by Amanda Ashby
“Thank you,” Emmy said before climbing out of the truck. As she walked into the diner, he tried to ignore the unintentional sway of her hip, and the way her dress caught the light and showed just the slightest outline of her legs underneath. His pulse quickened as he continued to watch her through the long window of the diner. She stopped several times to say hello to people before she reached a wizened old man in the end booth
Interesting.
Then he caught sight of the phrase book in her hand and deduced this must be the elusive dove breeder. It wasn’t his most impressive journalistic discovery, but all the same, Christopher felt absurdly proud of himself.
He followed their conversation with interest, though judging by Emmy’s stiff posture, it wasn’t going well. He toyed with going in to help her. He spoke fluent French, and from years of travelling the world he was pretty good at convincing people to agree with him. Plus—
Stop. Emmy Watson and her doves weren’t his business. If it weren’t for her, he would be able to discuss his proposition with Pandora rather than skulking around like a naughty schoolboy. His mood darkened as he watched Emmy. She and the old man were still arguing. Finally, she stood up and marched out. He could see by her tight jaw that things hadn’t gone to plan.
“Problem?” he asked, resisting the urge to touch her face and try to sooth away some of the worry lines gathering around her forehead.
“No,” she said, a little bit too quickly, as she thrust the keys back into the ignition. They made the trip in silence until Emmy swung into the golf club parking lot. She didn’t even bother to growl at him when he double-checked if it was okay for him to go without a chaperone.
Fine.
He shrugged as he climbed out of the truck, and after waiting for Emmy’s taillights to disappear, he walked to the taxi stand. He was just getting into the first one when his cell phone rang. It was his agent.
“How’s it going?” Trent said. “Have you found our girl yet?”
“There’ve been a few complications.” Christopher gritted his teeth, not willing to admit he’d been outmaneuvered. “But I’ve sorted them out.”
“Good, because the producers keep pressing me for more information about your mystery lady. I’ll keep stalling them but the sooner you find someone, the better. This is your shot. I mean, how long have we been talking about TV?”
“You don’t need to remind me,” Christopher said as he covered the cell phone and told the driver the name of the bar. Then he leaned back in the seat as the engine started up. Emmy Watson would soon learn who she was dealing with.
“And by the way, I had a call from Ed, and he wants another article. I told him you were somewhere near Seattle, and he said that sounded perfect.”
“I’m nowhere near Seattle. I’m nowhere near anywhere,” Christopher growled, wondering how he’d ended up with an agent who was so bad at geography. Not to mention the fact that most of his articles were about remote villages in Asia and lesser-known parts of Australia. White Picket Fence America wasn’t really his specialty.
“Sounds great,” Trent said, totally ignoring him. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something. And don’t forget to work the charm with your soon-to-be-girlfriend.”
“I’m all over it,” Christopher assured him before finishing the call. He looked out the window and blinked as they passed a field of golden corn for a second time. He might not know much about the New England countryside, but he was pretty sure they’d just gone around in a circle.
Unbelievable. Being kidnapped once might be an accident but twice stunk of premeditation.
“Hey, is there a problem? I thought the bar was in the other direction.”
“It sure is. It’s about half a mile down and on the right. Just past Bertie’s Bookstore,” the driver said in a helpful voice.
“Right.” Christopher blinked. “So, is there a reason we’re not going there?”
“Definitely.” The guy gave an enthusiastic nod of his head. “Emmy rang up about half an hour ago and said a tall guy with green eyes and less than honest intentions might want to catch a taxi from the golf course, and I should drive him around for about ten minutes before taking him back.”
She what?
“And you believed her?”
“Well, yeah. The Watsons have been at Wishing Bridge Farm for as long as anyone can remember. Why wouldn’t I help her out?”
Why indeed? Christopher scowled as the driver pulled back into the golf club, the car tires crunching as they went. He’d underestimated Emmy and her hometown advantage. Still, he’d travelled the world enough to learn a few tricks of his own, and he wasn’t about to give up without a fight.
Chapter Four
Emmy stepped back and inspected the ancient bicycle. Now that sixty years of grime had been removed, it looked adorably rustic. She could already picture how nice it would be when the cane basket was filled with wild flowers and a chalkboard leaned against it to guide guests from the bridge to the old red barn where the reception would be held. She still had to clean up the old-fashioned scooter the ring bearer would be using, but it was almost seven, and the sun was just starting to dip behind the yellow hills. She shivered as the warmth of the day disappeared, giving way to a cooler September breeze, just enough to cause a pile of leaves to swirl in a lazy dance.
She pulled the heavy barn door shut and headed to the farmhouse, kicking the leaves as she went, much like she’d done her entire life. It was such a familiar path she could’ve traveled it with her eyes closed, but there was something special about walking along as the veil between night and day surrounded her. Ivy used to say that’s when magic happened, and if ever Emmy needed some magic, it was now.
All I want is to have a perfect wedding with fifty doves and a happy bride. Oh, and if Christopher Henderson could be transported a million miles away, that would definitely help.
The reality was she was hungry and she had a pissed off dove owner and a to-do list a mile long. A fairy godmother would be handy right about now.
She walked into the kitchen and flicked on the light. The room was just as she’d left it that morning, with the bunting strewn along the table and boxes of Ivy’s old porcelain piled up ready to be taken out into the barn. In the other corner was a pile of white linen tablecloths waiting to be ironed, as well as a gorgeous old crystal vase, which would be the centerpiece on the bridal table.
She’d just finished double-checking that she had all the props for tomorrow’s bachelor and bachelorette parties when an engine rumbled up the driveway. She peered out the window as Christopher climbed out of Stan’s taxi, holding several carrier bags in his hand. He also had a two-foot high trophy tucked under his arm. She couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to have a pair of figure skaters on top of it.
Despite her bad mood, she couldn’t help but smile.
Twenty years ago, Winston, the golf club owner, had discovered it was much cheaper to buy unwanted trophies than to commission new ones, and what had started as a cost cutting measure had long since become a time-honored tradition. It also meant her plan had worked.
First round goes to me.
“How was golf?” she asked as he walked through the door, bringing the last of the fading September light in with him. She then had the pleasure of watching his face darken. Not that she cared. After all, he’d sworn he was trustworthy, yet he’d obviously planned to meet up with one of the bridesmaids.
Emmy’s money was on Pandora.
“Most enjoyable.” He put the trophy down on the table. “Though you knew that, since you went to great pains to make sure I stayed there.”
“They say it’s a very relaxing game, and you’re obviously good at it.” Emmy watched his expression change, until he suddenly burst out laughing. It completely transformed his face, and the deep, throaty chuckle did things to her insides that were best left ignored. Note to self. Look away when he laughs. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing.” He sat himself down on the close
st chair, his bulk once again making the kitchen seem far too small. “It’s just impossible to be mad at someone who has leaves in their hair and a smudge of oil on their nose.”
“I do?” Emmy crossed to the old mirror. Then she let out a groan as she plucked the apple twig from her straight dark hair and rubbed away the oil. Not that she cared what she looked like, because that would imply she cared what he thought about her. Which obviously she did not. “It’s been a long day.”
“You can say that again.” Christopher nodded to the trophy. “Do I even want to know why my trophy says I’m the Orange County Couple’s Figure Skating Champion?”
“I’d say it’s more to do with your putting skills than your axel jumps.” Emmy bit back another smile as she glanced at Ivy’s own mismatched trophy collection over on the ancient dresser.
“Let me guess—it’s another one of those little local traditions of yours.”
“Something like that.”
“So, I’m now in the Sunshine club.” He patted for her to sit down in the chair next to him. “And look, I know you’re pissed, but can we call a truce for the night?”
“What do you mean?” she asked cautiously as she found herself walking over to the chair in question. Funny, she’d grown up with that chair, hidden underneath it when Pepper was on a rampage and when Bec tried to coerce into her stealing the tractor to drive into town. But now as she looked at how close it was to Christopher’s jean-clad thigh, it suddenly seemed unfamiliar. Daunting. And yet irresistible.
There’s also a small chance I’m jealous of some furniture.
She sat down.
“I’m hungry, and since you’ve been up to your eyes in work I thought I’d cook.” He shrugged.
“What?” Emmy studied his face as she tried to figure out what was going on. But it was no use. Everything about Christopher was an enigma. He laughed at her when she sent him on a wild-goose chase of a taxi ride. He wanted to cook for her when she was rude to him, and he had eyelashes no man had the right to own. She let out a soft breath as she watched them brush against his brow. Her heart hammered.
I think I’ve just found my catnip.
“You heard me.” His eyes twinkled. “We could argue for the rest of the night about how Stan charged me fifty bucks to drive me around in circles before delivering me back to the golf course. Or how you put the word out that I’m a crazed, dangerous person. But I’m hungry and you’re busy, so it seems like a good idea. Don’t worry. I won’t poison you.”
“I don’t think so,” Emmy said, knowing her ability to make good decisions was impaired when she got within a hundred-mile radius of Christopher Henderson. Unfortunately, her stomach picked that moment to rumble.
Whose side are you on?
“You were saying?” He grinned at her.
“Fine,” Emmy conceded. She’d been so busy focusing on the wedding that her diet had consisted of peanut butter and bread. Ivy would skin her if she were here. Then she thought of some of the places he’d traveled, and narrowed her eyes. “But if you try and feed me worms, then I promise Stan’s taxi ride will seem like a box of tickles compared to what I’ll do to you.”
“Duly noted.” Christopher got to his feet and started to unload the carrier bag. “I’ll scrap the worms from the menu and make mushroom ravioli. I hope that’s acceptable.”
“Definitely.” She nodded, then watched him casually slip on the old gingham apron that had been hooked over the back of the door. Despite the cross-stitching and lace, he looked absurdly masculine. Her stomach tightened, and she resisted the urge to reach out and smooth the apron down.
Smoothing could lead to touching, and no good could come from that.
“Great.” He tied up the apron with no sign of embarrassment whatsoever. “Now, what are your thoughts on garlic? Were you planning to kiss anyone tonight?”
I wish.
No, you don’t.
I kind of do.
“Garlic’s fine.” Emmy tightened her fingers, not wanting to admit he was the last person she’d kissed. Unfortunately, she had the feeling the same couldn’t be said of him. She tried not to be jealous. “The more, the better. It might remind you not to kiss anyone, either. At least not until after the wedding.”
“Hey, I thought we called a truce,” he complained as he crushed several cloves of garlic on the chopping board. “Though, now you mention it, we could always kiss each other.”
“What?” Emmy almost choked as memories of his lips urgently pressed against hers invaded her mind. What would happen if they kissed again? Would it be like last time? An inferno of need and desire that couldn’t be contained? And he was so close. All she needed to do was lean forward and—
“The garlic.” He looked as if he had read her mind and hadn’t liked what he’d seen. “I just meant when two people who have eaten garlic kiss, it cancels the taste out.”
“Right.” Of course. She needed to put some space between them, and so she quickly jumped to her feet and hoped her cheeks weren’t bright red. “If you don’t need any help, I’ll get some more work done.”
“Sure.” He dropped some butter into a cast iron pan and stepped back as it sizzled, and Emmy retreated into the living room.
Like the rest of Wishing Bridge Farm, the furniture was an eclectic mishmash of pieces various Watsons had collected over the years. However, it all came together with the numerous afghan rugs that covered the chairs, and the huge fireplace Emmy had spent so much of her childhood curled up in front of. Part of her longed to just sit there and make sense of Christopher.
Why was he being so nice to her after what she’d done?
More importantly, why was she letting him?
No. Enough with the thinking. It can only lead to trouble.
She picked up her list and forced herself to focus on tomorrow night. Two of Emmy’s high school friends had recently married and decided to merge their neighboring businesses to create “Beer and Cupcakes”. The result was that while the bachelorettes were in the cute bakery indulging in cupcakes and cocktails, the bachelors could play pool and drink beer before they all met up in the connecting courtyard to listen to a quirky local jazz band.
She flicked on her laptop and got to work. Three quarters of an hour later she was sending off yet another email to assure Melinda there were no backdoors where strippers could sneak in, when Christopher reappeared. His face was covered in a fine layer of sweat from the heat of the stove, and his eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he invited her back into the kitchen with an exaggerated bow.
Emmy tried very hard not to lick her lips.
“Mademoiselle, dinner is served,” he announced, and Emmy tidied away her work and followed him. Her nose twitched in appreciation of the exotic but homey smell of mushrooms and garlic with fragrant herbs.
“You’ve been busy,” she said, trying not to feel awkward. Unfortunately, she might be okay with sabotaging his escape into town, but when it came to talking with him, she was out of her depth.
So far out I don’t know which way’s up.
“I’m not just a pretty face.” Christopher guided her to the table, which was now covered in one of Ivy’s favorite tablecloths. The drawn-thread linen was worn in parts and crushed from sitting in the closet, but it looked perfect against the simple white plates and the heavy silver cutlery. He’d also placed his trophy in the middle of the table and had draped long branches of late blooming honeysuckle over it, which added to the aroma of the kitchen.
It was also incredibly intimate and made her pulse thunder.
“And so modest,” Emmy said as he held out the chair and waited for her to sit down before he brought over the cast iron pan and carefully scooped out large ravioli squares that slithered around on the plate until they were covered in the delicious smelling sauce.
“Modesty’s overrated.” He sat down opposite her and held up his wineglass, which was filled with water. “Here’s to your wedding. And thank you for not ordering Stan to cut me up int
o a hundred pieces and hide the remains.”
“I think Stan’s loyalty would only go so far,” Emmy said in a light voice. “Plus, he’s very particular about not getting stains on his upholstery.”
“That makes me feel better.” His eyes crinkled in amusement as he passed her a small bowl of shaved parmesan.
“Good. Did he really charge you fifty dollars?” Emmy sprinkled some cheese over her ravioli and tried not to drool.
“It’s not the money.” He shrugged. “It’s just the inefficiency. When I travel I really hate backtracking. I always want to feel like I’m going forward. Plus, it lets me explore different places.”
“That explains the title of your column.” Emmy nodded.
“I think life’s more exciting when you don’t know what’s coming next,” Christopher explained.
Emmy cut into a ravioli and let out a hungry moan as it revealed a delicate mushroom center. She took a bite and was lost. Finally, when the last of the food was gone, she put her cutlery down and let out a satisfied sigh.
“Thank you. That was good,” she admitted.
“You sound surprised.”
“Your reputation’s been built on learning to ride camels and jump off mountains. I didn’t realize you could cook, too.”
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” he said, his eyes catching hers. Emmy’s throat tightened as he leaned forward, and the rest of the room disappeared. He was only inches from her. And was that an invitation in his voice? I’m in so much trouble.
“Yes, you’re an international man of mystery.” Emmy tried to edge away from the irresistible pull of his presence. She frantically searched for a neutral topic. “So, how did you learn to cook?”
Rather than looking annoyed, he seemed amused. “When I was fourteen my school started a cooking club. I thought it would be a good way to meet girls.”
“Did it work?”
“Not so much.” He gave her a self-deprecating smile that did sinful things to her stomach muscles. “Turns out fourteen-year-old girls would much rather hang out with guys whose brothers owned a motorcycle than someone who could make a soufflé. Apparently I was geeky.”
