by Dora Hiers
“Maybe you should just seize the moment and enjoy it. Not worry so much about where it leads.” Debbie tossed a few kernels of popcorn into her mouth and tapped a button on the remote. The TV screen faded to black.
She scoffed. “I’m thirty-two, Deb. Past the age to just coast in a relationship.”
“You’re hoping for a future with someone and a family at some point. Why waste your time with someone who’s not willing or unable to commit.” Debbie didn’t even phrase it as a question because she understood.
Condensation from the glass of iced tea wet her hands. Bristol took a long swig, the liquid cooling her throat. She set the glass on a napkin. “Trace definitely fits into that category.”
“What if he’s changed? What if he’s able and willing now?”
“How would I know unless I gave him another chance?”
Debbie lifted a shoulder, her silver eyebrows arching midway up her forehead. “That’s just it. A chance you’d have to take to find out.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.” Why not just toss her heart on the ground and ask the too-handsome man to stomp all over it?
“It takes courage and a whole lot of grace. But you have that in spades.”
She shook her head, the denial on her tongue.
“Don’t shortchange yourself, Bristol. It took courage to come to me after your stepdad kicked you out of the house. It took courage to move in with a couple you didn’t even know and determination and grit to keep up with your classwork through all that turmoil. It took grace to offer forgiveness to your stepdad even though he outright refused it and ordered you to leave again.” Debbie patted Bristol’s thigh, her eyes glittering and her voice shaky with emotion. “Honey, if the Good Lord asked for a model of courage and grace, you’d get my vote.”
“And you’d get mine, Debbie.”
After a decade of marriage and finding out that they couldn’t have kids, Debbie and her husband had adopted a five-year-old girl from Romania. On their daughter’s sixteenth birthday, Debbie’s husband died from cancer. Then, a few years later, her freshman daughter died from an overdose.
Through it all, her friend’s faith never wavered. Sure, Debbie took time off to grieve, but when she returned to work, she dived headlong back into her career, devoting herself to her students and caring for her community.
Then an old flame showed back up in Moondust Cove for their high school reunion. Already a few years into widower status, he’d swept Debbie off her feet and down the aisle. The pair was perfect for each other, and marriage to George brought back Debbie’s glow of happiness along with expanding her family. Not only did Debbie get George, she’d opened her arms to his three adult children and their spouses along with five grandchildren so far.
“What if I’d refused George another chance? He was the one to break up with me, you know.”
“I did not know that.” Her eyebrows hitched with the news, but just as quickly she chuckled thinking of the changes the pair had made to give each other a bit of space. “Well, for one, you wouldn’t have needed to remodel the basement to carve out a man cave for him to hang out during our Monday movie nights.”
“True. And you’d still be microwaving that awful popcorn for your movie nights.” The deep voice behind the sofa startled her.
She swiveled as George curled an arm around Debbie’s neck and leaned down for a loud smooch. “I was a fool back then, darling. I’m so grateful that you forgave me and blessed me with another chance.”
Another loud smooch forced Bristol to her feet. She stretched, hiding her eye roll. Too much mush for her. “Your popcorn is so much better than the microwave bags, George, I’ll give you that. Save the movie for next week, Deb? I promise I won’t talk your ear off.”
“Don’t make promises you know you can’t keep,” George teased. “You two do more talking than watching, that’s for sure.”
“Are you spying on us?” The kiss already forgotten, Debbie’s jaw dangled as her mock glare grew.
“Not spying, my love. Just checking in on you periodically to see if you need refills.”
“Ha! You’re just hoping I’ve left, so you can come up here and sneak more kisses.” Bristol chuckled.
“I assure you there is no sneaking going on around here. My beautiful wife is more than happy to dish out her kisses freely.” His gaze was firmly attached to his beautiful wife, his smile smug, his voice confident.
Debbie’s cheeks turned a pretty pink, and she covered her lips with her hand.
Ugh. Even more mush. George’s kind way of telling her he wanted some alone time with his wife.
“On that note, I’m out of here.” Chuckling, she patted the man on the shoulder and gave Debbie a one-armed hug before scooping up her glass and heading for the back door. “See you next Monday.”
“Bristol?” George’s voice stopped her at the kitchen entry.
She glanced over a shoulder, surprised at the older man’s serious expression as he perched backwards on the arm of the sofa. Normally, he was jolly and good natured, rarely solemn.
“Whoever the man is that needs a shot at redemption, I hope you’ll give him another chance.” He glanced down at his wife before swinging his gaze back to Bristol, honesty and hard truth glowing from his eyes. “I can’t imagine how sad and lonely my life would be right now without this beautiful and generous woman to brighten my days. I will be praying for you and your man to find that same happiness.”
With a quivery smile, Debbie squeezed his arm.
Praying? For her and Trace?
Bristol sputtered something about Trace not being her man, practically tossed the glass in the dishwasher and stumbled out the door.
Man…needs a shot at redemption…give him another chance…praying for you and your man. The words ricocheted in her head as she backed the car out of the narrow driveway and steered it toward home.
Lord, forgive me for wandering away from You. I have no right to even ask for that love that Pastor Scott spoke of yesterday, the love that nothing can separate, the love that compelled You to leave the glory of heaven to show us the way to You. Thank You for never leaving me, for watching out for me all these years with caring people like Debbie and the Porters, and now George. I appreciate that he offered to pray for me, but if it’s all right with You, I’d rather let You pick out my man. Because I’m quite certain Your choice wouldn’t be Trace. Right?
****
“Do you have any plans for tonight?” His brother mashed his thumb against the shiny nameplate on his door before twisting to prop a shoulder against the frame to Trace’s office, a look of innocence on his face.
Gramps had reassigned them recently, Trace as Vice President over Construction and Mannix as VP over Vacation Rentals, but they’d kept the same offices, just ordered new nameplates for the doors and desks. He preferred his view, the way the sun struck the side of the mountain, spilling so much natural light into his office that he never turned on the switch for the overhead. Not that he was here much anymore.
Like today. After being out on a job site all day, he’d only planned to pop into his office for a few minutes to leave some paperwork for his assistant and to go through a long string of emails. But the few minutes had turned into a couple hours judging by the darkening room.
Trace glared at his brother. “So now I know who keeps making thumb prints on my sign. Wait until you see what I do with yours.”
Mannix laughed. “This isn’t nearly enough payback for all your stunts, little brother.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Trace glanced at his watch. He had just enough time to go home for a quick shower before heading over to Bristol’s place with his toolbox to fix her sink.
“So, what are you doing?”
“I haven’t decided, yet. Run over it with my truck. Toss it in the dump—”
“Tonight, you dolt.”
He knew Mannix wouldn’t give up. “Fixing a leaky faucet.”
“You already ha
ving trouble with yours?” Mannix stepped into the office, frowning and rubbing his beard. “Your new kitchen’s only been in, what, a year?”
He finally reached the last email in his inbox. He scanned the words and tapped out a quick response. “Not mine. A…friend’s.”
“A friend’s.” Mannix drew out the two words as if they were twenty, hiking both eyebrows as he waited for forthcoming information.
As if he’d give his brother ammunition. “Yep.”
“And that’s going to take all evening?”
He could only wish. “Not sure how long it’ll take. But I need a shower first.”
“You need a shower before you fix a leaky faucet. Makes perfect sense.” Mannix plunked down in the chair in front of Trace’s desk. As if he had all the time in the world to chat.
“Don’t you have some work to do?”
“I always have plenty of work to do, same as you. But I make time for my family.”
That was the truth. Mannix had always been there for them. Same as Gramps. And his brother knew how to play the guilt card well. “It’s Bristol’s sink.”
“That explains the shower.” Mannix nodded slowly. “And I could see why you might want to stretch it out.”
“Did you need something?”
His brother shook his head, his lips scrunched. “Nah. Just thought we might go out for coffee and talk about how things are going with the job swap.”
He glanced at his watch again. “Can I take a raincheck?”
“Of course.”
“Why don’t you invite Rowan out for coffee?” Trace countered.
Mannix bolted from the chair and beat it to the door, adding another smudge to the nameplate on his way out.
Trace chuckled. His brother didn’t mind meddling in his business but didn’t appreciate when it was reciprocated.
“Coffee soon. I promise,” he yelled loud enough for Mannix to hear anywhere on the first floor. Nobody was left in the building anyway.
He shut down his computer and scooped up his phone from the desk. On his way down the hall, he noticed the light on in Rowan’s office.
Oops.
Had she heard? Was that why Mannix had skedaddled after he mentioned his ex-wife?
Oh, bother. But maybe it was just what the pair needed to see that they belonged together.
7
“What are you doing here?” Was Trip in some kind of trouble?
A quick sweep across her porch revealed that Trace was alone, a rectangular shaped box tucked under one arm and a heavy-duty tool belt looped around his lean hips.
A gentle evening breeze drifted over them, his woodsy scent and a hint of the lake from the towel slung over his shoulder catching her off-guard.
Warning her lungs not to fill up on him, she took stock of what was dangling from his hips. A hammer. Assorted screwdrivers and wrenches.
“Came to fix your sink.”
She blinked against the rush of pleasure swamping her. “My sink?”
“Yeah. Your kitchen sink is leaking. I saw it on Sunday.”
“Oh.” She opened the door wider and motioned for him to come in.
Did he remember how much she used to enjoy watching him work? When Trace had remodeled his bathroom, she’d found excuse after excuse to hang out at his place. So focused, so in tune with the concept in his head, his whole body moved in a graceful rhythm as he fashioned a bare space into absolute perfection. She’d compared him to a dancer, wooing his lover until they finally came together as one at the music’s last chord. Or an artist, painting stroke after stroke until the scene on the canvas was complete, beautiful and breathtaking.
She followed him into the kitchen and sat down at the bar, steeling her heart against the show about to take place in her own home.
“What you got going on there?” He flicked his head toward the empty amber roller bottles lined up on the counter next to sheets of clear labels and the prep ingredients, before sliding on safety glasses and squatting to empty the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink.
“Have you heard of essential oils?”
“Yep. Heard of them. But I’m still not sure what they’re used for.” With his head and shoulders now inside the cabinet, his voice came out muffled, competing with the sound of the valves turning and then a wrench twisting.
“Lots of things. Treating skin conditions. Soothing muscle inflammation. Reducing stress. Improving sleep. They’re even good to use as cleaning products. The list is virtually endless.”
“Really?” He grunted, his body twisting as if he was loosening or tightening something. Then he wriggled out of the tight space and practically vaulted to his feet.
The man was so athletic. So…buff and in shape. Wide shoulders and chest strained against a clean cotton T-shirt. Tanned legs seemed to go on for miles even though his shorts nearly came to his knees. Every time he pulled on the faucet, the muscles in his back and arms pulsed and shifted. Finally, it broke free of the sink, and he turned around suddenly, caught her gawking.
He winked, his mouth curving into a wicked smile. The rascal. He knew what he did to her!
When he turned to open the box on the counter, she exhaled a sigh of relief and slid the bottles to the side. She’d finish this later, after he left.
“Was that what I noticed in your office? A mist coming out of that vase-like container?”
“Mmm hmm. I use a combination of oils to reduce stress and promote relaxation.”
Still messing with the box, he twisted over a shoulder and shot her a saucy look. “Not sure it did any of that for me while I was there.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, her pulse jacking up from his flirting. How should she respond to that? Had seeing her again spiked his stress level? Or was he referring to the reason for his visit, anxiety over his son? She decided a neutral response was best. Protected her heart and didn’t give away any secrets. Like how she’d never stopped loving this kind and gentle man.
“My coworkers swear by that particular blend. They say it helps their stress level as much as their students and parents. And my friends are always asking me to make them some of my favorite combinations.”
“So, you sell them?”
She shook her head but realized his back was to her and he couldn’t see it. “It’s a hobby. I enjoy giving them away.”
He turned, smiling as he held up a shiny new faucet, a smaller sized commercial model where the sprayer nozzle was held in place by a magnet on the middle stem.
“Hope you like this one. If not, it’ll mean another trip to the hardware store tonight.”
Her jaw dropped at his kindness, at just another example of how well he knew her, as he wiped the surface where the new faucet would go. “If I’d picked it out myself, Trace, that’s exactly what I would’ve chosen.”
“Knew you’d like it.” His smile widened as he slid back under the sink to attach the supply lines.
She slipped off the stool and went to stand beside the pair of tanned legs taking up most of the real estate in her tiny kitchen. Her voice came out quiet, beseeching almost. “Why are you doing this, Trace?”
He stilled. But then his hands locked on to the end of the cabinet. He pushed himself out of the cavity and launched to his feet. The smile faded as he faced her, wiping his hands on an old towel he’d brought. “Why do you give away your oils?”
“Because it brings me joy to do something for my friends.”
One of his eyebrows arched ever so slightly. He tossed the towel on the counter. “That’s your answer.”
“But we’re not…friends.”
His head canted to the side. That flirty smile she’d never been able to resist curved his lips as he took a step closer. “We’re not?”
She took a step back and shook her head.
He boxed out, leaving her no escape route, and planted his palms on either side of the counter, blocking her between his muscled arms. He leaned down, invading her space with his fresh-out-of-the-shower soapy scent, the
kaleidoscope of greens, golds and browns in his irises holding her gaze hostage. “What if I wanted to be…friends?”
She gulped and licked her parched lips, her heart blaring all sorts of warnings to her brain. “I don’t think—” What? That she couldn’t possibly be friends with him because it would hurt too much? That she wanted so much more than just friendship? That she didn’t want to waste any more time with a man unwilling to commit to something deeper?
His knuckles skimmed the length of her upper arm, finally landing at her neck after wreaking such havoc. Cradling her neck, his thumb caressed her ear. He was so close, puffs of sweet tea scented breath billowed against her lips and cheeks. “Try it.”
“Try it?” Her eyes widened, and every nerve ending in her body longed to obey his command.
“The faucet.”
Oh. She blinked, embarrassment heating her limbs and cheeks. She waited until she turned around to blow out her breath, grateful for the reprieve from those beautiful eyes but conscious of him standing right behind her, as she twisted the lever.
Water flowed out of the faucet rather than from under the base. She tested the sprayer before shutting it off. Not a drop leaked.
“Looks like my work here is done.” Trace adjusted the tool belt around his waist, grabbed the towel, and in a few long strides, stood next to the front door, his fingers curled around the knob.
“Thank you, Trace.”
“You’re welcome.” His smile was sweet, his voice soft.
When he disappeared outside, her body sagged with relief against the counter.
Friends? How could they be friends when just being in the same room with him tangled her heart in knots and left her legs feeling like overcooked spaghetti?
****
Eleven thirty, and Trip still wasn’t home. Nor had he answered any of Trace’s numerous texts.
Trace paced the length of the great room then stopped in front of the window overlooking the driveway. He lifted the curtain for at least the hundredth time since he’d gotten home from Bristol’s place.
“Trip, where are you?” he muttered, letting the curtain drop and stalking to the other side of the room.
