by Abby Gaines
“I’d love to be allies,” Linnet said on a sob.
“Uh, good.” She wasn’t about to cry, was she? No, she was happy—he recognized something of Sam in her crooked smile. “So, we have a truce?”
“Yes.”
“No,” Cynthia said sharply.
“I wasn’t asking you.” Exasperated, he shoved the basket of bread in her direction. “Put that in your mouth.”
“You have a nerve,” she said. “I helped you with your family problems, and you went ahead and signed me up for the judging job from hell.”
“You didn’t—”
“You’re here because I pointed out what a great ally Linnet could be for you, and because my refusal to let Sam work at the ranch gave you an incentive to change.” She looked from him to Linnet and back, her blond hair swinging.
“I would have reached the same conclusion,” he said.
“I solve your problem and you try to run me out of town.”
“You are the problem,” he snapped, ignoring his mounting guilt. She was a judge, making people feel guilty was her job.
“The least you can do is help me in return.” Her indignation was attracting the attention of the deputies drinking coffee at the next table.
Ethan shot to his feet. “Okay, I said we’d talk later. Turns out later is now.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Mom, I’ll be back in a minute. Alone.”
Cynthia squeezed past Linnet to follow him out into the street. She couldn’t believe she’d let Ethan make her feel so bad about Sam, when he was taking her advice all along.
“You owe me,” she said when they reached the sidewalk.
He took her arm and hauled her closer to the diner window, out of the way of a group of teenagers. “Fine, I’ll smile at you all you like. I’ll tell people you’re my friend. Satisfied?”
“Judge Merritt,” a woman called.
Cynthia turned…and bit down on a groan. Tania Leach, from the Gazette.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” Tania said. “Those extra questions…”
“I’m on my way back to court,” Cynthia said. “But I can call you at four-thirty.”
“Maybe just a quick chat now.”
“I’m sorry.” Cynthia injected regret into her smile.
“One question, then.” The woman had the persistence of a migraine.
“Answer the damn question,” Ethan muttered. “Get rid of her.”
“Fine,” Cynthia said. “Just one.”
Tania smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Is it true you were forced to leave Atlanta after you had a breakdown?”
Air whistled through the space where Cynthia’s stomach used to be. Her mouth worked, but no words emerged.
“A breakdown?” Ethan rocked on his feet.
“I didn’t have a breakdown,” Cynthia said firmly.
“So…you weren’t found hiding in a broom closet?” Tania said with exaggerated delicacy.
“A closet?” Ethan echoed.
“Will you stop repeating every word she says?” Cynthia couldn’t believe this reporter on a two-bit newspaper had such excellent contacts. Her father had assured her no one was talking about her failure. “I found the interim attorney general role stressful, as anyone seconded into the role with no preparation would,” she told Tania. “But I didn’t have a breakdown. My long-term goal has always been to make judge, and Stonewall Hollow was a great opportunity.”
“Would you say your time here has also been stressful?” Tania asked.
“You’ve had your one question,” Ethan told her. He moved closer to Cynthia.
Her knees sagged, it was all she could do not to grab his arm and cling.
The woman respected the finality in his tone in a way she hadn’t with Cynthia. She departed with a promise to call later.
Cynthia leaned against the building, not caring if her suit got dirty. “Thanks,” she muttered.
No reply. She looked up and found his expression harder than the brick wall at her back. “I suppose it’s too much to ask for some sympathy,” she said wearily.
“You’re a fraud.”
“I wasn’t forced to leave, I chose to take a break on my father’s advice.”
“Because you couldn’t cope.” He raked a hand through his hair. “You tell me what I can and can’t do with my son, you criticize me and my family, and it turns out your life is in a worse mess than mine.”
“It’s not.” She glanced around. “Keep your voice down, people are watching.”
“You don’t think they deserve the truth about who’s judging them?” he demanded.
“If anyone in Atlanta doubted my competence, I wouldn’t be here.”
“That’s not true, is it?” he asked silkily. “Your family has their doubts, or you wouldn’t be so worried about Tania’s article.”
“I meant anyone involved in my appointment,” she said. “You know what families are like.” She hated the note of pleading in her voice.
“Forget it.” He put one hand on the wall next to her and leaned in, intimidating her. Several people in the diner looked on. “Forget any idea of me helping you. You need to get out of town fast, and the fair is a guaranteed screwup.”
Cynthia’s future vanished in a puff of smoke. Tania would lambaste her with impunity, and no one would defend her. The whole town would hear about the broom closet; she’d be a laughingstock, her courtoom a joke. And if that wasn’t enough, the fair had disaster written all over it.
The one person with the clout to help her wanted her gone. Ten times more than he’d wanted it yesterday.
Ethan’s mouth was a grim line. Who would think that he’d kissed her once? That he’d fixated on her lips as if he wanted to do it again. A lot.
She jerked away from him, only to see Mrs. Baker of pineapple upside-down cake fame over his shoulder. The woman lifted a hand in greeting, then registered the tension between Cynthia and Ethan. She turned to whisper to her friend.
“Go be a judge somewhere else,” Ethan suggested. “If you want any help packing, that’s one area I am willing to lend a hand.”
A judge somewhere else. As if that would happen if she had another disgrace. She’d never work in Atlanta again….
“Of course,” she said, as a blinding truth hit her.
He froze. “You want me to help you pack?”
“Uh-uh.” Her mind raced. “You’re going to help me on Saturday, after all.”
His laugh was short and incredulous. “Dream on.”
They had an audience of about twenty people now—not that Ethan could see them, facing the wall as he was. The watchers were all feigning interest in something else, yet she didn’t doubt they were all soaking up the intensity of the conversation even if they couldn’t hear the words. When Ethan showed the world his disdain for her at the fair, everyone would take their cue from the local hero.
“And you’re damn well going to pretend you like it,” she said. “Starting with this.” She went up on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his. Instinct had him kissing her back just long enough for her to wrap her arms around his neck. So when he pulled back, she moved with him.
“Cindy,” he growled against her mouth. The vibration of his breath jolted her down to her toes. She clung tighter and ran her tongue along his slightly parted lips.
Just like that, everything changed. Ethan took charge, his hands anchoring her hips, his mouth coaxing hers open—not, as it turned out, a particularly challenging task. When his tongue met hers, she welcomed him with a relief that felt soul-deep.
A burst of clapping broke them apart. Ethan spun around, then back to Cynthia, dazed but glowering. “It won’t take a second for me to set everyone straight.”
She grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “You do that and you’ll never be rid of me.”
His eyebrows drew together in a dark slash.
“I’m under consideration for a judgeship in the superior court in Atlanta,” she said rapidly. “If I mess up here, I won’t get the job
.”
“I don’t give a damn—”
“It’s your best chance of me leaving,” she told him. “There aren’t dozens of people lining up to be Stonewall Hollow’s judge. You heard Sally, Judge Piet’s health is getting worse. I can probably stay on as long as I like.”
His eyes seared her as he processed the implications. He clenched his teeth.
Cynthia let go of his shirt and sidestepped around him. “Nine o’clock Saturday in the cake tent,” she said. “See you then.”
With a jaunty wave to the audience, she headed back to court.
CHAPTER TEN
CYNTHIA’S CELL PHONE rang on her way up the courthouse’s marble staircase.
She checked the display, then pressed to answer. “Megan, hi.”
“Hey, Cynthia.” Her sister’s voice produced a pang of homesickness, and a sudden, shaking reaction to her conversation with Ethan. Cynthia tightened her grip on the phone.
“Sabrina’s with me, we have you on speaker,” Megan said.
“Hi, Cyn,” Sabrina called.
“Is something wrong—is Dad okay?” Cynthia crossed the landing, passed Melanie’s desk and entered her chambers. She closed the door behind her.
Sabrina laughed, the sound that drew people to her like sailors to a Siren. “We just wanted to talk. I came into Megan’s office for lunch so we could chat just as if you were here.”
Which they’d never have done if Cynthia was in the city. As lawyers at Merritt, Merritt & Finch, she and Megan had always been far too busy for midweek chitchat. Cynthia slung her purse over the back of her chair. She sank into the maroon leather.
“Give us the scoop on small-town life,” Megan demanded.
In a moment of panic, Cynthia swiveled to the window. Of course her sister wasn’t outside, didn’t know anything about what had just happened. But Megan had excellent instincts, in court and out.
“Everything’s going fine.” She wished she wasn’t so pathetically committed to being the best that she couldn’t be honest with Megan, who she was closer to than anyone. Other than Dad.
“I knew you’d make a great judge,” Sabrina said with her usual immense capacity for loyalty and for giving people the benefit of the doubt. “I’d love to see you in action on the bench.”
“You always say black washes me out.”
Sabrina, the undisputed fashion expert, laughed.
Cynthia needed to steer the conversation away from all potentially dangerous topics. Such as her career, her adjustment to Stonewall Hollow, her desire to return home. Pretty much her whole life. “How are you two, anyway?”
“Great.” Sabrina’s answer was more dreamy sigh than conversation. She and Jake had been married six months.
“Greater,” Megan said, an uncharacteristic giggle escaping her. Megan had married her husband, Travis, just a month ago. They’d only been back from their honeymoon a week before Cynthia left Atlanta.
It was an old game of theirs—Great, Greater, Greatest. Cynthia would have killed—if it hadn’t been illegal—to have a man in her life who would allow her to chip in with “Greatest.”
Desperate kisses forced onto men who didn’t like her didn’t qualify.
Cynthia skimmed the afternoon’s case docket as she listened to her sisters’ news, which mainly involved their plans for blissful futures with their true loves.
“Met any nice guys down there?” Sabrina asked, with the newlywed’s enthusiasm for inducting others to the married state.
She recalled the sensuous feel of Ethan’s mouth. “Uh…”
“I can’t see Cynthia with some hick,” Megan said.
She remembered Ethan’s hand against the wall next to her shoulder. In her peripheral vision she’d noted a strong, tanned forearm with exactly the right amount of hair. His white T-shirt had molded to muscle gained through hard work. His masculine face was rugged, with intriguing planes.
“So what do you do in your spare time?” Megan asked, making her feel more than ever like the spinster sister.
I knit socks for the troops. “Actually, I’m involved in the county fair,” she said. “I’m judging the contests. Cakes, pets, babies, you name it.”
“Wow,” Sabrina said. “I’d have said you didn’t know the difference between those things.”
Cynthia surprised herself by laughing.
“You want to be careful,” Sabrina cautioned. “Remember my pumpkin killer.”
“I’ll be fine,” Cynthia said. “I’ll have help.” She hoped.
“Maybe we should come visit,” Megan suggested. “We’ll provide moral support, and celebrate the Fourth at the same time.”
“No,” Cynthia said sharply. Ethan’s cooperation was far from guaranteed, and if things were going to go wrong, she didn’t need witnesses. She went to get her robe from the hook on the door.
“Cynthia, sweetie, are you okay?” Sabrina asked.
She didn’t need her baby sister treating her with kid gloves.
“I’d love to see you guys, but I’ll be so busy with the judging on Saturday—” she swapped the phone from one hand to the other as she wriggled into the robe “—I won’t have time to even notice your support, let alone enjoy it.”
“I guess that’s true,” Megan said.
Phew.
“So…you’re definitely okay?” Megan continued.
“Perfect,” Cynthia lied. Because the truth—I’m jealous of my sisters, I’m fending off cake bribes, and if Ethan won’t help me I’ll be public enemy number one by Monday—wasn’t acceptable to her family. Or her.
CYNTHIA WORE HER YELLOW sundress to the fair on Saturday, not the judicial robes Jackson had suggested. A message not to take this too seriously. She hoped people would get it, loud and clear. So that if she screwed up…I can’t screw up.
En route to the cake tent she hurried past the carnival rides and fast-food stands without pausing. When she saw the stressed-out mothers lining up outside the big top for the baby and toddler pageant, she shuddered. What had she been thinking?
“All ready, Judge?” Jackson Bream was resplendent in a white suit, pale pink shirt and black string tie.
“Absolutely,” she fibbed. “Uh, is Ethan here?”
Jackson’s sly look said he’d heard about their public kiss. “Not yet.”
“I’ll wait for him.” An entirely unwarranted leap of faith.
They made small talk for a minute, but it wasn’t her forte and soon dried up. Jackson handed her a clipboard thick with pages. “These are your entry lists—quite straightforward. You give each entry a score. Top three place. We’ll start the moment you’re ready.”
“When Ethan gets here.” Cynthia scanned the lists with rising dread. She’d bitten off more than she could chew: more cake, more pie, more cookies, more preserves. “I don’t see the babies.”
“Ethan told me you couldn’t do the babies,” he said.
She stared. “Wh-when?”
“Yesterday afternoon. I asked my sister to stand in,” Jackson informed her. “She’s done it before and she hates it, but she’s a retired pediatrician so she knows her stuff.”
“So Ethan’s really coming,” she said, dazed.
He eyed her curiously. “If you want the babies back…”
“No,” she said quickly.
“Once you’ve made your choices,” Jackson said, “my staff will complete the certificates and find the appropriate trophy or ribbon. Which you’ll hand over.”
“Right before you skip town,” Ethan said behind her.
Cynthia tried to compose herself before she turned around, but she was so pleased to see him, her grin must have been a mile wide. “Not going to happen,” she reminded him. “Not yet.”
How could a simple pair of jeans look as if they’d been made for him? A plaid shirt fit like Armani? His hat sat low on his forehead, giving him a dangerous air.
Or maybe the danger was in his eyes. She couldn’t read his expression…but when his eyes dipped to her lips, s
he let out a breath of relief. If he was still distracted by that kiss, he couldn’t be too angry.
“I suggest you start right here with the cakes,” Jackson said. “The ladies don’t like it if their frosting sits in the sun too long. Finish with the preserves—they’ve been hanging around two years already, another few hours won’t hurt.”
The cake table held at least thirty entries: chocolate cakes, banana, lemon, sponge and—surprise, surprise—a pineapple upside-down cake.
Jackson handed her a cake knife. “A small taste of each.”
“And after that, I need to taste the cookies and the pies and the preserves?”
“That’s right.”
Cynthia fanned the pages on her clipboard. They went on forever.
“You don’t have to taste the bonsai,” Ethan said helpfully.
Jackson chuckled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed over at the main stage.”
Cynthia handed Ethan the knife. “You can do the cutting.” She swallowed. “Partner.”
He looked down at the knife for a long moment, as if contemplating all its potential uses. Then he jabbed it into a triple-layer chocolate confection that had the number 001 printed on the card next to it.
She closed her eyes in momentary relief. When she opened them, Ethan was holding out a morsel of cake on the knife.
She took it, turned it over to examine it from all sides. “It looks perfect.”
“Things aren’t always what they seem. Sometimes they don’t live up to the high standard they present to the world.”
Cynthia hoped he wasn’t setting the tone for the whole day. She popped the cake in her mouth, eyes closed. Let the frosting melt on her tongue. Chewed. Swallowed. “It is perfect. Sometimes, appearances are right.”
With effort, she dragged her eyes from Ethan down to her score sheet. Cake 001, top of the page. The maximum score was thirty. After a moment’s hesitation, she filled in her score.
He read over her shoulder. “You’re giving it full marks?”
She turned her head…and found his mouth inches from hers. “Um…”
“Was it really that great?” His gaze hung on her lips.
“Maybe it wasn’t,” she said. “I don’t eat a lot of cake. Maybe it was only average. Mediocre, even.”