by Kim Amos
Willa couldn’t remember Burk ever being this gruff. Or this handsome, she thought, taking in the tumble of dark hair, thicker than she recalled, and the edge of his cheekbones, sharper than when they’d dated in high school. The shadow of stubble across his face made her pulse quicken.
Willa, by contrast, knew her recent past hadn’t done her any favors. She’d put on weight from all the financial strain and legal battles related to Lance’s botched finances. She tried not to think about how her newfound curves must look next to a plate of decimated hot dish.
Not that Burk appeared to notice. He tapped a pen against the notepad’s spirals. “So you’re finally going to fix the old place up, eh?”
His vowels were incredibly round. “So” and “going” sounded drawn out, as if he was adding extra O’s to the words. Willa wondered if she’d talked like that at some point. She must have, but now it sounded like a foreign language.
“Yes, it’s stood empty for a long time, as you know. It needs a lot of work.”
“What do you want to start with?”
The brusque question was no doubt the result of Burk being time-strapped, but disappointment needled her nonetheless. Did he have to be so curt? She couldn’t expect Burk to treat her any differently just because they had a past. But she suddenly felt as if a long-buried part of her wanted him to.
No. Absolutely not. She stared at his mouth, fighting off the memory of his lips against hers all those years ago. The warm, tender brush of them. The sweet touch of skin on skin.
Forget it. She was not going to allow her emotions to sidetrack her. She knew firsthand how disastrous it could be to want something that just wasn’t there.
Besides, Burk was being terse, not to mention inefficient. If he’d met her at the house, they could have covered all his questions already. They could have walked around and talked about the things that needed taking care of first. If the purpose of the meeting was for them to figure out if they could work together, why was he asking about project priorities?
“As you know, there’s a lot to be done,” Willa answered carefully, reining in her emotions. “In addition to fixing up the obvious things—the roof, the floors, the windows—I also need to knock down some walls. And reroute some plumbing. Probably also put some additional appliances in the kitchen. A second stove maybe.”
For a moment, Burk didn’t answer. Willa wondered if his face had paled slightly, or if she was imagining it.
“That’s quite an overhaul,” he said finally.
“It needs to be. My goal is to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. It’s about time, don’t you think? I’m positive this town is ready for a first-class place to stay.” Willa didn’t know why she sounded like she was trying to talk the entire diner into liking her idea.
Something dark flashed in the depths of Burk’s stormy eyes. There was a time when Willa would have been able to read it—to know exactly what every expression or gesture meant—but that was long ago.
“We already have the Great Lakes Inn on the other side of town,” Burk said. “And I’m not sure they’re exactly bursting with customers. You sure you want to open a second motel when the first one can barely break even?”
Willa’s insides flamed with frustration. “It’s not a motel, it’s a bed-and-breakfast. There’s a huge difference. And I’m not going to have rotting bedspreads with lighthouses on them like that dump. I’m going to have down comforters and roaring fires and five-star food. Comfy couches and beautiful grounds and freshly baked cookies in the afternoon. Plus fresh juices and teas anytime you want them. Not to mention first-rate wines. All the things they have in B and B’s out East.”
Burk arched a dark eyebrow. For some reason, the motion sent a shiver through her.
“Sounds expensive,” he said.
Willa squared her shoulders. “It will be elegant. Lovely.”
“Suit yourself,” he said, his eyes returning to his notebook.
Willa had the distinct impression he wasn’t convinced. Which was fine, she supposed. She needed a contractor, not a consultant.
“There are a few outdoor issues as well as indoor,” she said, pressing forward with her project list. “Some rotted wood on the front porch, though I’m not sure—”
Burk held up his hand. “No need to go into any of that yet.”
Willa blinked. She wasn’t used to being shut down like this by anyone, much less Burk. In high school, he had once driven to the next town over for ice cream when it turned out that White Pine’s own Lumberjack Grocery was out of rocky road, her favorite. She would have settled for vanilla, but Burk told her she deserved to have what she really wanted. When he came back with the rocky road, she kissed him so hard that they wound up entwined together for hours, and the ice cream had melted into a puddle on the counter.
“You under a deadline?” he asked, jarring her back to the here and now.
“Not strictly. Certainly the sooner the bett—”
“Well, I’m always on deadline. And I like to finish projects quickly. If I take this on, I’ll be at the site often. No screwing around. If I’m in your way, that’s just part of it. I aim to get it done fast. And right. Will that be a problem?”
Willa sat back, shocked by his tone. She suddenly debated hitting the yellow pages, maybe trying to find someone else to do the work. But if it had been Burk caring for the house all these years, then he’d know it better than anyone. It would only make sense to keep him on the job.
“No,” she replied.
He scratched something on his notepad, then shoved it back into his flannel pocket. When his eyes met hers again, she thought she saw a softness there—a spark of kindness. Her heart fluttered in anticipation. He was going to tell her how good it was to see her, and that it made sense for them to collaborate on this project together. Finally.
Instead, he stood up. “We’ll get started tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp. I was late today, but it’s only because my truck wouldn’t start. That’s the exception, not the rule.”
Willa pressed her lips together, more disappointed than she wanted to admit at his gruff manner. It shouldn’t matter to her whether Burk Olmstead was glad to see her. She didn’t need him to be nice to her, for heaven’s sake. All that mattered was that he was willing to work on the house.
Or so she thought until he gave her a small smile. Instantly, her breath caught. She leaned forward, tensing with an inexplicable desire to hear him say how glad he was to have her back in White Pine again.
“You have melted cheese on your upper lip,” he said instead.
Willa raked her napkin over her mouth, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment as he strode out of the diner. As she heard the cowbell clunk over the door, she suddenly wanted nothing more than to be back in New York, breathing in the dense air of the city as she threaded her way down packed sidewalks, past galleries and shops and restaurants where she could pop in and get sushi anytime she wanted. She rubbed her forehead, knowing that if she asked for an eel roll here, they’d probably send her down to the Birch River with a pole.
Taking a breath, Willa flattened her palms on the table’s slick wood top. Two days in, and she already wanted to flee Minnesota. It wasn’t a good sign, that was for sure, but New York was in the past. She was going to have to make White Pine work now. She was going to have to make her bed-and-breakfast work, for that matter.
She paid the bill, marveling at how little her meal cost and at how the waitress, Cindi, had dotted her i with a heart on the handwritten ticket.
People like Cindi-with-a-heart needed what she had to offer them, Willa reasoned. They were behind the times, and she had a New York aesthetic to bring to the town. People like Cindi would positively eat up the level of culture and sophistication she’d give them with her B and B.
Right. Because shacking up with a fumbling investor and then leaving town when you’re on the edge of broke is so high-class, a voice inside her chided.
Willa swallowed. Her past wasn’t blemish-
free, that was for sure, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. And she wasn’t about to let Burk Olmstead stand in her way, either.
He could give her attitude all day long and it wouldn’t matter. He could yammer about the Great Lakes Inn and it wouldn’t make an iota of difference.
Her job was to think of him as a contractor now, and nothing more.
She stepped out of the diner into the crisp sunshine and tilted her face to the sky. A breeze rustled the leaves of Main Street’s trees. The smell from the nearby bakery floated on the air, warm and sweet.
Behind her was New York and all the mistakes in her life she couldn’t fix. The embarrassment of it was right there, a tar pit of humiliation bubbling just under her skin. But she refused to crack. She blinked away the tears that sprang into her eyes. A herculean wave of embarrassment was trying to drown her in the idea that she was just a stupid, shallow socialite, and she’d lost everything as a result.
But she wouldn’t go under just yet. Because ahead was the one thing she could fix: her house.
Or more precisely, Burk Olmstead could fix her house.
Briefly she wondered if she could trust herself alone with him for weeks on end, but then she shook off the thought and the all-over tingle that accompanied it. She exhaled to cool the heat in her body. The girl who had loved Burk Olmstead was long gone, and the boy who had loved her back had disappeared into an exterior as hard as concrete.
Which was just as it should be.
Houses needed lots of concrete, after all.
CHAPTER TWO
Wednesday, September 19, 11:57 a.m.
Burk Olmstead started up his battered red pickup and told himself that his hands were shaking from the vibration in the engine—not from seeing Willa Masterson again after all these years.
When she left twelve years ago, he’d longed for her to come back with a ferocity that bordered on insanity. But now—well, seeing her in White Pine again after all this time, he was anxious for her to turn around and head back the way she’d come.
Not that it was any big deal. After all, she barely even looked like herself anymore. Her blond hair was shorter and darker. Her clothes were crisp and tailored, so prim and proper compared to the wisps of T-shirts and shorts he remembered her wearing, the kind that would expose great swaths of her silky skin. In other words, she was a woman now, curvier and more solid in a way that had caught him completely off guard. And if he was honest, had him wanting to place his hand in the space where her hip met her waist—a contour that hadn’t been there when they were kids.
He shook his head. Whatever she looked like today, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t the fiery, hotheaded blonde he once knew.
And once loved, he thought.
Except that was a long time ago. He was a different person now.
And clearly, so was she.
He drove down Main Street, keeping the hardware store on his left and the Birch River on his right. The sidewalks in front of all the stores were dappled with sun and shadow, the leaves on the nearby trees fluttering and dancing. The bright green of summer was yellowing as fall approached—the air was already turning cool, and the sky was that impossible, cloudless blue that would soon form the backdrop for fat orange pumpkins and stacks of yellow hay and baskets of red apples.
The American flag in front of Loon Call Antiques flapped above painted pots bursting with yellow and orange mums. When the snow started, the store would pull in its wooden benches. But for now, anyone could sit and watch the town’s hustle and bustle. Not that it was much of a show, but Burk often liked to get a donut at the Rolling Pin, or a scoop of ice cream at the Dairy Dream, and weather permitting, sit on those rough old seats, listening to the whisper of the river or the splash of the small fountain in front of the library.
He loved the quiet comfort of this place, but Willa Masterson never had. Back in the day, she couldn’t wait to leave White Pine, which made him wonder what in the world had happened to bring her back. And to think about opening a B and B to boot.
He frowned, still feeling the warmth on his skin where they’d shaken hands. When he was in high school, he thought he would burst into flames just being around her. Now here he was, fighting the same urges. His groin tightened, but he took deep breaths, forcing his muscles to relax.
He’d thought the days when Willa Masterson could have any effect on him were long gone. He’d thought he’d made sure of that. Which meant that if she was back in town and he was getting riled up again—well, he’d just have to work a little harder at putting the past away. He wasn’t a sinewy kid in a secondhand leather jacket anymore, trying to get close to the most beautiful girl in high school. Not to mention the richest.
These days, he was fit and successful. Ladies liked a self-made man, which was good for Burk, who liked the ladies. He had it good, he knew. B.C.’s Contracting was doing well. Or if not well, then it was doing fine.
Most months anyway.
Burk shook his head. He was in the black now, and that was all that mattered. He looked great. He felt incredible. The list of things in the world that could mess up his game was short, and Willa Masterson was definitely not on it.
His phone buzzed on the seat next to him, and he glanced down at the text. Dinner later?
He fought a stab of disappointment when he didn’t recognize the number. He’d hoped it was his sister, Anna, inviting him over for a family meal. Now he’d have to figure out whether the message was from the curvy brunette he’d met at the bowling alley the other night, or the raven-haired cashier at the lawn and garden store. Or that large-animal veterinarian whose skin had smelled like strawberries.
He swung a left at the library and drove up a small hill—out of the river valley and into White Pine’s tree-lined neighborhoods—and wondered if he should just invite himself over to Anna’s instead. He’d never say it out loud, but spending time with his sister and her family, especially his niece, Juniper, was the highlight of his week. Those dinners were worth it, even if he had to endure his sister fussing and clucking over him all the time, like he was a chick wandering too far away from the coop.
You work too much, she’d tell him when dinner was over and it was time to serve dessert. Inevitably, she’d set down an apple pie or a peach cobbler or still-warm chocolate chip cookies (he had to hand it to his sister, she could bake), along with a strong cup of coffee. Then, like it was a ritual, he’d sip the coffee—black—and try to explain how hard it was to keep a small company afloat. As the owner, you had to do everything.
“And that includes denying yourself dessert, too, apparently,” Anna would reply, folding her arms across her chest and letting her dark blue eyes, the same color as his, take in the untouched treat.
He didn’t know how to tell her he couldn’t handle the excess. What were the words he could use to explain the system, the routine he’d developed once he’d realized no one was going to hand him anything in life? He and his sister had grown up in the same hardscrabble house, but they’d responded differently to identical conditions. She had softened, finding clever ways to indulge herself when she could—like baking delicious meals and desserts—whereas he’d scraped all the indulgences away in favor of ruthless pragmatism.
These days, he favored checklists and rules that formed the building blocks of the life he wanted, working as hard as he did because it felt right, like the harder he labored, the better he became. He could control more, do more, achieve more.
Plus, he was responsible for a crew of six. If he didn’t pay them, no one did. When times were lean, like they had been recently, it was on Burk to make things right.
He inched the truck down Oak Street, thick tree branches arcing above him. A V of geese honked overhead, wings carrying them south, away from the inevitable Minnesota winter. You’re leaving too soon, Burk wanted to call to them as the sun filtered through leaves that would soon explode with color. It was the best time to live in Minnesota if you asked him. He threw the truck in park and ste
pped out into the fresh, open air, filling his lungs with it.
This is where I belong, he thought, facing the house at 802 Oak Street. Willa’s house, technically.
He studied the 1920s Arts-and-Crafts-style house as he had a thousand times before—sometimes from the street, and sometimes from up close, when he’d trim back the bushes or clean out the gutters or shovel snow in the winter.
The thick columns on the front, more square than round, rose up to meet a porch roof lined with teak slats. Above that, on the second story, windows filled with thick, wavy glass twinkled in the sun. The third floor was capped with a strong peak, angular and elegant at the same time. The whole house was like that, Burk thought, angular and elegant, which was why he loved it so much. He had admired it ever since Willa’s family had lived there, when he used to climb up a trellis in the back and sneak into Willa’s bed.
It was the only way boys like Burk got inside the Mastersons’ house, or any house on Oak Street for that matter. Burk glanced at the stately Victorian next door, and the sturdy brick Tudor across the street. Growing up, his family had lived closer to the river, in tumbledown apartments that were perpetually damp. He could still remember the sandy, moldy smell that permeated the place, so omnipresent you’d swear it was pressed into the walls.
There was a time the Olmsteads didn’t belong on Oak Street.
But things were different now. Burk had worked thousands of hours to make something of himself, to build a life and a business that earned him respect and a decent living. He wanted a home on Oak street—this home in particular.
He was the one who’d kept the place up after Willa’s mom, Edna, had abandoned it. He’d hammered new boards into the porch. He’d torn down ivy winding its way into the old chimney. He’d hacked back the bushes so it didn’t look so overgrown. Sure, she’d paid him as a caretaker, but he kept it up even after he’d grown his maintenance company into a contracting business. He’d kept it up even when he didn’t get reimbursed for restaining the back deck or buying a new lawnmower when the ancient one in the garage finally expired.
