that kept making her feel so self-conscious? She adjusted her shoe box and dress in her arms. “I have friends all over the place,” she said, almost dismissive.
“You live in a big world.” He picked up the loosened stone and tossed it into the water, ripples going out from where it landed. He leaned in close to her. “It wasn’t a good skipping stone.”
“I wouldn’t know a good one from a bad one.”
“Easy to learn. Who did you grow up with, Sam Bennett?”
“Pirates,” she said with a smile.
“I don’t doubt it.”
His tone struck her as sexy—deliberately sexy. She took a quick breath. “I should go.”
“I need to get ready for the rehearsal,” he said casually, then nodded to the sawmill entrance. “Come on up. You can check out an old sawmill while I get ready and decide what you want to do with yourself tonight. I can drop you off somewhere on my way to the rehearsal.”
“I can manage on my own. You’ve done enough—”
“Sam, you don’t have a car.” He smiled. “You’re at my mercy.”
“It’s been that way since the fire, hasn’t it?”
He laughed, taking her shoe box and dress from her. “Now you’re catching on.”
* * *
Justin’s apartment was cozy and sparsely furnished, with windows—obviously added when the mill was converted—that looked directly down at the millpond and dam. It was so not like her grandfather’s Back Bay house or London apartment that Samantha wasn’t sure what to make of it—or the man who lived here. On the way up the steep stairs, Justin had explained he hadn’t started renovating the apartment yet. He was gathering ideas and might reconfigure the space altogether, even incorporate the lower level, now used for storage for Frost Millworks.
The place reminded Samantha of life aboard her parents’ research ship when she was growing up, but maybe only because it was small and had a temporary feel to it. The living room was furnished with a simple couch, sturdy coffee and end tables and an inexpensive lamp. A flat-screen television sat on a turned-over apple crate. The adjoining galley kitchen had a mug and coffee press on the counter, a few dishes on open shelves and two empty beer bottles on the windowsill above the sink.
“Still planning to camp out tonight?” Justin asked, laying her dress over the back of a chair and placing her shoes on the seat.
Samantha shrugged. “I’m not getting in the way at Carriage Hill with a wedding tomorrow. I have a new tent, remember. Maybe the Frosts will let me camp out here.”
“I’d look like a heel if I let you camp out in the cold when I have a warm place right here.” He spoke casually, as if he were talking to one of his firefighting buddies. “You can spread out your sleeping bag on my couch.”
“On your couch?”
“It’s comfortable. I’ve fallen asleep there lots of times watching movies.”
“Right.” She pointed vaguely outsi
de. “I left my backpack in your truck.”
“I won’t go off with it.”
“That’s not what I mean. I just...” She just was imagining herself sleeping on his damn couch. That, on top of going with him to the wedding tomorrow, and her head was spinning. “Never mind. I don’t see many personal items in here. When did you move in?”
“A few weeks ago,” he said, snatching up a couch pillow and brushing it off. “Dog hair. Our chocolate Lab sneaks onto the couch when I’m not looking. He likes to hang out with me, but he’s going to get himself disinvited if he keeps this up.”
“Where did you live before here?”
“Another house in town I renovated. That was for almost a year.” He set the pillow back on the couch. “Before that, I lived in a cabin we own on a pond across the field from my folks’ place.”
“Did you fix it up, too?”
“Some.”
Samantha sat on the edge of the couch, restless, certain she’d pop up again at the least provocation. “And all the while you’ve also been a volunteer firefighter. How often are you on call?”
“Depends on the week.” He grabbed another pillow, gave it a shake, set it back down. “Ever live in a town that has a volunteer fire department, Sam?”
She shook her head. She didn’t know what she was doing, what she was saying—why she even wanted to know any details about his life. It was a long walk back to town, and even if she waited for Justin to drive her, she had no idea what she would do once she got there.
“You had my journal up here with you?” She got up again. “And you didn’t read it? Really, Justin?”
“As much as I was tempted to read about pirates and brigands on a chilly autumn night, you can relax, Sam. As I said, I only glanced at the title page.” He stood between her and the door, his gaze on her, no sign that he was offended by her skepticism. “I had a beer instead and hit the sack early.”
She walked over to the window. “I was going to tell you everything this morning, but you already knew.”
“We like a good mystery around here.”
“I didn’t lie. I didn’t want to get you involved—”
“Save it, Sam. It’s okay.”
He ducked into what appeared to be the sole bedroom. Samantha stared out the window, watching the shadows on the brook as the sun sank lower in the sky. She hadn’t realized so much time had passed since lunch. She looked out at the dense woods. She couldn’t imagine pitching her tent there. She’d have to find a clearing of some sort.
She heard Justin emerge from the bedroom. She turned from the window and had to force herself not to gasp. He was nothing short of breathtaking in a dark gray suit, deep maroon tie and cordovan wing-tip shoes.
He grinned at her. “Mark gave me the name of a men’s store in Boston. He doesn’t want me showing up for his wedding in camouflage. Architects. The rehearsal dinner is at a country club just outside town.”
Samantha recovered her composure. It wasn’t good, this effect he had on her. “It’s a nice suit. Will you be wearing a tux tomorrow?”
“Yep. Prepare yourself.”
She wanted to tell him just how not funny that was. “Well, then.” She cleared her throat. She couldn’t stay here. Just couldn’t. “I’ll be on my way—”
“On your way where?” He moved toward her, the suit falling perfectly, sexily. “To pitch your tent on the dam?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“There’s that stubborn streak again.” He was between her and the door now. “You don’t give up, do you? Even when it’s in your best interest.”
“Grandpa liked to tell me I was plucky.”
“Plucky.” Justin smiled. “It’s an old-fashioned word.”
“Probably sexist, too. I’ve never needed rescuing before, but I did on Wednesday. I was in real trouble. I know it. I’m glad you were there.” She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “Enjoy your evening. Don’t worry about me.”
“Does anyone ever worry about you?”
His intensity combined with his quiet self-control made her stomach clench. She wanted this man on her side. Anyone would. And yet she found herself brushing off his concern with a quick smile and a flippant comment. “My family doesn’t include many worriers.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“But we care about each other,” she added, suddenly wanting to connect with him—to not let him think they had nothing in common, that the Bennetts were a bunch of thrill-seeking, self-absorbed lunatics. Because it wasn’t true. She and Justin did have a few things in common. Their can-do natures, their outspokenness, their pragmatism. And the Bennetts were tight-knit in their own way, even if they didn’t all live in the same small town the way the Sloans did.
Justin was watching her as if he could see her inner turmoil, as if he could read her jumble of thoughts and emotions. He was standing close enough to her that he could reach out and push loose curls behind her ear. He let his fingertips trail along the curve of her jaw, then, with one fingertip, raised her chin so that his eyes were leveled on hers.
She thought he said her name as he lowered his mouth to hers, easing his hand along her collarbone, around to the nape of her neck. His lips grazed hers not so much tentatively as with a promise—a hint of what he wanted to do, would do. His control just inflamed her more, her pulse racing, her blood heating. She grabbed his hand, intertwined her fingers with his.
“Justin...damn...”
Their kiss connected, deepened. His hand eased down her back to her waist, drawing her closer. All the toughness and hardness of Wednesday when he’d rescued her was there, but so was a warmth—a longing and urgency that had built over the past two days. It was as if their kiss was meant to be, unfinished business after the fire.
He stood back with an almost imperceptible smile. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I felt my padlock in your jacket.” He winked at her and started for the door. “Be good, Sam.”
Samantha tried to look as if she weren’t about to melt into a puddle on the floor. “Was that payback for rescuing me?”
He paused, his hand on the door latch, and glanced back at her, his gaze unflinching. “Something like that.”
“Or was it part of keeping an eye on me while I’m in Knights Bridge?”
“Something like that, too, but my couch does beat pitching a tent in the cold.”
Once the door shut behind him, she raked both hands through her short curls and groaned. She’d let things get out of hand between her and Justin. She’d helped them get out of hand. Now the sexual electricity between them—however adrenaline-induced—had erupted into a kiss that had been anything but simple.
She went back to the window. The sun was lower in the sky, a golden glow on the millpond. She wondered what it had been like here when the dam and sawmill had been built more than a century ago.
Whoever had painted The Mill at Cider Brook, whoever had written The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth—however they’d ended up in Harry Bennett’s Boston house—they had nothing to do with the contemporary Knights Bridge of Justin Sloan and his family and friends.
Samantha watched a large bird swoop down low over the millpond, then arc into the trees on the other side of the brook and disappear. She had no idea what kind of bird it was. Some kind of hawk? A raven?
Probably just a crow, she thought, turning away from the window.
All she had to do was stuff her dress and her shoes into her backpack and go find some quiet field where she could camp for the night. Who would know? Who would care? She could decide about the wedding in the morning. With no shower facilities, surely she would come to her senses and realize she couldn’t attend the first-ever wedding at The Farm at Carriage Hill.
What would Duncan think of Olivia Frost? Had he run into any of the Frosts on his few trips to Knights Bridge before his untimely death?
Had he ever imagined his only son would find his way to the small New England town tha
t Grace Webster had called home for more than seventy years—ever imagined that Dylan would discover the truth about Grace and her British flyer and their secret affair? Grace had already been expecting Duncan when she’d moved to Knights Bridge as a teenager.
Pregnant, unmarried, displaced by the construction of Quabbin from the only home she’d ever known, living in a new town with her father and grandmother and hopelessly in love with a man who was off to war, never to return to little Knights Bridge.
By comparison, Samantha thought, her biggest challenge at the moment was whether to clear out of Justin’s apartment now or to stick around until he returned.
She could still taste his kiss, feel his mouth on hers.
“Gad.”
She was almost ecstatic when her phone rang and she saw it was her uncle.
He was shocked when she mentioned she might be attending Jessica Frost’s wedding tomorrow. “Sam...are you out of your mind? Sneaking into Knights Bridge was one thing, but sneaking into a wedding?”
“I’m not sneaking,” she said, sitting on the couch despite her restlessness. “The best man was going alone and—”
“So this is a date?” Uncle Caleb moaned as if he had a migraine. “That’s even worse.”
“It’s not a date-date. It’s a date of convenience.” Samantha picked up one of the throw pillows and fought back an image of Justin’s hands as he’d tossed it back on the couch. “The best man didn’t invite me. Olivia Frost did. She’s the bride’s sister and Dylan McCaffrey’s fiancée.”
“Dylan McCaffrey,” her uncle said. He might have said the devil.
“I know, I know. I’m playing in the lion’s den, but it’s not what you think. They know Duncan fired me. They know who I am. Anyway, Olivia and her friend Maggie, a caterer who helps run Carriage Hill, like the idea of the best man not being at the wedding on his own. Maybe they just want someone to keep him occupied. I don’t know.”
“There’s a Maggie?”
“Yes, why?”
“My head’s spinning.”
