by Amanda Ashby
Emmy couldn’t see anyone thinking Christopher was geeky. Sexy maybe. Ruggedly masculine, for sure. Irresistible, definitely. But never geeky.
God, she wanted to kiss him. Garlic and all.
She caught her breath as she realized how close he was.
Did he want to kiss her, too?
Was that how this night was going to end?
Heat filled her body.
“Well, at least you know your way around the kitchen. Ivy always hated when men couldn’t cook. Said if they could learn to eat it, they could learn to make it,” Emmy said as she tried not to notice the way his muscular chest expanded when he breathed. She failed, and her rebellious mind flooded with memories of their two nights together. Of his naked body. Of his soft words.
“She wouldn’t have liked my dad or kid brother. Neither of them could so much as boil water. If it wasn’t for me they would’ve lived on baked beans and TV dinners,” Christopher said, seemingly oblivious to her internal struggle.
“What about your mom?” Emmy leaned forward. He’d never mentioned his family before so she’d just assumed it had been a happy one. “Where was she?”
“She died when I was three.” He abruptly got to his feet and began stacking the dishes, breaking whatever spell had been between them. If he had wanted to kiss her, he most definitely didn’t want to anymore. She swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago,” he said, still facing away from her. And though his voice was light, his shoulders looked tense. “I can barely remember what she looks like.”
Emmy opened her mouth and then shut it again.
She knew from all the times people had tried to talk about Ivy how unwanted their advice and comments could be. And now she’d turned into that person.
Nice going.
“I didn’t mean to pry,” she said, wishing it didn’t sound quite so inadequate. “The thing is—”
“Whatever that is, it smells amazing.” Bec poked her head through the door. Her eyes were still full of sleep, and her dark hair was poking out in all directions. Then she caught sight of the trophy and groaned. “Seriously, is Winston still handing out those things?”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of tradition,” Emmy replied in Winston’s defense, but Bec just shrugged.
“Each to their own I guess. I’m starving.”
“I made plenty.” Christopher turned around. The darkness that had been in his face was completely gone, his smile once more in place. Emmy sank back into her chair, not sure whether she was pleased or disappointed at the interruption. All she knew was the fluttering sensation in her stomach had turned to a sinking feeling.
“Wow, I haven’t smelt anything this good since I was in a little village in Lombardy,” Bec said. “There was this one old woman. I think her name was—”
“Mama Nadia,” Christopher said as he heated up the pasta before carefully dishing it out for Bec. “She makes the best risotto I’ve ever eaten.”
“Tell me about it.” Bec took the plate as they got into a lively discussion about Italian railways and Emmy was forced to listen to them banter as if she weren’t even in the room. It was humiliating.
It didn’t help that Christopher seemed hell-bent on not looking at her.
Not that she could blame him. Bec was well-travelled, witty and never forced people into talking about their life if they didn’t want to. Pepper often said Bec flitted around so much it was as if she were trying to run away from her own past. Whereas Emmy was a homebody who thought everyone wanted to sit around the kitchen table talking about their problems.
Even worse, he’d clearly told her he didn’t backtrack—he only ever wanted to go forward. Which means my chances of kissing him are zero. It would be one big, inefficient step backward. Not that I care.
She jumped to her feet and excused herself.
She had a seating chart to finish and a hundred other things to do. Things that mattered. After all, it was Wishing Bridge Farm that was her future, not Christopher Henderson. She’d do well to remember it.
…
The following morning, Christopher made his way through the thicket of trees dotting the edge of the farm. He’d spent years traveling on donkeys, driving along roads barely wider than a sidewalk, and sleeping in the rain, so walking across a farm to hitch a ride into town didn’t bother him. Over to the left he could see the covered bridge the farm was famous for, but since he had no desire to bump into Emmy, he took a sharp right and kept walking.
Because seeing her would be bad. It might remind him of last night.
I almost kissed her.
And worst of it was if they hadn’t been interrupted he would’ve kissed her.
Bad move, dude.
He should’ve stuck to the plan. Cook some food, play nice, and ask her not to set every taxi driver in Sunshine on his tail.
But no. Somewhere between unpacking the groceries and crushing the garlic, he’d become fixated on her lips. They were like a beacon, and despite his best efforts, he hadn’t been able to look away. And worse—after he’d managed to stop himself from kissing her, he’d almost talked about his mother, and that would’ve risked opening the floodgate to the years of living with his bitter father. The fights, the rage, the punches. Which was something Christopher had sworn never to do. When he travelled, he never went back the way he came, and it was the same with life. What was done was done. There was no point talking about it. Why go down an old path when there was a new one ready to walk along?
Except last night I almost did.
It was way too close.
Still, it was a new day and he just needed to concentrate.
He’d sent Pandora an apologetic text message to explain why he’d blown the meeting, and he’d quickly realized it was for the best. She might not be a Red Socks fan but she did seem to overuse emoticons in her messages, and while it wasn’t his place to judge, it was a bit too much.
Thankfully, Lewis had arranged for him to meet with bridesmaid number two. Nancy. He’d spoken briefly to her yesterday, and she seemed nice. Tall and smart, a tax accountant with an interest in scuba diving.
Even better, I don’t want to kiss her.
Now all he had to do was meet her in the wine bar as they’d arranged and see how they got on. Which was why he needed to get into town.
The path was littered with golden-brown leaves, still crisp underfoot. A gentle breeze occasionally sent them flowing back into the air, making the entire hillside seem alive with energy.
Fifteen minutes later, with a light layer of sweat on his forehead, he finally climbed over the rickety old fence and took his bearings. Across the road was a neat vineyard, which told him the town of Sunshine was to the right. Insects buzzed in his ears, and in the distance he could hear the light whir of a truck, while in every direction were fields of grapes, corn, and beets, all neatly set out, looking much like the old patchwork comforter on his bed.
Out of habit he held his cell phone up and took a couple of pictures.
Over the years he’d become well known amongst his friends for giving alternative wedding books, full of unexpected photographs for them to look back on. He wasn’t quite sure if Melinda would appreciate most of the shots, but it had become a tradition, and Lewis would be offended if he didn’t get an album.
He’d dropped to his knees to capture the wizened branches of an old apple tree hanging lazily at the side of the road when a car pulled up behind him. Christopher turned to see Emmy’s sister Bec sitting behind the wheel of a very nice looking red Stingray.
“I hope you’re not waiting for a bus.” Bec said as she leaned out the window. “Because you’ve probably had quicker service in Peru.”
“Actually, I was hoping to get a lift into town.” Christopher pocketed the cell phone and wondered if Emmy had confided in her sister about why he was really staying at the farm?
“Then it must be your lucky day.” Bec nodded for him to cl
imb in, and Christopher grinned. Apparently she hadn’t gotten the memo. It was his lucky day.
“Thanks.” He swung his long legs into the passenger seat and grinned in approval. “By the way…nice car.”
“Right?” Bec gave it a loving pat on the interior top. “It belongs to my friend, Coop. He’s letting me use it while I’m home.”
“Ah.” Christopher nodded in understanding, pleased he’d buckled when as Bec pressed down on the accelerator and took off down the road, so fast the fields became a blur of yellow on each side. “That makes sense. I didn’t think it looked like it belonged to a vintage wedding business.”
“God, no.” Bec turned to him, not bothering to look at the road. “Pepper and I have been trying to tell Emmy for years that just because something’s old and belonged to our relatives doesn’t make it worth saving. After all, you don’t see anyone watching black and white television anymore, do you?”
“Er, no,” he said, not quite sure where the question was leading.
“Exactly.” Bec thumped the steering wheel as if she’d just won the lottery. “But according to Emmy everything old is good. It’s all about tradition and maintaining the past. Even if the past is falling down around your head.”
“Ah. So, this is about selling Wishing Bridge Farm?”
“She probably told you we’re the two evil sisters trying to make her life a misery, but I swear it’s not true. We’re just trying to help her see what she’s missing. We don’t want her to turn into Ivy.”
“From what I can tell, she’s happy where she is,” Christopher said, not quite sure why he was playing devil’s advocate.
“Only because she doesn’t know any different,” Bec insisted. “You might have better luck getting through to her.”
“Doubtful.” Christopher shook his head as Bec squealed around the corner. No guesses which was the more adventurous sister. “Emmy would probably just do the opposite of what I said.”
“Really?” Bec, who was looking a bit pale, wrinkled her nose. “Because while she’s stuck in her ways, she doesn’t normally argue with people. Ivy always said Emmy was the diplomat of the family.”
“That hasn’t been my experience.” Christopher raised an eyebrow. Diplomat was the very last word he would use to describe her. Complicated. Focused. Infuriating. Brain-meltingly gorgeous. But definitely not diplomatic.
“So, what is it with you two? I know she said there was a plumbing problem at the inn, but I get the feeling there’s more to it. Is there something you want to tell me?” Bec pulled up into the center of Sunshine. She parked the car, and Christopher found himself under her frank scrutiny.
“Nothing to tell.” Christopher shrugged, not sure if he was trying to convince Bec or himself. “She’s the wedding planner and I’m the best man; that’s as deep as our relationship goes.”
“Really.” Bec toyed with the keys in the ignition before shrugging. “Still, I guess we all have our secrets, and if you don’t want to tell me what’s going on between you two, then that’s fine.”
“Thanks. And without sounding like I want to change the subject, are you okay? You look a bit—”
“Like I’m coming down with the flu?” Bec intervened, while studiously avoiding his gaze. “Because I think I caught something on the flight over. I’m sure it’s nothing. Anyway, I’ve got some errands to run.”
“Of course. Thanks for the lift. I was worried I’d get stuck in the back of a goat truck or something.”
“No worries.” Bec grinned, and then without another word she clambered out of the car and hurried away. Once she was gone, Christopher pulled out his cell phone for directions. The bar was four blocks away, so he started to walk.
He supposed the town of Sunshine was pretty enough, with tree lined streets and overflowing flower baskets hanging in front of every store giving it a homely feel. But he’d long ago learned home didn’t equal happiness. In his experience it was the exact opposite. It stopped people from reaching their full potential, letting them become bitter and twisted, taking their unhappiness out on everyone around them
Taking it out on me.
Christopher clenched his fists. His mind filled with visions of the man who sat down in the same chair every night, drowning his sorrows as he blamed his children for forcing him to give up his dreams. The saddest part was he hadn’t always been like that. After Christopher’s mom died, he could remember a few times when his father let him travel on the bus to Columbia. The trip there was often full of laughter and fun, but as soon as they turned back toward Rock Hill, his father’s mood would darken. Which was one of the reasons why Christopher refused to backtrack.
Then he frowned. This was hardly the time or place for a trip down memory lane. He increased his pace, determined to concentrate on the here and now. He turned the corner and the bar came into sight. Like the rest of the town, it was covered in hanging flower baskets and looked more like a florist than a den of iniquity, but all Christopher cared about was talking to Nancy so Trent could make the travel arrangements.
As he stepped out to the road, he caught sight of the old man Emmy had been arguing with yesterday, Monsieur Lafayette, the dove breeder. Christopher watched him slowly making his way toward the bus stop, his pace hampered by an even older woman in front of him.
Emmy hadn’t said anything about yesterday’s conversation, but he could tell by the worry lines on her forehead it was still a problem for her. Which doesn’t make it my problem. My problem is getting a fake girlfriend. But as he crossed the road, it wasn’t Nancy he pictured; it was Emmy’s tired, pale face as she sat at the sewing machine yesterday morning. She’d obviously stayed up all night, and would no doubt do so again. Especially if she was trying to get more doves at such short notice.
Christopher let out a groan as he put his hands into his pocket and turned around.
His father always said he was a fool who’d never amount to anything, and as Christopher jogged over to Monsieur Lafayette, he suspected his father was right.
And yet, here I am.
He stepped up next to the old man and held out his hand. “Excusez-moi. Je m’appelle Christopher…”
Chapter Five
“You’re going to fall off that thing if you’re not careful,” a voice said, and Emmy peered down to where Charlie was standing, careful not to let the ancient ladder wriggle. For many years Charlie had been harvester, mechanic, plumber and just about anything else Ivy had needed to run the farm. Even after most of the land had been sold off, he still tended to show up most days to see if anything needed fixing.
He had also proposed to Ivy on more than one occasion. Her aunt had always laughed it off, saying she’d made her bed long ago, and that’s the way it was going to stay, but Emmy had always known Ivy had refused him because she didn’t want to put anything before the farm or Emmy and her sisters.
“I’m always careful,” Emmy assured him as Charlie picked up a jam jar and handed it to her. The plan was that during the ceremony each jar would hold a candle to give a romantic atmosphere. The reality was her arms now ached from hanging fifty-three of them. Thankfully this was the last one.
“I recall a broken wrist, a sprained ankle, and some fifteen bee stings that say otherwise,” Charlie said in a dry voice as he held the ladder for her to carefully make her way down.
“Thank you.” Emmy wiped her hands on her old jeans and tried to tidy up her messy ponytail, which was probably full of the spider webs she’d just cleaned from the bridge trusses. “So, what are you doing down here?”
“Just walking.” Charlie shrugged, and for a moment the pair of them stood there in silence and admired the ancient wood as the faint smell of lavender blew past them. Then Charlie shifted his gaze and narrowed his eyes. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Where should she start?
The fruitless conversation with Monsieur Lafayette?
The fact Bec had unknowingly aided and abetted Christopher to go into town an
d no doubt seduce all of the bridesmaids in a row?
Or, the very worst thing. That all she wanted was for Christopher’s mouth to be on hers, his breath hot against her skin while his hands ripped her clothing away.
None of which she wished to tell to the seventy-five-year old in front of her.
“I’m fine,” she said, trying to cool down her fevered imagination. It didn’t work.
“Please. You can fool yourself, but I’m too old for that. You’re just like your great aunt. Whenever she had a problem she’d come down here to the bridge and touch the middle beam.”
“Is it obvious?” Emmy sighed and leaned against the wall of the bridge. Everyone always said she and Ivy were like two peas in a pod, so she shouldn’t really be surprised.
“It is to me. So tell me, what did you wish for this time?”
“Doves,” Emmy confessed, and Charlie immediately pulled a face.
“This bridge has created a lot of miracles but convincing Monsieur Lafayette to change his mind might be too much. Even for this old gal,” Charlie said as he went and gathered the jam jars Emmy hadn’t used and neatly piled them up in an old wooden apple crate. “Oh, by the way, your gentlemen guest is at the barn looking for you.”
Great.
“Thank you, Charlie.” Emmy turned back up the well-worn path. Late blossoming cherry branches hung over her, catching the midday sun and creating dappled shadows, while in front of her the white farmhouse looked picture-book perfect with its dormer windows and old roses climbing the pillars.
And if I don’t get my act together, it will all be lost.
Emmy’s stomach churned as she headed to the barn.
Christopher was leaning against the wooden wall, his eyes shut and a contented expression across his face. No points for guessing why. She increased her pace until she reached him. Today he was wearing a white linen shirt tucked into a pair of khakis, while on his feet where a pair of hiking boots that had seen better days. The fact he looked like he belonged here didn’t improve her mood.
“So, you decided to come back,” she said, trying to ignore the way his shoulder pulled his shirt. It was wrong she should even care what his shoulders looked like. Especially since they were attached to a man hell-bent on ruining her life.
