by Melissa Tagg
“Guess so.” Raegan tucked her hands in the back pockets of her shorts.
He tipped his sunglasses over his eyes as the marching band shifted into a drum-line routine. Kate jogged over then, hair flopping behind her in what he’d come to realize was her usual ponytail. Although she’d left her hair down for church yesterday, in unruly waves that reached past her shoulders.
“I know you were complaining about the parade, Greene,” she said as she reached them. She propped her hands on the waist of her faded jeans. “But you didn’t have to start an engine fire to get out of it.”
“Hey, if I was going to purposely start a fire . . . A, I wouldn’t have waited until the end of the parade, and B, I would’ve done a better job than that little display of smoke.”
Raegan laughed. “I’m not sure how comfortable I am with the fact that a man sleeping under our roof is bragging about his fire-starting skills.” She blew a bubble with her gum. “My float’s getting away without me. See ya.”
She ran back to the parade, leaving Colton and Kate alone. He now glanced around the stretch of street and grass that made up Maple Valley’s center. Its downtown wrapped around the green town square in a quaint arrangement of buildings—some brick and some paneled. Old-fashioned brass signs and colorful awnings reached toward the lampposts lining the sidewalks.
“Damage doesn’t look quite as bad when there are so many people crowding the square, does it?” Kate said.
He turned to her. “I’m surprised so many people came out after a week like last week.”
“Oh, Maple Valley loves its parades. Part of what gives us our eccentric charm. That and the fact that we probably have more antique stores per capita than any town this side of anywhere.”
“Guess I know where to come next time I want an uncomfortable chair.”
“And make sure not to miss the display of historical doorknobs at Moser’s. It’s the highlight.”
He laughed, then paused under the shade of an old oak tree stripped of half its leaves but a survivor of the storm nonetheless. “Listen, Kate, I’ve got a question for you. More like a favor to ask. It’s kind of . . . big.”
“If it’s to switch back bedrooms, I’ve only offered about a thousand times already.”
Barely an exaggeration. But no way was he stealing the woman’s space. “Bigger than that. You’ve written a book before, yeah?”
All the ease left her expression, replaced by a wariness she tried to hide behind a nonchalant shrug. “One.”
“How’d you like to write another?” Wait! Should he have run this by Ian first?
“I don’t understand.” She wrinkled her nose, a dusting of freckles he hadn’t noticed before now obvious in the sunlight.
Ian told me to find a writer. She’s a writer. And something told him working with Katharine Rose Walker would be about a hundred times more enjoyable than any of the professional ghostwriters Ian had dug up.
He lifted his sunglasses to his forehead and met Kate’s eyes. “Not just any book, Rosie. My book.”
“Trust Maple Valley to turn a cleanup effort into a party.”
The statement of amusement came from the lithe girl with the blond hair Seth had introduced as Ava Kingsley—the woman who, according to Raegan, had swept their cousin clean off his feet.
Kate clapped the dirt from the work gloves covering her hands. “I thought you were a newbie, but clearly you’re already well acquainted with the quirkier facets of Maple Valley.” She reached for a gangly branch, hefted it up, and tossed it into the growing pile in the middle of the town square.
The city had cancelled all its Labor Day events except for the parade. But then someone had come up with the idea of doing a massive bonfire tonight—a fun way of cleaning up the storm-flung branches and debris.
A celebratory spirit hovered in the air as community members worked together to clean up the park. Someone had set up an apple-cider table over in the corner, and a big-band tune piped through the speakers around the band shell.
Ava threw a handful of sticks into the woodpile. “I may have only been in town a month, but I’ve been trading emails with Seth for a year. I’ve heard plenty of stories about this town.”
Oh yes, Raegan had recapped Seth and Ava’s long-distance friendship turned budding romance for Kate on her first day back in town. It was the kind of story that would’ve made for a good film script.
And that was all it took—one fleeting thought about writing—to tow Colton’s crazy idea back to the forefront of her mind. Truthfully, it’d been there all day—daring her to come up with one good reason why she should say no.
One good reason? I can come up with a dozen.
For starters, how about the words that chased her around anytime she remembered back to her first book: Colossal flop. The harshest of the few reviews her book managed to garner had pulled out all the stops. Then there was the fact that she’d never even read a sports memoir, let alone considered writing one.
But she owed Colton an answer—had promised him one by the end of the day. He’d apologized for needing such a quick response, but apparently he had an antsy manager and a looming deadline breathing down his neck.
Kate pulled the sweatshirt from around her waist and tugged it over her arms. Only the third day in September, and already autumn was hinting at an early appearance. The day’s warmth had trickled into cooler temps as night approached.
An engine rumbled into the buzz filling the square.
Ava dragged off her work gloves. “Oh good, the fire department’s here. I don’t know whether to be comforted or concerned by that.” She flashed a grin. “And there’s Seth.”
Kate’s cousin walked across the lawn. He high-fived a guy who’d been working and laughing with Raegan for the past hour, then spotted Ava, his smile the stuff of Disney cartoons.
“I gotta say, the two of you would be awfully convincing leads in a Heartline movie.”
Ava hugged her arms to herself. “Ha, except I’m no actress.”
True, considering Ava probably couldn’t have hidden her giddy expression if she tried. Seth reached them, pulled Ava to his side, and planted a kiss on her temple. “My girlfriend has finally met three of my four cousins. Now we just need to get Beckett home.”
Ava dressed simply—jeans and tee, baseball cap and work boots. But it was the blush in her cheeks and the way she leaned into Seth that caught Kate’s attention. “Well, it took a tornado to get Logan and Kate home. You just need another natural disaster.”
“If the river floods like everyone’s worried it will, we just might get it.”
Behind Seth one of the Parks and Rec guys arranged the last of the firewood and pulled out a lighter.
“Is it really that bad?” Kate asked. “The river, I mean?” It was high, sure, but flooding was usually a bigger concern earlier in the summer.
“If the dam in Dixon bursts, yeah, it’s really that bad.” Seth kissed Ava again, the lightness in his voice not at all a fit for his words.
“Hopefully that’s an unlikely if.” Ava grabbed Seth’s hand. “C’mon, let’s get some cider. Come along, Kate?”
“That’s okay. Already had two cups.” And she was feeling a bit like a third wheel. She watched the pair walk away hand in hand.
“Cute couple, right?”
Raegan.
“Everything finally came together for Seth. Gives me hope.” The bonfire flared to life—first small flickers of orange that lapped in the wind and scooted along the kindling, then full-on flames. She turned to her sister. “And speaking of cute couples, who’s the guy?”
Raegan followed Kate’s pointing to the man her sister had worked alongside ever since they arrived at the square. “You don’t know Bear McKinley?”
“Bear? As in lions and tigers and . . .”
“Yes, Bear. Guess it makes sense you don’t know him. He moved here five or six years ago. Good friends with Seth.”
“And you. Clearly.” She attempted a knowing wiggle of her eyebrows.<
br />
“Stop that or I’m going to start calling you Twitchy.”
“I’m just saying, you guys were laughing and talking and hobnobbing all coupley-like.”
Raegan fisted her waist. “You’re home for, what, seventy-two hours, and already you’ve joined the busybody express?”
Kate threaded her arm through Raegan’s and turned her toward the fire. “All right, I’m sorry.”
“Just because Bear is ridiculously handsome. And sings and plays guitar. And is beyond smart—you should hear him talk history and politics and . . .” Raegan took a breath. “None of that means I have a crush on him.”
Kate smiled. “Of course not.”
“Shut up.”
“Hey, I agreed with you.”
They watched the fire for quiet minutes, the activity around the town square seeming to slow as the growing fire spread its light and warmth. Both familiar and unfamiliar faces dotted the circle of people around the bonfire.
Home.
“So what’re you going to tell Colton?”
“Hmm?”
“About the book. I know he asked you. He told me yesterday after church he was going to. You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”
So his request hadn’t been impulsive. He’d put thought into this. “Me? Write a book about football? A sport that interests me about as much as the periodic table.”
Raegan nudged her with her elbow. “Not about football. About him. I’ve heard you say a thousand times you wish you could write something real. Gritty and real life—those were your words. Can’t get much more real life than a memoir.”
She had said that. Over and over until she sounded whiny even to her own ears.
“Plus, think about the money.”
“The money?”
“Kate, he’s Colton Greene, not Joe Schmo peddling a life story no one will ever buy because no one has ever heard of him. This would be a guaranteed bestseller.”
“He’s . . . he’s really that well-known?”
Raegan’s laugh was half chuckle, half snort. “Yes, he’s really that well-known. And from what I read on Google, he’s got the kind of life-turnaround story people love to read. Trust me.”
“You Googled him?”
“You didn’t?”
Life turnaround.
Money.
“Thing is, last time I wrote a book, it got panned. And all those rejections . . .” She turned to face Raegan. “Besides, writing a sports memoir is as far away from the kind of writing I’d like to do as what I’m already doing.”
But it wasn’t just that. It was . . .
It was Colton. Something about him—he unnerved her. He . . . she . . .
Fine, she was attracted to him, okay? Possibly for the first time since Gil, a man—one she didn’t even know, had only met three days ago—had captured and held hostage her attention. The way he interacted with Charlie, spent an entire day helping Seth, drove that ridiculous float, pulled her to him the other night at the depot . . .
The heat of the fire warmed over her cheeks.
There was an edge to him, too. An intriguing broodiness under the surface she’d sensed from that very first night in her bedroom. Without even trying, Colton Greene had done a number on her curiosity and her common sense.
And it scared her.
“Kate, how many times have we had this conversation? You talking about how dissatisfied you are with your writing. Wishing you could do something different, write something different? But you never do anything about it.” Raegan folded her arms. “You’re the one who’s chosen to keep writing movies. And for the record, whatever you say, they’ve been great movies. Dad and I have watched every one. I’d bet money Logan and Beckett have, too.”
“They’re sappy love stories.”
“They’re heartwarming and fun. But that’s not the point. You could’ve switched gears at any time. You could’ve finished another book or gone and gotten a job writing for a nonprofit, or . . . or I don’t know. Now you’ve got an opportunity that could make your dream possible and you’re thinking of walking away?”
Raegan had never talked to her like this—never scolded her in such blunt terms.
“If you’re going to dream, Kate, commit to it. Don’t just talk about it.”
“Easy for you to say. You don’t even have—” She clamped down on the harsh words she never should’ve let escape.
Too late.
The bonfire crackled and together with the boney old oak tree overhead cast shadows over her sister’s face.
“Just because I’m not off in a big city with a big career like you and Logan and Beckett doesn’t mean I don’t have dreams.”
She tried to reach out for Raegan’s arm, but her sister stepped back. “I know, Rae, I shouldn’t have—”
“And even if I didn’t, I’d rather not have a dream at all than be too scared to pursue the one I’ve got.” And with that, Raegan turned and walked away.
Colton marched into Logan’s room. “I asked her to write my book.”
Logan dropped a pile of folded clothes in the middle of the floor. “Man, announce yourself, will you?”
Colton plopped onto Logan’s perfectly made bed—the corner of the top quilt folded over to make room for his pillow. Very Logan-esque. A suitcase lay sprawled open at the end of the bed. Wait . . . “You’re packing?”
Logan picked up the clothes he’d dropped and set them in the suitcase. “Candidate got a last-minute fundraising gig and they need a speech on energy policy drafted by Friday.”
Hints of Logan’s childhood flavored the room—two walls painted bright red, a framed Iowa Hawkeyes poster hanging on the back of his closet door, a bulletin board over his desk barely visible behind ribbons and awards, photos and newspaper clippings. And on the desk, a photo of all four Walker siblings, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, and goofy faces pointed at the camera.
What would it have been like to grow up in such a close-knit clan?
“You work too much, Walker. You ever think of taking a real vacation?”
“Not sure that word’s in my vocab.”
The wry humor in Logan’s voice didn’t match the fatigue in his eyes. A better friend would’ve noticed Logan’s exhaustion before now—wouldn’t have spent so many months wrapped up in his own miseries, miseries that probably seemed more like luxuries to someone who’d lost a wife and never got a break for more than a couple days at a time.
Logan added a pile of socks to the suitcase. “So what about your book?”
But instead of answering Logan’s question, Colton flipped the suitcase closed. “How are you and Charlie doing? Really?”
His friend paused, shrugged, surprise registering in his expression. Maybe, too, discomfort. Uncharted territory, this. Too often in the past, their friendship had been about Logan bailing Colton out of trouble. Had Colton ever taken the time to turn the tables?
“We’re fine.”
“You do realize fine is generally code for horrible?”
“Who says?”
“Everyone who’s ever said ‘I’m fine’ while feeling anything but.”
Logan rubbed one hand over the opposite arm, breeze fanning into the room from the open window, and then crossed the room to pull the chair from his desk. He sat backward in it, arms drooping over its back. “We are fine most of the time. Work is busy, but good. Charlie’s healthy and happy, has a great nanny. And her pediatrician said the not-talking thing can be normal sometimes for kids who don’t have older siblings to mimic.”
“But?”
“I’m burnt out,” Logan admitted in a low tone. “I barely see my daughter. I still have days when some random, stupid piece of my brain convinces me, just for a second, that Emma’s going to walk through the door. That she’s not really gone.”
He said it all without taking a breath. No pauses.
But Colton could feel the sharpness of his friend’s hurt all the same. If only he could find words to meet the moment. Li
ke Norah used to.
He sucked in a breath. Where had that come from? He hadn’t thought of his old social worker in a long time—her closet of an office, the easy way she’d had of rounding her desk, draping one ebony arm over his shoulder, and landing on just the right words.
“It’s going to get better. I have to believe that,” Logan said now. “Because I’ve got a daughter, and she’s going to have a good life, no matter what.”
“Of course she is. You both are.” The assurance seemed trite, lacking.
Seconds passed and Logan straightened. “Hey, you really asked Kate? What’d she say?”
“That she had to think about it. Probably means no, right?”
Logan swiveled in his chair for a few hesitance-filled seconds. “Kate could use a career break. Maybe this is the perfect thing for both of you. But . . . she’s my sister, Colt.”
His mouth went dry. “I know.”
“She’s got hurt in her past, and none of us want to see it repeated.”
Logan couldn’t seriously be implying what he thought he might be. “Dude, I asked her to co-write a book with me. That’s it. Besides, after Lilah . . .” He’d had enough with women for the moment. Too distracting. Case in point, that last game, the injuries he still iced every night. “You can trust me, Walker. Strictly business.”
Logan stood. “Yeah?”
Footsteps pattering through the hall sounded from outside Logan’s room. “Will you believe me if we shake on it? Spit in our palms and all that?”
“Unnecessary. And also gross.”
The footsteps stopped, and both men looked to the open doorway. Kate. Out of breath. “Hey. Hi.”
“Where’ve you been, sis? You smell like a fire.”
She ignored Logan’s question, gaze on Colton. “I’ll write your book.”
He stood. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You’ll write my book.”
“I’ll write your book.”
“You’ll write my book.”
“I’ll write—”
“Sheesh, broken record, anyone?” Logan flipped open his suitcase. “This just in: Kate’s gonna write Colton’s book.”
“And it better work out well, because I just called and quit my job at the Willis Tower.”
