He had a vague notion of her mentioning shelters and landscape architects, but the specifics . . .
Nada.
Still, he hazarded a guess. “Happy Creek Park?”
Her lashes flickered. “You got lucky. Yes, Happy Creek. Now that we’ve voted down the road extension, we really should update the facilities.”
“I know. Nothing has been done since the town first built it out after the Randalls donated the land.” He rapped his knuckles on his desk. “We need to start soliciting bids for the project.”
His action must’ve drawn Denise’s attention to the furniture. She trailed her fingers across the smooth surface. “You know I’ve always loved this desk. It’s a custom piece, right?”
He nodded. He’d made the rustic executive desk using reclaimed wood from a barn several counties over. It had taken him four months, and when it was done, he knew it would look great in his office. He’d received many compliments on it and evaded questions about where he’d procured it, unwilling to admit that he was the one who’d built it.
“Don’t tell me any more. The town won’t pay for it and I surely can’t afford it.” She sighed. “I’ll start gathering the information we’ll need.”
“Great,” he said, relieved they’d left the subject of the desk behind. “Write it up and submit it to me for final approval.”
“Will do.” She stood then paused. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes, of course.” He gestured to her jeans and sweater. “I appreciate you coming in on a Saturday morning for a quick meeting.”
“You’ve had a lot on your plate dealing with the possible closure of Chro-Make. It wasn’t a big deal. Stan took the kids to the bake sale and I’m on my way to meet them downtown. Unless you want to talk?”
“Nah, it’s not necessary. I’ll see you on Monday. Have a good weekend. And tell Stan I said hello.”
After Denise left, Wyatt was preparing to leave when he heard her voice in the outer office as if she was speaking to someone.
Hadn’t she said she was meeting Stan downtown?
The mystery was solved when Vince popped his head in the door. “Working on a Saturday? Who are you brown-nosing for? You’re in charge!”
“I know it’s hard for you to understand, but being mayor is a full-time job.”
“Right. You’re doing the everyman act today.” Vince strolled in, dressed in his usual Southern-gentleman-slash-bro uniform: faded red chinos, white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Vineyard Vines canvas belt, Ray-Bans on a neoprene strap around his neck. He sat in the chair Denise had just vacated. “Great game last night. We killed Highland Park. I almost felt bad for them.”
“That win was crucial. We need something to celebrate right now.”
“True. And we’ll win even more if the coach learns to make adjustments during the game. He’s gotta be ready to make changes on the fly! We can’t run the same plays over and over again.”
No one would ever be satisfied with what the coach did. Bradleton could have Bill Belichick, the best football coach in recent history, and they’d still have a need to second-guess every decision he made.
“Give the coach a chance. This is only his first year here.”
Vince crossed his legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. “The contest on the field wasn’t the only entertainment last night. People were talking about you bringing the woman from Endurance to the game.”
Wyatt flicked his gaze to the ceiling. He’d been clear that the plan was to show Caila around town. How did they think it was going to be done? A self-guided headphones tour?
The woman from Endurance.
“Her name is Caila Harris.”
“I thought you were going to introduce her to people,” Vince said in an accusatory tone. “Kind of manage her experience.”
So Vince had been listening. “I am.”
“Then where were you this morning?”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t know?” Vince asked, almost chortling. “It’s all over town.”
Wyatt gritted his teeth. “What are you yammering about?”
“Apparently she’d been out on a run this morning and . . . you know, I don’t get running. It doesn’t even look fun. Although it probably explains her killer body.”
“If you don’t get to the fucking point . . .”
“I’m just saying the only time I’d ever run is if someone was chasing me. But, if she was chasing me, I’d stop running and let her catch me.”
“Vince!”
“All right! Damn! I heard she stopped by the bake sale—”
Wyatt frowned. She did? He hadn’t expected that.
“I mean, if that was your plan and you thought she’d see the good side of Bradleton, that didn’t work out.”
Wyatt was two seconds from leaping over this desk . . . He forced himself to calmly ask, “What. Happened?”
“I heard Holly Martin was there and gave her a really hard time. Called her out in front of the crowd and told her we weren’t going to stand for her closing our plant down. Then everyone turned on her.”
Son of a bitch! What did Holly think she was doing? He’d wanted Caila to see the best of the town. See how they were a family, how they cared for one another, the hope being it would engender some sympathy in her about the number of people who would lose their jobs.
But if her thoughts about Bradleton were colored by what had happened this morning, where it came off as bullying instead of protecting . . . they were screwed.
“My mom said Holly was jealous seeing you with the wo—Caila,” Vince said. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone out with Holly. Maybe you should’ve given someone else a chance.”
Wyatt shot Vince a look on the way out of the door.
This town was going to talk itself into economic destruction.
Twenty minutes later, he stood on the bottom step of Sinclair House and watched Caila sway to and fro on the white wicker porch swing, her eyes closed, her chin tipped skyward.
Every nerve ending in his body jumped to attention, causing his grip to tighten on the black wrought-iron railing. She was so lovely. Even in workout gear, her face devoid of makeup, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Stop staring,” she murmured in that low, sexy voice that haunted his dreams, begging him to make her come over and over again.
He exhaled audibly. “I wish I could.”
Had she heard the desperation he’d been unable to hide? Her eyes flew open and she rolled her head to look at him, her own expression showcasing a relatable combination of yearning and weariness.
His heart shifted in his chest. “Are you okay?”
She let her lashes fall and brought her head straight again. “I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be okay again.”
The pain in her voice gutted him. It was raw and potent and . . . older than the night before. Entrenched. Something in him, some foreign part he didn’t recognize, wanted to know the origin of that pain. Wanted to face it and conquer it for her, like a dragon slayer of old.
He climbed the steps and sat down next to her. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t move or change her position. “Why do you care?”
He shifted to face her, placing his arm along the back of the swing. “I shouldn’t. It’d be easier if I didn’t. But I do.”
They hadn’t used many words, but it felt as if they both recognized they’d admitted more than they’d intended. He also knew if he pushed her to divulge more, she’d come right back at him and he wasn’t ready to share his feelings, especially since he’d yet to understand them.
“You must be happy today,” she said.
Considering he felt anything but at this moment, he asked, “Why would you say that?”
“The game. Your team won.”
He exhaled, grateful for the lighter change in subject. “Yeah, it was a blowout.”
“I’d hoped the other team would come out after halftime and make it somew
hat interesting.”
He frowned. “You saw the game? I thought you left.”
“I ended up staying.” She shrugged. “Gwen and Kevin were having a good time.”
Disappointment churned in his midsection. After she’d left, he hadn’t been able to think of anything else. He’d called himself all kinds of fool for not going after her, but what could he do? He’d had to preside over the halftime homecoming festivities. It wasn’t the first time his responsibilities had gotten in the way of what he’d personally wanted. But it was the first time he’d honestly questioned if the cost was worth it.
But she hadn’t left. She’d been there. And if he’d known he would’ve talked to her. Made her understand. And spent the rest of the time in her company, the way he’d wanted.
“What about you? Did you end up having a good time?”
Had the men near her in the bleachers fallen all over themselves to talk to her, to be the recipient of one of her smiles? Had she met someone with less baggage? Someone not in conflict with her purpose for being here? Who didn’t have women he’d previously dated showing up and leading a town revolt against her?
She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a big football fan.”
“But you worked on your high school team.”
And she’d agreed to go to the game with you. Even though she didn’t like the sport.
“That was about academics. I don’t watch it now.”
“Why? I know the rules can be difficult to understand, but—”
“I understand the rules just fine.” She sighed and sat up straight, shifting to face him. “You’ve seen the studies that link football with long-term brain disease, right? Knowing that, how can I watch these young men constantly hitting each other, aware that each contact contributes to the likelihood they’ll experience some sort of neurological damage?”
The full power of those eyes, up close . . . they took his breath away.
“A lot of schools, including ours, have changed the way we coach the game. We’re teaching our boys to tackle head up and use their shoulder, to minimize impact to the head.”
“Minimize, but not erase. The danger is still there. Why put people at risk when it’s not necessary?”
“For some, it is necessary. Take kids who live in dangerous conditions,” he said, warming to the topic. “Football gives them an activity to stay safe and out of bad situations at home. It builds character, teaches lessons on accountability and leadership and gives boys the opportunity to become successful.”
“Come on! What percentage of boys actually turn pro?”
“Maybe not pro, but they’re able to go to college and try to obtain a better life for them and their families.”
“Okay, okay. Yes, for those who use the scholarship and take the opportunity seriously. But is that what’s really going on? If they’re playing college ball, in some part of their mind they want to go pro. They’re not thinking about their majors or classes or careers beyond football. And then, what if they get hurt? Their scholarship is yanked and they’re sent back with no diploma, no other viable skills, and an injury. Meanwhile, the school has made millions off them.”
He tapped two fingers on her shoulder, pleased when she didn’t move away. “Sounds like you’re advocating for paying college athletes.”
“I’m not advocating anything.” She shook her head. “How did we even get into this conversation?”
“I don’t know. I think I just asked if you enjoyed the game. Note to self: Don’t ask Caila about sports ever again.”
She laughed. “Pin it, too, so it remains at the top.”
He smiled and continued trailing his fingers in little circles at the nape of her neck and back and forth across the ridge of her shoulder. She didn’t tense, shift, or ask him to remove his hand, but he watched her closely for any sign of unease.
“I heard you went to the bake sale this morning.”
He felt her stiffen, but her tone was still light. “If you get a chance to stop by, try Janice Ross’s ginger cookies. They were the bomb.”
He laughed. “Janice is one of the best bakers in town.”
“Reputation is completely earned. Though Gwen is really good, too.”
Her eyes sparkled now, free from their earlier despondency. He didn’t want to dim their light, but he wasn’t here just to make her feel better.
“I’m sorry. Holly had no right to do what she did.”
She laid a hand on his knee, and the caress seared through the material of his jeans and branded his skin. “You don’t need to apologize for her.”
“Well, I’m sorry it happened.”
“Be real. You despise her approach, not her message.”
“Caila—”
“That’s why you invited me to the football game and introduced me to Smitty. That’s why she said what she did. Community activism. I’ve dealt with it before.”
“Yes,” he interrupted her, when she would’ve said more, “it’s the reason I introduced you to Smitty. But it was never meant to be confrontational. Only to show we’re more than numbers on a spreadsheet; we’re a community, too.”
“You guys should get that on a fucking T-shirt.” He missed her touch when she crossed her arms over her chest. “The economic health of your community is not my responsibility.”
“Did your way work for you?” At her blank look, he elaborated. “When you talked to people at the bake sale? Did you get the response you wanted?”
Her gaze flicked away. “No.”
“Your method may work some places, but this is a small, tight-knit community. People won’t just talk to you because you ask.”
“And if you asked them to?”
“They would. But I gather you’d prefer information that was actually helpful to you.”
She sighed. “Then what do you suggest? Yoga at Laura’s studio followed by a rousing town chorus of ‘Kumbaya’?”
He laughed. “Nothing that dramatic. The Harvest Festival 5K is tomorrow. It’s a color run. Have you done one before?”
“I’ve done several 5Ks, but I don’t know what a color run is.”
“It’ll be fun. Seeing you there, with your guard down, enjoying yourself . . . People may open up to you.” He looked over his shoulder to the street and saw that, once again, they were the focus of some not-so-subtle nosiness. “Take advantage of the time you have until Joe comes back from his trip with his family. What do you say?”
She bit her bottom lip.
Stay focused, Wyatt!
Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”
“Great.” He clapped his hands together, ridiculously elated. “I guess you’ll want to meet me at the starting line, right?”
She nodded and smiled.
“Since I don’t want to push my luck, I’ll go ahead and leave. Nine a.m., Concourse Park, downtown.”
He jogged down the steps but stopped before he reached the pavement. He turned back, one foot braced on the step above.
“One more thing. Earlier you said I invited you to the game for ‘community activism.’”
She tilted her chin. “Yeah.”
“You’re wrong. I should’ve asked you to the football game for the town. But I didn’t. I asked you to the game for me.”
Chapter Thirteen
It took Caila about five minutes to realize what the “color” in color run meant. She hadn’t given it much thought when Wyatt had asked her to join him. She’d assumed people wore brightly colored clothes during the race, hence “color run.” She’d shown up in a white windbreaker with reflective strips for nighttime running and a hot pink headband, the best she could do considering she didn’t own fluorescent running gear. She thought she’d blend in nicely with everyone else, rather than stick out, one of the main reasons she’d decided to participate.
She did not expect her expensive white jacket to be doused with a bright powdered color that would not only ruin it, but would get in her face—and her hair!—pollute the air around her, and become s
o dense that she’d choke on it.
She learned this the hard way, about a kilometer in, when she noticed two people standing just off the running path holding large plastic bottles of a baby blue substance. When the person in front of her neared them, they stepped onto the trail and squeezed the bottles, emitting a cloud of color that painted the runner’s shirt, face, and arms.
It happened too quickly for Caila to avoid them and she, too, ran face-first into a cloud of blue chalk. Choking and cursing, she vowed to avoid the other color stations and she did her best, but she couldn’t avoid the yellow, green, pink, and purple mist at each subsequent station. In the end, she looked like she’d been vomited on by a dozen troll dolls, but she’d had a lot of fun, and everyone involved appeared to be in good spirits.
When she crossed the finish line, she accepted the wet towel and bottle of water a volunteer offered her. After carefully wiping the chalk residue from her face and hands, she moved to the side and began stretching, waiting for Wyatt to complete the race.
From the moment the race began, families, parents with running strollers, and cliques of friends flocked to him. They all wanted to be around him and she understood why. He cracked jokes, alternated between groups, and cheered on older walkers. He kept everyone near him in good spirits, creating a fun atmosphere.
But a mile into the run, she’d been antsy with pent-up energy. She’d never considered herself a sprinter, but her pace was definitely faster than that of the people around her.
During her first few races, she’d begin in the wrong group and find herself with people who ran either too fast for her or too slow. Over time, she’d learned a very important rule: Run your own race. She couldn’t concentrate on the runners around her; it would be a mistake to try to match her pace to theirs. The best she could do was to stay true to how she’d trained. To run the pace that was best for her.
And she stuck with that motto, because it served her well. When she knew she couldn’t hold herself back any longer, she’d gestured to Wyatt and he’d waved her on with a smile. She took off, finishing the race pretty close to the front of the pack.
Sweet Talkin' Lover EPB Page 16
