Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1)

by Becky Wade

  “Over and over again after we came home,” she told him, “friends and family and strangers and pastors told us that God had saved us for a reason. ‘He must have big plans for you,’ they’d say. And we’d smile and nod and agree, because He’d done something monumental to save us, so we obviously owed Him something monumental in return.”

  Her mouth quirked into a frown. “It can be hard to undo things you internalize when you’re twelve. For goodness’ sake—”she flung out a hand—“one of my studies is called The Sacrifice You Can’t Repay. And yet in some way or another, I think I’m still trying to pay God back for saving me.”

  His hat rode low over those haunting, pale green eyes. Compassion lived in the angles of his face. An invisible force was drawing her to him, sizzling the air with awareness.

  “No matter how much I’ve done for His glory,” she confessed, “I’ve always felt as though it wasn’t enough.”

  Time does not heal all wounds. Some things burrow into you like a splinter, and no amount of ignoring the splinter will help.

  “I can’t imagine what you went through while you were trapped,” he said.

  Memories seeped in, like black dye polluting clear water. Far worse than the nightmares she’d suffered afterward was the nightmare she’d lived. That was the one she hadn’t had the luxury of waking up from.

  Eighteen years had come and gone, and here she was, still grappling with the ramifications of what had happened to her. The bad. And the extraordinary. She’d done the hard work necessary to heal when she was a child, and again more recently with Dr. Quinley. Yet nothing could change the fact that she’d been marked by disaster. The earthquake was part of her story. So was her phenomenal God, whom she’d been unable to find for months now.

  Pressure built behind her eyes. Silently, she willed the tears not to come. Not here, in the coffee aisle, in front of Sam, who was reliable in a way she respected and practical in a way she trusted.

  Sam moved forward, shrinking the space between them.

  She pulled a rough breath inward. What was he—

  He pushed his hands into her hair and kissed her.

  He . . . They . . .

  His mouth was gentle and conquering at the same time. He smelled like an Australian summer, and he kissed the way a maestro leads an orchestra. Her brain cartwheeled with surprised joy. She placed her palms on his chest and felt his heat and taut strength.

  The kiss tasted like destiny . . . as if she’d been waiting, without knowing she’d been waiting. For him. For this. It felt more right than anything had felt in forever and a day.

  Her body soared to life—

  A deep, rusty chuckle intruded on her bliss.

  She and Sam stepped apart, looking to the source of the sound.

  An eighty-something-year-old man smiled at them good-naturedly, furrows creasing his skin. “I’m laughing at myself, not you, because see, if I didn’t depend so much on my coffee, I would’ve turned right around when I saw you two and gone a different direction. But I depend on my coffee something terrible. Please excuse the interruption.”

  “No.” A blush rolled up her cheeks. “Please excuse us.”

  She and Sam moved away from one another to give him access, Sam on one side of the gentleman and she on the other.

  The older man poured beans into a brown sack. “I sure do love my vanilla-flavored French roast. I’m very loyal to it.” He dumped the beans into the grinder, positioned his sack below the chute, and flicked the machine on.

  Bravely, she glanced at Sam. He stared back, his eyes unusually bright. His cheeks were flushed, and he looked painfully irresistible.

  Her focus skittered back to the coffee grinder. The delicious scent of vanilla coffee beans enveloped her. “I’ll need to get myself some of that flavor,” she said, meaning it. If that vanilla coffee could keep the sensory details of their kiss alive in her memory, she’d drink five cups of it a day.

  “I recommend it,” the gentleman said. “I surely do.” The grinder finished its job. The crinkling sound his bag made as he folded it seemed deafening. He raised his face to Sam. “How about those Falcons?”

  Genevieve curbed the urge to release a peal of hysterical laughter.

  “They’re off to a good start,” Sam answered.

  “Defense wins games,” the gentleman said.

  “Yep.”

  “And now I’ll let you two pick up where you left off.” He pushed his cart, one wheel wobbling madly, away from them. “God bless y’all.”

  “God bless you,” Sam and Genevieve said in unison. They watched until he vanished.

  “Lovely man,” Genevieve whispered.

  “Lovely.”

  Needing to collect her composure, she followed the same steps—sack, coffee beans, grinder—the gentleman had just performed. “Can’t wait to try this coffee.”

  “Is this your way of avoiding me?”

  “Too right,” she said merrily, borrowing one of the Aussie sayings she’d heard him use a couple of times.

  Oh dear. She really liked him. Which was wonderful. Which was dismaying. He’d kissed her this time. Hadn’t he? Yes. He’d very definitely kissed her. Yet, she was still concerned that he was about to lay down some somber pronouncements like he’d done after their last kiss.

  She deposited the bag of coffee in her basket alongside several items she did not recall selecting. What on earth was she going to do with fruit, vegetables, and coconut milk? She cleared her throat, busying herself a moment by rearranging the food in her basket, before returning her gaze to him.

  “It would be best for you not to get involved with me,” he said gravely. “I don’t have anything to offer you.”

  She sensed that the serious approach was not the approach to take at this juncture with this serious man. “I don’t know about that.” She smiled. “Men who’ve just done half a woman’s grocery shopping can’t claim that they don’t have anything to offer.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It’s in the rule book. I still need the other half of my groceries, however. Meat and such. Right? I can’t imagine a dinner of eggs and blueberries.”

  His lips—lips she’d just kissed—twitched a fraction.

  A middle-aged woman drew near, giving them not-so-subtle glances.

  Sam tugged the front of the cart toward himself, caught it, and started down the aisle. Genevieve fell in step beside him. He added things to his cart without even looking at them. Was he rattled?

  “I have a lot of flaws,” he announced, clearly wanting to expound on his earlier statement about having nothing to offer. “I’m stubborn, opinionated, and set in my ways.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I shut people out. I want things I shouldn’t.”

  “Hmm. Anything else?”

  “I hate baseball.”

  “That’s a crying shame. The hot dogs and peanuts they sell at the stadiums are yummy.”

  He selected protein bars from a shelf.

  “You may be shocked to learn that I, too, have flaws,” she said. “I cry too easily, and I’m terrible about laying down boundaries with my mom and with other people, too.”

  “I see,” he said, carefully neutral.

  “I hate video games and yogurt.”

  “Ah.”

  “I have a weakness for prescription painkillers, and I often procrastinate my writing by taking online quizzes that tell me important things like which flavor of cupcake I am.”

  “Anything else?”

  “My sister is prettier than me.”

  That commanded his full attention. “She’s not,” he said emphatically.

  “Of course she is. Everyone thinks so.”

  “Not me.”

  They reached the check-out line. He leaned and stretched as they unloaded items onto the belt, muscles playing beneath his clothing. As they inched forward in line, she noted the tawny brown of his short hair. The slope of his nose. His waist.

  This very controlled man
had just kissed her in the middle of a grocery store! She could hardly believe it.

  Thanks to her efforts, they bantered back and forth on the drive home. She didn’t want him to get too much into his own head.

  At her cottage, he insisted on carrying the groceries inside for her. When he’d set the last bag down, he turned to her. Silence elongated.

  “Thanks,” she said. The last thing she wanted was to try to define anything or to put pressure on him. “Good night.”

  He dropped his usual shields—just for a second—and she could see the force of his desire in his eyes. Then he shook himself, as if coming to his senses, and made for the door. “Good night. I’ll come by soon to explain all the things you can make with your groceries.”

  “You better. I’m a Starbucks girl, not a kale girl.”

  He shut the cottage’s door behind him.

  She pressed her hands against her cheeks and stared into the middle distance.

  What did their kiss mean? Had it been a spontaneous thing he didn’t intend to repeat? Or did he intend to repeat it again and again?

  She and Sam had each had one serious relationship. Together, their record was 0–2.

  He might still love Kayden.

  And Genevieve couldn’t afford to set herself up to experience the level of devastation she’d experienced after Thad had broken up with her. If she did, she might self-medicate by reaching for Oxy.

  Which she could not do.

  Today, Sam had helped her resist Oxy. But down the road, if things didn’t work out with him . . . ?

  It was too soon to angst about future heartbreak! There was no commitment between herself and Sam. Just friendship, a crush, and two fantastic kisses. She’d strive to live in the moment, without fretting over his intentions or the destination of their relationship.

  He’d kissed her. And it had been magnificent.

  Tonight, she wanted to cling to the jubilation of that.

  Luke

  “I’m wondering if one of those holds water.” Sebastian points to the two pipes exposed by a section of broken wall about a foot off the floor.

  We’ve been down here for a whole day now, but it feels like ten. The girls and Ben keep saying that we’ll be rescued soon. But why would anybody care about five American kids in a basement when the entire city must be ruined? I don’t hear the sound of helicopters or rescue dogs or people calling for us.

  One of the pipes is bent where a connecting piece joins two lengths of pipe together. Sebastian tries kicking down on that point. Nothing happens, except that he winces in pain and says a cuss word.

  Genevieve gives him a shocked look, as if she’s afraid a teacher is going to send him to detention.

  I watch Sebastian through gritty eyes. I don’t care whether he finds water or not because if Ethan’s dead, I might as well die down here, too.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sam was supposed to have met Kayden at the Sydney Museum, like they’d planned. He’d forgotten. He hadn’t been there at the right time, and she’d been kidnapped while she was waiting outside for him. Now he had to get her back.

  What had he done? How could he have been so careless?

  He tried to run down dark city streets to rescue her, but his body wasn’t following his demands. It was as if his feet were stuck in tar. He was too slow. Hopelessly slow.

  Why hadn’t he met her like he said he would? He hadn’t been there when she needed him, she’d been taken, and she might die. He’d betrayed her.

  Guilt and terror lodged in his chest, so heavy and painful he couldn’t bear it.

  Wildly, he looked from side to side, trying to catch sight of her. If he could find her, he could make up for his terrible mistake. “Kayden!” he yelled.

  No answer.

  He tried to run and couldn’t move. “Kayden!” He didn’t see her anywhere. Where was she? What had he done—

  Sam wrenched from sleep to consciousness. For a long moment, he lay in bed, heartbeat fast against his ribs, struggling to acclimate to reality.

  It had been a dream.

  He’d never stood Kayden up. Nor had she been kidnapped. Unfortunately, though, he couldn’t comfort himself with the knowledge that she was safe and healthy. She wasn’t.

  There was no escaping the fact that he’d let both her and himself down. And in the end, darkness had carried Kayden away. Not against her will. But because she gave darkness permission.

  The fear and shame of the dream dragged at him like chains.

  He pushed his stack of books to the side to view his alarm clock. 4:52. His internal timer often woke him a few minutes before he had to get up for work, as it had today.

  He groaned and bent an arm over his eyes.

  He’d dreamed of Kayden because kissing Gen had stirred up all his old issues. His guilt and regret.

  When she’d told him yesterday that she was still trying to pay God back for saving her, it had wrecked him.

  After God showed up for you miraculously, he understood why a person would want to pay God back. Yet how could anyone pay God back for a miracle? Gen was only human. She didn’t have the power to perform miracles.

  Which hadn’t stopped her from almost killing herself trying.

  He was like a dam whose base had been ripped away. He no longer had the ability to hold himself back. His willpower could resist every harmful thing he’d once indulged in. But it could not resist Gen.

  Their kiss last night had affected him like a collision with a locomotive. Afterward, his hands had tremored and blood had pounded in his ears. His thoughts had been in opposition to each other. Pleasure versus fear. Greediness versus humility. Satisfaction over what he’d done versus self-blame over what he’d done.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  He hit the off button on his alarm and began going through his morning routine.

  What was he going to do about Gen? Part of him whispered that he must do nothing more. He’d already allowed too much. But that part of him was growing weaker by the hour, drowned by the much stronger part of him that could think of nothing other than how soon he could see her again.

  The woman who’d slept in his guesthouse like Goldilocks had frightening power over him. She could turn his body to fire and his hardened heart to soft soil.

  Natasha liked for things to make sense. If something made no sense to her, she couldn’t let it go. She’d fixate on it until she understood it. While in the fixation phase, she had a habit of gnawing on crunchy foods the way a beaver gnaws a log.

  Genevieve sat next to her sister at the desk in Natasha’s front room. A few celery sticks lay jumbled on a paper towel. Natasha slathered peanut butter along one celery stick’s trough, then rested the knife back on the open jar. “Sure you don’t want one?” Natasha offered the snack to Genevieve.

  “I’m sure.”

  Genevieve had called her sister this morning, the morning after her fateful grocery store run with Sam, to tell her about the navy recruitment ad. Natasha had been on an outing with her kids at the time. Genevieve had needed to work. They’d decided they’d meet later in the day to squeeze in a micro-investigation. Now here they were, but they had little time. It was 4:05 on Halloween afternoon, and Genevieve could feel the expectant excitement building like a coming storm within Natasha’s household. The kids were currently playing in the backyard with Wyatt, but soon they’d all need to get dressed for this evening’s festivities.

  “We have a theory that Dad may have known either Russell or Mom before his trip to Camden,” Natasha said. “If that’s the case, then Dad most likely got to know one or both of them during his senior year and Russell and Mom’s freshman year at Mercer.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We need evidence.” Natasha drummed her fingertips against the top of her desk. “How can we find evidence that proves they knew each other before 1983?”

  “Mutual friends? If Dad knew Russell or Mom in college then someone else knows that he did.”

  “Do you
remember the name of any of Dad’s college friends?” Natasha asked.

  Genevieve had met a few of them many years before, but those interactions had been brief. “No. You?”

  “No. I wish we could ask Nanny and Pop about Dad’s Mercer friends.”

  Unfortunately, Pop had passed away a decade ago, and Nanny had dementia. “I’ll go visit Nanny soon,” Genevieve said. “It’s time for me to check in on her anyway, and it could be that something about Dad will shake loose from her memory.” She tipped the hook of her earring forward and back thoughtfully. “Dad’s siblings might know who his college friends were.”

  “None of them went to Mercer, but you’re right. They still might remember his friends from that time. Problem is, as soon as I call Aunt Connie, Aunt Jolene, or Uncle Colby, they’ll tell Dad and then Dad will know we’re researching him behind his back.” Natasha loaded another celery stick with peanut butter and munched it loudly.

  Genevieve stole a surreptitious peek at her phone for the three thousandth time that day.

  Status: Sam still hadn’t texted or called.

  She’d determined that she would not obsess over what Sam was thinking or what might come next between them. That’s what her head had decided, very firmly. Her hands, however, wouldn’t stop reaching for her phone and checking it compulsively.

  “A photograph would provide evidence,” Natasha mused.

  “What sort of photograph?”

  “Of Dad with his college buddies that . . . I don’t know, ran in the school newspaper?”

  “What about a school yearbook?”

  “That’s genius!” Natasha’s posture whipped straight. She faced her computer and began typing. “Remember all those photos I displayed at Wyatt’s birthday dinner two years ago? One of them was of him on the JV basketball team in high school. I found that on a website. It’s amazing how many yearbooks have been archived online.”

  “Dad was in a fraternity, and Mom was in a sorority. Both those organizations would be featured in a yearbook.”

  “Russell’s obituary mentioned that he was in a fraternity, too,” Natasha said. “But it wasn’t the same fraternity as Dad’s.”