Maurie laughed and took the bouquet. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.” She breathed them in, closing her eyes for a moment.
“Does that mean she likes them, Daddy?” Trent said.
“Yes, I believe it does.” Grant’s voice held amusement.
Maurie opened her eyes, only to be caught up in Grant’s intense gaze. Taffy’s voice murmured in the background while she chatted with a customer, and Trent might have asked another question, or a dozen. But Maurie felt herself propelled toward the man about whom she hadn’t been able to stop thinking for weeks, perhaps years.
She stepped forward, placed her hand on his chest, and lifted up on her toes. And then she pressed her lips against his and kissed him.
Grant didn’t hesitate, kissing her back even though they were standing in the middle of her shop surrounded by people. His arms came around her as he pulled her close and deepened the kiss. When he finally drew away, he was grinning, she was blushing, and the customers were clapping.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Maurie,” Grant said.
Click on the covers to visit Heather’s Amazon Author Page:
Heather B. Moore is a USA Today bestselling author. She writes historical thrillers under the pen name H.B. Moore; her latest are Lost King and Slave Queen. Under the name Heather B. Moore, she writes romance and women’s fiction. She’s one of the coauthors of The Newport Ladies Book Club series. Other works include Heart of the Ocean, The Fortune Café, The Boardwalk Antiques Shop, the Aliso Creek series, and the Amazon bestselling series A Timeless Romance Anthology.
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Chapter One
KAYLA
I dropped my duffel into the entryway and hung my keys on the peg by the door. “Hello? Anyone home?”
“Kayla!” Sixteen-year-old Bridget came running from the direction of the family room, colliding into me before I’d even made it halfway down the hallway. Her hair was wet, piled in a messy topknot and, as usual, smelled faintly of the pool. “I’m glad you’re home!”
“Me, too. It’s been too long. Where’s Mom and Dad?”
“In the family room. We’re watching tapes from my last meet. Want to see?”
“Sure I do. Is this the one where you…”
“Where I lost? Yeah. I think I’ve finally figured out why. But seriously. Delaney Fisher is incredibly fast. If I’m going to lose, I’d rather it be to her than anyone else.”
I held up a finger. “First of all, second place is not losing. But also, you better not be complacent. You’re a Phillips. And Phillips swimmers don’t settle.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “You sound like Coach.”
I followed my baby sister into the family room. Dad was reclined on the couch, his feet propped on the ottoman. Mom sat at the table under the window, her laptop open in front of her. I leaned over and kissed my dad on the top of his head. “Hey, Daddy.”
He turned, surprise evident on his face. Apparently Bridget’s chatter hadn’t been enough to clue him in on my arrival. “McKayla? When did you get here?”
“Just now. You didn’t hear Bridget yell?”
“Sorry. I was studying flip turns. I think you could shave a second or two, Bridg.”
Mom crossed the room and wrapped me into a big hug. “I’m glad you’re home,” she said. “I’d ask you to help get these two talking about something other than swimming, but I have a feeling you’ll be no help.”
I grinned. “Maybe after we study the flip turns?”
She laughed and turned toward the kitchen, throwing her hands into the air. “Hopeless! The lot of you! I’m getting dinner out of the oven,” she called to me over her shoulder. “Did you eat?”
“Not yet. I’m starving.”
“Look, right there,” my father said to Bridget. “See how you slow your stroke down as you approach? If you speed up instead, you could use that momentum to power through the turn.”
“Or to power me straight into the wall,” Bridget said, her hands on her hips. She looked at me, her eyebrows scrunched together in mockery of our very enthusiastic father. I grinned, my shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Dad had been the same way with me. At my last swim meet as an official member of the UC Berkeley Swim Team, unable to coach me in person, he’d resorted to sending text messages while I chilled in the ready room before my races. A barrage of last minute pointers and observations. To other athletes it might have seemed annoying, like micromanaging. But Dad’s advice was always positive, always encouraging, and frequently dead-on when it came to how I could improve. I’d grown to trust his insight over the years. He’d never failed me yet.
I reached for the remote, rewinding the clip to watch Bridget’s turns again. I nodded my head. “He’s right, I think. You are losing momentum. You don’t need an extra stroke— that probably would get you too close to the wall— but you’re holding back. You have to trust your ability to channel your speed into the turn. I’ll help. We can go to the pool together.”
“Are you going to keep training while you’re here?” Dad asked. “Or is this vacation?”
I dropped onto the couch next to him, leaning back into the cushions. “Not a vacation. I probably won’t swim quite as hard, or for as long, but I definitely want to be in the water every day.”
Dad patted my knee. “I guess with the trials coming up, every swim counts.” He stood. “I’m going to see if your mother needs help. Bridg, did you finish your homework?”
“Not yet. I’m working on it.”
“No TV ‘till you’re finished,” he said, before disappearing into the kitchen.
Bridget took his spot on the couch and turned sideways to face me, her legs crossed under her. She looked so much like me at her age. Same hair. Dark brown, constantly messy, tamed only by strong rubber bands. Or when we were feeling really patient, tons of heat. Same head-to-toe freckles, same deep green eyes. And most importantly, the same love of all things water. We even swam the same events. 200 IM, 200 Free, 200 Fly. It had probably saved our relationship, that I was so much older. There’d been too much of an age difference for us to become truly competitive, though Bridget loved reminding me of the school record she’d broken earlier in her season— my record. I still had four on the West High record boards, but Bridget was only a junior. She had plenty of time to catch up.
“So.” I pulled a pillow into my lap. “Give me the dirt. How’s life?”
She shrugged. “Good. School is good. Swimming is awesome.”
“And the boy you like is…?”
She gave me a look of mock exasperation. “What makes you think I currently like a boy?”
“You’re my little sister, which means you always like a boy. Spill it. What’s his name?”
She sighed, her eyes getting all dreamy. “Brett. He swims, too. And he’s amazing and wonderful, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask me to the Valentine’s Day Dance. He hasn’t yet. But the dance is still two weeks away, and he’s hinted at it a few times. I’m pretty sure he’s going to.”
I smiled. “That’s awesome. And good that he’s a swimmer, too.”
The worst swimming year of my life? My freshman year of college when my very serious boyfriend resented the heck out of my training schedule. I’d tried to keep everyone happy— coaches and boyfriend— but I’d failed miserably. My race times had taken the biggest hit.
I’d vowed then and there that no man would ever come between me and the pool.
“How’s Coach Davenport?” I asked.
Bridget scrunched her eyebrows. “Um, he retired a year ago?”
“What? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I loved him.”
“I thought for sure Mom had mentioned it. He and his wife are touring the country in an RV. Or maybe cruising the Caribbean? I don’t remember. He’s living the hig
h life, though. He sends postcards to the school every once in a while.”
“Who replaced him?”
“Coach Hanson. He’s young. And really cute. Pretty much the entire girls team is in love with him. He went to West, actually. You might know him.”
“Hanson.” My heart picked up speed. “Nate Hanson?”
“Yes! You do know him! He teaches freshman English, too.”
Did I know Nate Hanson? Silly question. He was only the biggest, most intense crush of my entire high school experience, which was saying something since we’d only gone to school together for a year. He’d been a senior when I was a freshman, too young for him to have ever been anything but a crush. But somehow he’d managed to set the bar for every other guy I dated all the way through school. Not surprisingly, no one ever managed to measure up.
“I haven’t seen him in years, but yeah. We went to school together. We swam together.”
“Did you know he made the Olympic team four years ago? Total craziness. He made the team, won his event even, and then like, two weeks later, had this major car crash and smashed up his shoulder.” She balled up her fists then flung them open, like exploding fireworks. “Psssh. There went his Olympic career.”
“I remember he made the team. I swam those trials, remember?” Swam being a relative term. Thank you, stupid freshman year boyfriend.
“Oh, that’s right. The year you tanked it.”
“Thanks, Bridg. Way to be delicate.”
“Whatever. You’re going to own the pool this year. Who cares about four years ago?”
“So, Coach Hanson.” I couldn’t get past the fact that my high school dream guy was my sister’s swim coach. “What’s he like?”
“So hard. Way harder than Davenport ever was. But, he’s good. I really like his coaching style.”
“And he’s still cute, huh?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Still? Does that mean you thought he was cute back in the day?” She raised her hands and made air quotes around the last part of her sentence.
“Back in the day makes me sound like I was in high school forty years ago.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
I chucked the pillow I was holding at her head. “You’re terrible.”
She flung it back then stood up, racing into the kitchen. “Mom! Did you know Kayla had a crush on my swim coach?”
I followed closely behind her. Only because I knew if she was willing to say as much to Mom, she might also say something to Nate. And that was not something I wanted to see happen. “I did not have a crush. We went to high school together. Forever ago. That’s all I said.”
“And that she thought he was cute,” Bridget added.
“He is cute,” Mom said from behind the stove. “I always thought so.”
“You know him, too?” I asked.
“Well, I see him at all of Bridget’s meets. But he also came into the clinic for rehab a few years back. After his accident.” Mom ran a physical therapy clinic in downtown Oakland. She shook her head. “It’s crazy what he went through. And amazing doctors ever managed to put him back together. He was fractured all over.”
I dropped onto a bar stool, propping my elbows on the counter, and leaned my chin into my hands. I had a vague memory of his accident. It had been pretty big news among the national swimmers. But embarrassingly enough, I was in my own self-absorbed funk right after the trials. Disappointment in myself had clouded my awareness of others, even when the other in question was my old high school crush. “How did it happen?” I asked Mom.
“What, the accident?”
I nodded.
“Some kid holding a cell phone. Blew through an intersection and t-boned him.” She turned to Bridget. “You heard that, right? You better still be putting your phone in the glove box.”
“Why do we even still call it a glove box?” my sister asked. “Does anyone actually keep gloves in there? We should call it the napkin box. Makes more sense.”
“You should call yours the cell phone box,” Mom said. She dropped the dish towel she was holding and put her hands on her hips. “Bridget,” she said in her serious voice. “You’re hearing me, yes?”
Bridget crossed the kitchen and took Mom by the shoulders. “I’m hearing you. And I do it. Every time I drive. I promise.”
Mom nodded. “Good. McKayla? Do I need to have the same talk with you?”
I squirmed. I was by no means a reckless text and driver. But… yeah. I probably gave the phone a little too much attention. It was sobering, thinking about what had happened to Nate, about how quickly some kid’s careless moment had ended his competitive swimming career. “I’m listening. I’ll start putting my phone away, too.”
“Good. Now let’s have dinner. It’s been too long since I’ve had both my girls under one roof.”
Chapter Two
NATE
I dropped my duffel in the pool office at the clubhouse and pulled off my toeclips. Three minutes to spare. I was making better time every day. At the recommendation of my physical therapist, I’d begun riding my bike from the high school to the club for swim practice. It was only eight miles of easy back roads, so not a serious workout. But it was enough that I was already feeling strength build in my quad— more strength than I’d managed working out in the pool alone. I dug my flip flops out of my bag and slipped them on, then stretched my arms up and leaned over to touch the floor. No pain. It’d been a long time since I’d been able to say that. No pain.
“Hey, Coach. How goes it?” Tyler, the lifeguard on duty, swung around in the desk chair.
“Good. How’s the water?”
“A cool 89 degrees.”
“Ugh. You’re killing me, Tyler. That’s like swimming through pudding.”
“It’s the water aerobics brigade that’s paying for the pool, bro. You gotta do what you gotta do.”
“I feel you.” I ran my fingers through my hair, a lame attempt to undo my helmet hair. I pulled my whistle, stopwatch and clipboard out of my bag. “Catch you later, man.”
I pushed through the door that led to the pool. Usually by the time practice started, I had a few swimmers already warming up. But today the four lanes we used for practice were still empty. Instead, a crowd had gathered around the end of the farthest lane. I walked over, curious.
Sebastian, a senior and my team captain, sat on the edge of the starting block, his watch in his hand. I nudged his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
He glanced up. “Oh, hey, Coach. Check out this girl’s split.” He held up his watch. “And she’s been swimming that same speed for going on 300 meters.”
“Who is she?”
“No one knows. She’s been swimming since we showed up.”
I turned my attention to the swimmer, looking for anything I might recognize. I didn’t know who she was, but right off I did recognize one thing. Her swim cap bore the flag and emblem of the US National team.
“All right, guys,” I said. “That’s enough watching. In the water. 600 meter warm up. Let’s go.”
“Dude,” Sebastian said as he stood. “We gotta find out who she is.”
“Who who is?” Bridget, one of my juniors, crossed the deck and peered into the water. Sebastian motioned with his head to the swimmer, who was completing a flip turn at the other end of the pool. Bridget squinted, studying the swimmer for half a beat before she smiled wide. “That’s my sister. She’s going to the Olympics this summer.”
Her name flashed into my brain in an instant. Bridget Phillips. Kayla Phillips. I’d always known, somewhere in the back of my mind, that Bridget’s older sister was also a swimmer. And a talented one. But I’d never before connected the Kayla from my high school swim team, of national team stats and lists of Olympic hopefuls, to Bridget.
“Why didn’t you tell me your sister was Kayla Phillips?”
Bridget shrugged. “I guess I assumed you knew. Davenport used to ask me about her all the time.”
We watched as Kayla fi
nished another lap. Nearly all my swimmers had made it into the pool, save Bridget. “Come on,” I told her. “In the water. You’re behind on your warm up.”
“Good thing I’m faster than the rest of these yo-yos,” she said with a grin. She backed away from me and pulled on her swim cap. “You know, just in case you’re wondering, Kayla’s single.”
I shot her my teacher you just said what? eyebrows.
“I’m just saying.” She held her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Maybe it isn’t relevant information, but if it is… she’s in town for two weeks. And she’s very unattached.”
I crossed my arms. “Water. Now.”
Kayla continued to swim for the rest of my hour-long practice. I was wrapped up in timing splits, analyzing strokes, and shouting work outs, but I kept one eye on her the entire time. I didn’t want her to get away before we’d had the chance to talk. I remembered a little about high school Kayla. She’d been a freshman my senior year, so she’d always been a little too young for me to pay her much attention. But I’d still noticed.
I remembered one swim meet near the end of my senior season. The bus ride home had been long. And for whatever reason, I’d ended up sitting with her. We’d talked the entire time. If she hadn’t been fourteen, I would have asked her out at the end of the night. I’d felt that… whatever it is you feel that makes you say, yeah. More of this, please.
Now, we weren’t in high school anymore. And Bridget’s parting words were running through my brain on constant repeat.
Very unattached.
While the team worked on relay starts, I snuck into the office to grab a water bottle out of the mini fridge. I checked my phone, using the downtime to pull up Kayla’s national team profile. Recent UC Berkeley grad. Public Relations major. First place finishes in three events at the last US Open. With stats like that, her place on the Olympic team was all but guaranteed. I dropped the phone back into my bag, suddenly aware that a woman I hadn’t seen or spoken to in years had been consuming my thoughts for nearly an hour. For no other reason than that she was in my pool, had an impressive swim career, and her sister had mentioned she was single.
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