by Lori Wilde
Over the course of the past several days, the crew had gone around town filming the town square, the statue of Jon and Rebekka in a passionate embrace in Sweetheart Park, and the Sweetheart Tree, an ancient oak where lovers had carved their names since the town’s inception.
All the stories they’d researched were happy ones. High school sweethearts who’d thrown pennies into the fountain and married their first loves. Sure, many of the couples, like Jesse and Flynn, had overcome a lot of obstacles on their way back to each other, but the truth was, for all their searching, they hadn’t yet found any high school sweethearts that admitted tossing coins into the fountain who were not happily married to each other.
Except for you and Carrie.
And he was determined to keep that a secret from Iris. He’d made Carrie a sworn promise.
“We aren’t busting anything.” Iris scowled. “We’re confirming this stupid myth. Where’s the controversy? Where’s the conflict? That’s what is going to have viewers tuning in. Conflict. Not happy people with smug, sappy smiles on their faces.”
Irritating as Iris could be, she was right. Ever since his talk with Carrie on the afternoon that he’d arrived, Mark had been tiptoeing around any whiff of controversy. He actively sought out couples that epitomized the legend. He wanted to spare Carrie any embarrassment or pain.
Come on. Be honest. It’s not just about Carrie. You don’t want anyone finding out about your annulled marriage because you don’t want to look like a failure.
Okay, maybe not. But it wasn’t because he was ashamed of her. Rather, he was ashamed of himself and the way he’d treated her. He was able to hide his guilt in L.A. Forget about what he’d done. But now that he was back in Twilight, remorse pole-axed him every time he saw her.
And she seemed to be everywhere. Eating lunch at The Funny Farm restaurant on the square at the same time he and the crew had walked in. Sauntering past The Merry Cherub twice a day on her way to and from work. Spying on them at the shoot in Jesse Calloway’s motorcycle shop. He smiled. Damn, but she’d looked so cute, knocking over wrenches and pissing off Iris.
He glanced at his watch. She should be coming by right about now. He moved to the French doors.
“It’s too soft, too pretty, too perfect.” Iris followed him out onto the balcony. “We need to find those high school sweethearts who hate each other’s guts. The ones who’ve gotten divorced. The ones who threw pennies into the fountain and found only busted dreams. They’re here. You know they have to be here. We’ve gotta start kicking over rocks. It’s clear the citizens have circled the wagons and are feeding us pablum. But you’re an ace reporter. It’s the main reason Burt hired you for this gig. Well, that and the damned dimples.”
Right on schedule, here came Carrie heading down the street. Today she wore one of those round shirts that whirled and twirled as she walked. Red plaid, that skirt. Black tights. Black ankle boots, a perfectly crafted white cable knit sweater molded over glorious breast. Mark knew first-hand just how glorious. She looked the epitome of autumn.
Mark took a deep breath. Imagined he could smell her sweet perfume. Carrie. No other woman had ever smelled like her.
“There’s got to be at least one couple who did not live happily ever after,” Iris harped.
Yeah, he thought, and they’re closer than you think.
Iris tilted her head. “What about you, Leland? You grew up in this town. What ever happened to your high school sweetheart?”
“Didn’t have one,” he fibbed.
“You expect me to believe that? You of the lady-killing smile.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t have girlfriends. Just no one special.” The lie was acid on his tongue, but he couldn’t tell the truth. He had to protect Carrie.
His secret was so transparent. Everyone who’d lived in Twilight eight years ago knew the story of what had happened between him and Carrie. Their impulsive Vegas marriage had made the front page of the lifestyle section of the Twilight paper, just as their subsequent annulment had. Small towns thrived on gossip, and sooner or later Iris was bound to find out about him and Carrie. In fact, he was mildly surprised it hadn’t already come to light.
Then he realized the town had a vested interest in keeping their myths alive. Of course they would stay mum on the topic of his history with Carrie. And if their relationship was found out, Carrie could always deny that she’d ever thrown a penny into the fountain. No penny thrown, no myth set in motion.
He watched Carrie stroll closer, her steps springy and self-confident. She was almost underneath the balcony now. He held his breath. Willed her to look up.
She just kept on walking.
“I’m sending out a mole,” Iris said. “Someone to hang out at the local hot spots, put their ear to the ground for gossip.”
“Hey, maybe the myth is true.” He shrugged. “It could be a self-fulfilling prophecy. These couples go into marriage with their high school sweethearts thinking that they are with their soul mates and it will last forever, and so it does. It’s kind of sweet when you think about it.”
Iris made a face and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Don’t be a dolt. The myth is total bullshit. All romantic stories are bullshit.”
“Burned by love, huh?” he observed wryly.
“Everyone has been burned by love,” Iris declared. “In one way or another. Every single human being on the face of the earth.”
Angry much? Mark raised his palms. “Gotcha.”
He leaned over the edge of the balcony, watching Carrie walk away. Her auburn hair tumbled provocatively down her shoulders. And the way those hips swayed. My. My. Those hips could have been exclusively yours, but you threw them away. Yes, yes. Stupid in hindsight.
Carrie turned the corner, disappeared from view. Bye-bye, Beautiful.
“You used to live in this town.” Iris narrowed her eyes. “You should be the mole.”
“They don’t trust me. I’m the enemy, remember.”
“It may take you a little time to win them over, but you’ve got the looks and the charm. Someone is bound to blab.”
“Why can’t we just roll with the idea that the myth is true? In all the other Fact or Fantasy episodes, we’ve proven every one of the legends were fantasies. What not have one episode where fact wins?”
“Because the sweetheart legend is not a fact! Besides, I don’t want to perpetuate this crap. Somewhere in this town the love of someone’s life has broken their heart and you’re going to find them.” Iris shook a bony finger at him.
“Okay, boss.”
“So go.” She flapped a hand at him.
“Go where?”
“Go out and find the lovelorn. I suggest you try the local bar.”
“Now?”
“Can you think of a better time? We only have two weeks left and we’re losing four days of filming because of Thanksgiving.”
“Are you flying home for the holiday?” Mark asked.
“What for?”
“Celebration, family, that sort of thing.”
Iris snorted. “I have no time for that stuff. It’s maudlin and mawkish.”
“You don’t have to act tough all the time.”
“Look who’s talking? Why aren’t you going to have Thanksgiving with your family?”
“My parents are on a cruise for their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
“Lucky you. Now go. Head to the local bar. Do your job and when you get back, I want this sweetheart myth busted wide open.”
Carrie wasn’t much of a drinker. Because of her father’s history with alcohol, she tended to stay away from the stuff, but she’d had a stressful week with Mark in town, plus she and her father were hosting Thanksgiving dinner the next day and she needed to decompress before gearing up for the celebration.
She climbed on a stool at the Horny Toad Tavern,
hooked her boot heels over the top rungs and ordered a beer. The jukebox was playing “Blue Christmas,” perfectly suiting her gloomy mood. Go Elvis. Raylene was behind the bar looking as glum as Carrie felt.
“What’ll you have, honey?”
“Beer will do.”
“Any particular kind?”
“Whatever is on tap.”
Raylene poured up a mug, slid it over to Carrie, and then trailed off to wait on other customers.
Carrie sucked foam off the beer, and a pleasant burning sensation tickled her nose. She swiveled around to survey the crowded room. On the dance floor, couples were boot-scooting, dancing cheek-to-cheek. A cluster of mistletoe dangled from the strobe light over the dance floor. Every now and then some of the couples bussed lips.
Bah-humbug.
This town was too damn romantic for its own good. The ornery Grinch in her wanted to see the legend busted, but she was a Twilightite to the core. She couldn’t disrespect her home.
It occurred to her that she would be the only single person at the Thanksgiving dinner table. Her brothers, Noah and Joel, were bringing their girlfriends home from college. Flynn had Jesse, and even her dad was dating again. Barbara Duffy, the public librarian.
That was okay. No problem. She didn’t need a date. Didn’t want one, really.
It occurred to her then that she hadn’t had a serious relationship since Mark. Oh, she’d had boyfriends. Plenty of them, in fact. But not a single one she considered a keeper. Why not? Did she purposely pick inappropriate guys because she was secretly holding out hope that there was some truth to the legend of Jon and Rebekka? Some dumb indoctrinated belief that pennies flung into a fountain could somehow reshape the future?
Mark is back in town.
No. Stop. Don’t even toy with that dangerous idea.
“Is this seat taken?”
She didn’t have to look over to see who had just spoken to her in that bone-vibrating bass. She’d recognize it anywhere. Her hand tightened around the beer mug, and deep inside something foolish was happening to her body—a fine quivering, a smooth warmth, a delicious strum of energy. Carrie wasn’t even going to acknowledge that she was turned on. No way. Mark Leland did not hold that kind of power over her.
“Yep,” she said, not glancing his way as she took another draw from her beer.
He acted as if she’d said, “Yep, have a seat.”
She wouldn’t glance over because even as he pulled out the neighboring bar stool and sat down, she was fighting a highly stupid urge to grab him by the arm, drag him onto the dance floor underneath the mistletoe, and kiss him until she forgot that eight years and the distance from L.A. to Twilight stretched between them.
Dammit! She thought she’d beaten this attraction. Snuffed it out. Stamped it down. Gotten rid of any pesky desire she’d once felt for him. Apparently, she had not. Finally, unable to stand it, she darted a quick glance his way.
Big mistake.
He’d shed the high-dollar suit and shoes and instead wore faded jeans, a western shirt, and cowboy boots. There, in the shadows from the neon bar lights, he could have been nineteen again. He possessed deep brown eyes a girl could bathe in. Dimples that her index finger ached to caress. He was long and lanky and sexy as sin.
Stay strong.
There was no backtracking. No repeating the past. What was done was done. Hmm, how many more tired adages could she drag out to convince herself that it was well and truly O.V.E.R. between them?
Raylene came over. “What’ll you have, Mark?”
“Beer will do.”
“Slummin’, huh?” Carrie couldn’t resist the dig. “Beer is quite a comedown from Dom Perignon.”
Another guy might have taken offense, considered that putting up with her barbed tongue wasn’t worth the effort, but Mark just laughed. “Actually, Dom Perignon is way overrated.”
“Aha, so you have drunk Dom.”
“I have,” he said mildly.
“You know what, I’m happy for you,” she said, finding that she meant it. “You got everything you ever wanted.”
“Not everything.” His voice deepened.
Carrie darted a glance his way, saw dark emotion in his eyes. Was it regret?
“I wouldn’t blame you for hating me forever,” Mark said.
“I don’t hate you.” She splayed both palms against the smooth wood of the bar. I still love you, you clueless nimrod.
But there was no way in hell she would ever tell him that. She’d only quietly admitted it to herself right that very moment. She would always love him in a way, she supposed. Her first love. Her high school sweetheart. But so what? They were ninety thousand reasons they could never be together. She’d just have to live with the hole in her heart until one day when she found a new love who had the power to wipe Mark Leland from her memory.
At that moment, the music shifted on the jukebox, going from Christmas melodies to The Rolling Stones playing “Memory Motel.” Okay, what joker put that song on?
“That means a lot to me,” he murmured. Then he moved his hand ever so slightly and lightly touched her right thumb with the pinkie finger of his left hand.
Barely there, but that tiny touch lit her up like the Fourth of July sky. Move your hand! But instead of jerking away—instead, oh instead—she curled her thumb around his finger. Instantly, a brick of tears log-jammed her throat.
Do not cry! Under no circumstances are you to cry.
Mark’s hand covered hers and he leaned closer. “Dance with me, Carrie.”
It was a terrible idea. She opened her mouth to tell him no, but he was already off his stool, her hand clasped in his, dragging her toward the dance floor.
And just like that, she allowed herself to be led.
He slipped his arms around her, his gaze locked on her face. “What’s wrong?” he murmured.
He could read her so well. Even after all those years. His gentle voice prodded, urging her to tell him everything. The tears were in her mouth now, salty and so close to slipping down her cheeks. She would not let him know how much he affected her.
“You mean besides the fact you highjacked me into dancing with you?” she sassed and gulped down the tears. There. She’d won.
“Uh-huh.” His grip tightened around her waist as he two-stepped her around the other dancers. He moved with instinctive grace, never once taking his eyes off her face.
“I don’t want to dance with you.”
“I know.” He pulled her closer still. “You can tell me anything, Carrie. I want you to know that.”
Oh, yes. Just open her mouth and say, I love you. How well would that really go over?
He guided her head to his shoulder, and like a fool she just kept it resting there, breathing in the manly scent of his cologne.
Her stomach gave a shaky, vulnerable quiver. He was so much more than he once was. Masculine as ever, but now all the rough edges were polished off. He was on a whole different plane. A Hollywood big wheel. She was only Carrie MacGregor from Twilight. But Mark? He was a star.
From the jukebox, Chris Issak was singing “Wicked Games.” She had to agree with the lyrics. She did not want to fall in love, but it was far too late. She’d fallen for him in high school, and no matter what she told herself to the contrary she’d never really gotten over him.
“Do you remember when we danced like this at the nightclub in Caesar’s Palace?” he whispered in her ear.
Carrie remembered all too well. She lifted her head from his shoulder, stared into his eyes. “That was a very long time ago.”
He cupped her chin in his hand, his thumb sliding over her jaw, his gaze hooked on her mouth. She could almost taste him. The way he used to taste, once upon a time. Did he still taste the same?
“Carrie,” he said softly, her name rolling off his tongue like a prayer.
/> As if he really, truly cared about her.
She stopped moving in the middle of the dance floor and rooted her feet, causing him to have to stop, too. “This was a really bad idea.”
“So is this,” he said. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
Then there, underneath the mistletoe on Thanksgiving Eve, her former husband kissed her.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mark closed his mouth over Carrie’s delectable lips and the circuit board of his brain lit up. At last she was in his arms once more. Illogically, it felt as if he’d been holding his breath for eight long years, and finally he could breathe again.
Dimly, he was aware of a smattering of applause, the sound of the jukebox changing, and then came John Mayer singing their song. “Your Body is a Wonderland.”
Meddlesome, small-town folks. A guy had to love them. People you knew. People you could trust. People who had your back no matter what. The kind of people he had not found since he’d left Twilight in his rearview mirror. How much he had willingly given up for success.
His people.
Her sweet mouth turned salty, and Carrie gave a little shiver. Her shoulders trembled as if she was crying. Carrie? Crying? On another woman, maybe, but this was tough, sassy, tart-mouthed Carrie MacGregor. He’d never seen her cry. She was a rock.
Slowly, he peeled his mouth from hers. “Carrie, are you crying?”
She smacked a palm against his chest, pushed back. “Screw you.”
Yeah, well, that thought had been primary in his mind since he’d looked over that balcony and seen her on the street. “Sweetheart, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“I’m not crying!” She swiped at her eyes. “Don’t for one minute think you have that kind of power over me, Mark Leland.” Her cheeks flushed.
Around them the other couples had stopped dancing. They were drawing an audience.
