Her Surprise Hero

by Abby Gaines

  He frowned. “Or maybe it was incredible.”

  “I think I’ll give it twenty-eight. In case it wasn’t the best.” She amended the score, then ran the back of her hand across her forehead. This tent was already sweltering.

  The next cake was an orange cake, beautifully scented, the frosting flecked with orange zest. “Full marks,” Cynthia murmured. She licked a crumb off her lips.

  Ethan watched the progress of her tongue. “Is it better than the first one?”

  “I guess it’s about the same.” She scored the orange cake twenty-eight, too. “I guess there’s not much difference between one cake and another.”

  He cut another piece of the cake and sampled it himself. Then did the same with the chocolate cake. “The orange one,” he said. “It’s in a league of its own.”

  She focused on her score sheet. “The problem with cake is it’s not good for you.”

  “No,” he agreed.

  The air crackled. On edge, Cynthia shifted, and one of her sundress straps slid off her shoulder. Ethan’s gaze settled on the bared flesh. “Knowing something’s not good for you doesn’t necessarily stop you wanting it.”

  Cynthia clutched her clipboard to her chest. “We need to move on.”

  Every single cake tasted perfect, as good as it looked. Soon, Cynthia had a page full of twenty-fives to twenty-eights, with a lone carrot cake scoring twenty-four because the cream cheese frosting was too runny.

  With the tent open on all sides in a vain attempt to dissipate the heat, judging was a very visible process. When people realized Cynthia had started, she attracted a crowd of hangers-on. Ethan spent much time politely but firmly fending off women who were determined to read over her shoulder. That meant he stayed close to her, which made it difficult to concentrate.

  More than once she heard, “They make such a cute couple.” If Ethan heard, he didn’t show it.

  After the last cake, Cynthia showed Ethan the score sheet.

  “You have twelve cakes in first place,” he said, incredulous. “Seven in second, nine in—”

  “I know, I know.” She slapped the clipboard in frustration, causing a ripple of concern among the bystanders. “But they were all wonderful.” Or maybe it was just that every one of her senses had been bizarrely heightened all morning. “How do people feel about multiple winners?”

  “You’ll be lynched,” he said.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  He met her worried glance, and took a step back. “We need a more technical approach. You judge things all the time.”

  “There are laws in court,” she said. “That’s what I judge people against.”

  “Then find some laws that work here.”

  “Cakes as defendants,” Cynthia said slowly. She paced the length of the cake table, clipboard banging absently against her thigh. “We can cross-examine them.”

  “Isn’t cross-examining a cake one step short of hiding in a broom closet?” he asked.

  She froze, then spurted a laugh. “I can’t answer that on the grounds it might incriminate me.”

  Just when she thought it wasn’t possible for a man to get any sexier, his smile crinkled the edges of his eyes.

  Ethan informed Jackson that they needed a short recess from judging. They headed to the office behind the rodeo arena, one of the few permanent buildings on the site, where they sat down with pen and paper.

  “I’ll use a grid,” Cynthia said. “Maximum fifty points, so there’s not as much likelihood of multiple entries getting the same score.”

  “What’s on the grid?”

  She frowned. “Cakey qualities, I guess. Taste, smell, appearance…”

  “Texture,” Ethan suggested. “A good cake is moist.”

  Moist, she wrote. Then crossed it out and replaced it with Texture.

  Within half an hour they had grids for every contest. It was time to return to the fray.

  It was a breeze. Apart from having to retaste all the cakes, which at least scored Cynthia kudos for her thoroughness. It was much easier to award marks out of ten on each criterion, rather than pick a random number out of fifty.

  Cynthia didn’t add each cake’s score as she went, so she didn’t know who’d won until Ethan totaled the numbers. The orange cake won first place, with a Black Forest gateau and a ginger cake tied for second. A banana cake came fourth.

  Jackson posted the entire grid on the bulletin board, and the women pored over it long enough for Cynthia to get through the pies and the cookies.

  By the time she got to preserves, she was on a roll. “Let me know when I have to skip town,” she told Ethan as she sliced into her twelfth pickled onion. She inspected it. “This one’s an eight on appearance. It’s amazing how different each pickled onion is. They’re practically human.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Spoken like a girl from onion country.”

  “Three days ago you told me I don’t fit in here.”

  He paused. Then he tucked his hand under her elbow. “Your next pickle awaits, Your Honor.”

  The only reason he’s helping is because he wants me to get the superior court job, so I’ll leave town.

  She pulled out of his grasp and forged ahead.

  By the time the day ended, Cynthia was stuffed, exhausted and she had heartburn from the pickles and preserves. But the crowd cheered her after she presented the cups and no one issued a death threat. Best of all, Tania from the Gazette interviewed her, along with several happy contestants. The reporter grudgingly told her she’d done a good job.

  It was six o’clock by the time she and Ethan strolled out of the fairground into the parking lot.

  “Judge Merritt!” The shrill call came from Mrs. Baker, whose pineapple upside-down cake had placed seventh. Puffing, she caught up to them next to Cynthia’s car. “We’re having a cake and coffee session later with the leftovers. We’d love for you to join us.”

  Eat more food? But this was the friendliest overture she’d had since she arrived in Stonewall Hollow. Cynthia couldn’t think of a way to refuse without giving offence.

  “The judge is having dinner with me tonight,” Ethan said.

  Just like that, Mrs. Baker beamed. “Of course she is, how lovely. You two have a wonderful evening—don’t give our little soiree a single thought.”

  Cynthia protested politely, and the older woman left in good spirits.

  “Thanks,” Cynthia said to Ethan. “If I sneak home and leave my lights off all evening, no one will know I wasn’t out with you.”

  “Let’s have dinner,” he said, and looked as surprised as she felt.

  Her pulse sped up. “I’ve been eating all day.”

  “I witnessed every bite,” he reminded her. “You need something savory.”

  “Pickles are savory.” Why was she arguing, when she wanted to go with him?

  “If you get that job this could be our last chance for a meal together.”

  That was why she was arguing. Because he still wanted her gone.

  He touched a finger to the underside of her chin. “Cindy.”

  He’d been calling her that all day. “It’s Cynthia.”

  He kissed her, a lingering, experimental kiss. A delicious tension built inside her.

  “Let’s go to dinner,” he said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ETHAN FOLLOWED CINDY—he couldn’t help it, he just didn’t think of her as a Cynthia—back to her place, where they left her car. They went to dinner in his truck.

  “We’ll drive to Gonville,” Ethan said. “You could do without the world watching your every move tonight.” He didn’t want the world intruding, either. All damn day he’d been so turned on by her—hell, ever since she’d planted that kiss on him outside Sally’s. He wanted to kiss her again. Make love to her. She wanted the same. He heard it in the hitch of her breath when he got close to her, saw it in the flare of interest in her eyes, in the sensual curve of her mouth when she’d smiled at him today.

  Th
ey had their differences, but with her about to leave town, he’d bet they could both overlook them.

  Gonville was in Myers County, a half-hour drive along the highway that skirted the plain. The town was newer than Stonewall Hollow, with five times the population.

  The restaurant he chose, the Red Shed, was more sophisticated than its name suggested. On the outside, it did resemble a barn, but the riverbank setting was charming. Inside, it was all high ceilings, fancy light fixtures and white tablecloths.

  The waiter brought them menus, handwritten in silver ink. Cindy sat back and inhaled the pervasive aroma of garlic and basil. “Just the fact that I don’t have to score the food means I’m having a great time already.”

  “You’re a cheap date.”

  When she pointedly ordered the lobster, Ethan laughed and did the same. He chose a buttery, vanilla-scented chardonnay to match the food.

  He lifted his glass. “To new horizons.”

  She set her glass down with a thud. “Will you stop counting the minutes until I leave town?”

  Whoa, where had that come from? “I wasn’t.” It might be premature to admit he’d meant a new level of intimacy between them, among other things. “You’re the one who wants an important new job.”

  She hesitated, but she clinked her glass against his.

  “Was today enough to get you the job?” he asked. “Which I’m not asking because I’m counting the minutes.”

  She shrugged. “Too soon to say. But it will certainly keep my father happy.”

  “You really believe he cares about what the Stonewall Hollow newspaper says about you?”

  “Dad retired after a heart attack last year, and we’ve been spending quite a bit of time together—he’s a genius at career planning. He’d love for me to get a position with the superior court. He’d be disappointed if some reporter put an end to the dream.”

  He heard the deep love in her voice. “He must have hated having you move so far away.”

  “I—” She fiddled with her knife and fork. “It was Dad’s idea for me to come here.” She added lightly, “A lesson not to hide in broom closets.”

  “You mean, what Tania said is true? You were forced to leave Atlanta.”

  The waiter brought their lobsters, along with extra napkins and finger bowls.

  “Dad recommended I leave.” Cindy rearranged her finger bowl and unfolded a couple of napkins. “I used to—when I was a kid, when Mom and Dad fought—I used to hide in the closet. Something about the dark and the quiet made all my troubles go away.” She straightened. “But when you do it as an adult, it’s more of a big deal.”

  “Will it be a big deal to your dad if you don’t get the job?” he asked.

  “It’s a big deal to me,” she said sharply. Then she admitted, “I’m not sure what we’d talk about if I wasn’t in some high-flying position.”

  Ethan forked some lobster. “How about the same as he talks to your sisters about?”

  “It’s not the same,” she said. “Dad and I have always had a special bond. I don’t want to lose it.”

  “What kind of relationship is that? Where you’re scared to step out of line, or to be less than perfect?”

  “It’s the only one I’ve got.” She clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Ethan shifted in his seat. Find something else to talk about. “Are your sisters like you?”

  She nodded her approval of the new topic, as if they were in court. “I’m the bossy one. Megan’s a lawyer, supersharp but very sweet when you get to know her. Sabrina—she’s technically my half sister—is gorgeous. Though Megan’s pretty, too,” she added.

  “And you’re a turnip-face, I suppose.”

  She snorted her chardonnay and had to blow her nose. “I am not a turnip-face.”

  “My point exactly,” he said.

  “But Sabrina was Miss Georgia.”

  “That Sabrina? Wait a minute, isn’t she married to the governor?”

  “My brother-in-law Jake.”

  “You said both your sisters got married recently,” he remembered. “You didn’t sound that happy about it.”

  She colored. “Of course I’m happy. They both found wonderful men.”

  “But…?” he prompted.

  “I got drunk at both their weddings,” she confessed, and then sipped her wine defiantly.

  Ethan laughed. “I’ll bet you’re cute when you’re drunk.”

  “I’m maudlin,” she corrected him. “And jealous. It’s pitiful.”

  He poured some melted butter over his lobster. “You want to get married?”

  Her shocked silence made him look up.

  “That wasn’t a proposal, right?” she asked.

  Ethan knocked the jug of butter, and only just managed to save it from spilling across the table. “I don’t even know you. And I don’t want to get married. To anyone.”

  “Okay, I get the message.” Her cheeks were a deeper red now. “It was just the weird way you said it.”

  He replayed his own words. He didn’t see any room for confusion.

  “To answer your question,” she said. “I do want to get married. But not just to anyone.”

  “You have high standards, of course.” Ethan dug more lobster out of the shell. “A millionaire lawyer, at the very least.”

  “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll settle for a man who loves me for who I am and isn’t afraid to show it.”

  “That sounds so simple, there has to be a catch.”

  She laughed. It was a carefree sound, and it lightened Ethan’s heart. Too bad they wouldn’t have long for this fling of theirs. “No catch,” she said. “Just a simple, honest man.”

  Ah. There was the catch.

  “Why don’t you want to get married?” She ground black pepper over her meal.

  He shrugged. “My life is a mess, as you haven’t hesitated to tell me.” It was certainly not simple. “It’s hard enough keeping a relationship going with Mom and Sam. Maybe one day, after I get the hang of that…”

  “Don’t you want to have more kids?” she asked.

  “I’d sure like to have one from birth. Maybe even two or three. Give me a chance to get it right before I get it wrong.”

  “Your mom must have been very young when she had you,” Cindy observed.

  “She was seventeen,” he said. “The guy who knocked her up had left town to go to college by the time I arrived.”

  “So…your father wasn’t a regular fixture in your life?”

  “He never came back to Augusta. His parents moved away later, too, but they sent money. They were just ordinary folks, so it wasn’t a lot, but we weren’t destitute.”

  “Did you ever try to find your father?” She sat back while the waiter refilled her wineglass.

  “I kept up with his whereabouts,” Ethan said. “He worked as an accountant, married, had three kids. Mom wrote him once a year, telling him where we were, what we were doing. We’re not in contact now.”

  Cynthia was amazed at the parallels between his life and Sam’s. But she was pretty sure Linnet hadn’t been a supportive parent like he was to Sam. “Did your mom ever marry?”

  She read his desire to clam up. Then he spread his fingers loosely on the table and said, “When I was four, she married my stepfather. Wayne. He was mean, controlling and a bully.”

  “Did he hit her?” she asked, horrified.

  Ethan shook his head. “He could control her without violence. He hit me, always under the guise of discipline, but I saw his pleasure. He loved it.”

  He dug back into his lobster. Cynthia waited, afraid he wouldn’t say more.

  “Mom always took Wayne’s side,” Ethan finally said. “If she’d just once told him to leave me alone, I could have handled it. Maybe. But she wouldn’t confront him. As you noticed, she has trouble confronting anyone head-on. Instead, I turned about as mean as he was. I was at best obnoxious and antisocial.

  “At worst, I had a gang of so-called friends held together by tr
ouble and the sense of power that came with causing it. It was the only control we had over our lives.”

  “Were you…in trouble with the law?”

  “Over and over.” Ethan’s rueful expression told her he knew she was comparing him and Sam. “It drove Mom crazy, much worse than anything Wayne did. She threw me out when I turned eighteen, which meant I had to leave school.”

  “You didn’t graduate?” She would never have picked him as uneducated.

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I did later. Back then, I just had to survive. I went to Atlanta, took whatever work I could get, slept rough when I had to, bunked with friends.”

  “I can’t imagine any mother washing her hands of her son,” Cynthia said fiercely.

  “We’ve both struggled to get past it,” he admitted. “Even though Mom divorced Wayne after—soon after I left town, I never forgave her for marrying the guy in the first place.”

  “You said love isn’t about what someone does or doesn’t do. It’s about who they are in your life. She’s your mother. You’re her son. In theory, that should be enough.”

  He frowned. “I never said I was right about that.”

  “I think you are. What’s stopping you and Linnet from getting over the past?”

  “Partly it’s that we both hate talking about it,” he admitted.

  “You’re talking to me.”

  “That’s because you’re the nosiest woman I ever met.”

  She reached across and touched his wrist. “Thank you.”

  He turned his hand over and entwined her fingers in his. “And because I want to go to bed with you.”

  Cynthia caught her breath. “That’s…honest.”

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you as much as I have,” he added.

  “The, uh, bed thing,” she prompted.

  “That, of course.” He smiled that crinkly smile again, then sobered. “I hate the way I was back then, on an emotional roller coaster. I was so mad, I did a bunch of things I regret. I don’t want to feel that angry again.”

  “You wouldn’t react the same now,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of nasty guys in my time as a defense lawyer. I know what unrepentant, untamed anger looks like, and believe me, you have nothing in common with these guys.”