by Melissa Tagg
First time she’d said it aloud, and it sounded hilarious. Two inexperienced adults who just happened to be from feuding families organizing the most important event of the winter season. What had the city council been thinking?
What had she been thinking?
That Blake has an endearing smile and a deeper layer underneath all that crazy—that’s what. She’d seen it last night when he’d mentioned closure. She’d seen it this morning when he reminisced about his brother.
As for the smile . . . Well, the right smile could get under a girl’s skin, and he’d gotten under hers long enough to extract an agreement from her. Hopefully it’d be worth it.
From her purse, her cell phone vibrated a second time.
“Young Hunziker’s taking the helm? That is a surprise.” Grady perched his glasses on his nose. “Though not quite as surprising as you working with him. Your mother know yet?”
There were several things her mother didn’t know yet. “Waiting for the right time.”
“Wait long enough and there might not be a right time, young lady.”
There he went, slipping into fatherly mode. She didn’t mind it, not really. But sometime it might be nice to feel independent. Maybe that’s why travel was so appealing. Here in Whisper Shore, there’d always be her mother, Grady, even the memory of her father, watching over her shoulder.
Abroad, she’d make her own moves. No regrets, no wondering what she might be missing while holed away in a role she’d never asked for, in a town she’d never had a chance to leave.
“Autumn, perhaps if we let Victoria know—”
“No.”
“The Kingsley Inn may have been your father’s family business, but your mother cared—cares—about it, too.”
“Then why did she hand the whole thing over to me?” Without even asking if I wanted it.
The grandfather clock continued its slow click. “She meant it as a gift. Surely you know that. And I believe if she knew how it was struggling financially, she’d want to help. Don’t you remember how hard she worked to keep it going after your father’s death?”
It’d happened so fast. The aneurysm one day. A funeral three days later.
Her voice quieted. “I know. I remember.” Remembered how Mom poured herself into the business as if holding on to the inn somehow meant holding on to Dad. But none of it had made any sense . . .
Because Autumn had overheard that conversation only weeks before Dad died. They may never have gotten around to telling their daughters, but it didn’t change what Autumn knew: They’d planned to divorce. Dad planned to leave. Mom planned . . . who knew what?
“I won’t run this place without you.”
But she had. And Autumn hadn’t known what to feel about that. About any of it. All she knew now was she wasn’t ready to tell Mom how dire things really were. Not when she knew Mom probably couldn’t help anyway, having already sunk most of her own savings into the place throughout the years.
“Autumn, you still with me?”
“Still here. Still trying to figure out some way to make this work.”
Behind Grady’s head, a small window peeked out onto the quiet of Main Avenue. Cars turtling by in slow movements of color. The occasional passerby with chin tucked against the cold and hands hidden in pockets. Trees mostly absent of their leaves, as if waiting for winter’s covering.
Across the street, the gold letters of the Hunziker Hotel sign mocked her.
“I can’t close, Grady. Not yet.” Not when there was still the hope of Dominic Laurent. Even if she couldn’t make all the repairs she’d started dreaming about ever since Blake offered his help. She’d been hopeful Grady might help her find enough wiggle room in their operating budget to pay for a quick sprucing up.
So much for that plan.
But she wasn’t giving up. She’d keep their doors open—at least until Laurent’s visit.
Minutes later, they shook hands and she returned to her car. Forehead against the steering wheel, she let out the groan she’d held at bay in Grady’s office. Lord, we just need a Band-Aid, something to tide us over.
Did he hear?
Straightening in her Jetta’s cloth seat, she remembered her silenced phone. Maybe Ava had called back. She pulled it out. Four missed calls. None from Ava. But three from Betsy.
Uh-oh.
She tapped Betsy’s name and waited as the phone rang. Please, not a stove fire or a broken appliance we can’t afford to replace or—
“Autumn, you saw my calls.” Betsy’s tone was low, raspy.
“Bets, what is it?”
“It’s Lucy.”
At the name, she pictured Betsy’s younger sister—her beacon of a smile, straight, strawberry-blond hair framing her face, almond-shaped eyes that most often shined with innocence . . . but now and then flickered with mischief. “She’s not sick, is she?”
“No, just . . . homeless.”
5
His instinct was to cut and run.
Less than a week home, and Blake was already thinking about packing his bags—the result of William Baylor’s assaulting words. He rubbed tired eyes with his fist and rounded the corner of the Kingsley Inn.
He’d told Autumn yesterday that he’d stop by so they could talk over their festival to-dos. It wouldn’t be right to leave her hanging, even if he was considering dropping the whole thing. When he’d stopped at the inn’s front desk a minute ago, Harry had directed him to her cottage. “Yellow paint, white trim, just like the inn.”
The glass had rattled in the inn’s front door when he pulled it closed behind him. The creaks and groans of the porch floorboards, paint chippings wrinkling the wood railing . . . this old building was showing its age. No wonder stress laced Autumn’s tone when she talked about her business.
A burly wind raced past him as he made his way toward the cottage nestled in a grove of bare trees at the boundary of the inn’s expansive back yard. Overhead, pillowy clouds hinted at snow, even if the forecast nixed it for today.
He neared the entrance just as a crash sounded from inside the cottage.
He rapped on the front door. “Kingsley, it’s me. You okay in there?” No answer.
What if she was hurt and that was why she wasn’t answering? He tried the doorknob. Unlocked. “I’m coming in. Not a burglar, so don’t take a baseball bat to me or anything.”
The door opened into a small entryway that widened into a living room. A hodgepodge of mismatched furniture, throw pillows, and black-and-white pictures on the walls—all street scenes and foreign landmarks—gave the room a vintage feel. He turned down a narrow hallway, following the sound of scuffling coming from what was probably Autumn’s bedroom.
He stopped in the doorway . . . and covered his mouth with his fist to stop a howl of laughter.
Tipped over and broken, a tall wicker hamper extended from an open closet. And Autumn lay caught inside up to her waist with open shoeboxes and clothes littered around her.
“Don’t you dare laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.” Though his voice sounded like a mouse from trying to hold it in. “Let me help you, Red.”
He thought she might argue, but instead, she only released an irritated puff that fanned her mussed bangs. He bit back another laugh and pulled the hamper away, freeing her legs, then held out his hand. He could practically taste her reluctance when she placed her palm in his.
The woman was cute, no denying that—freckles, unruly hair. And when she was annoyed, she was downright adorable. The thought was all sorts of forbidden—considering their history and all, considering the great failed experiment in love that had been Ryan and Ava.
Still, when he pulled her to her feet and she came up just inches from his face, the closeness set his senses on alert. He’d spent so many years pushing people away, running. So why the sudden desire to, for once, pull someone in? Especially this someone?
He coughed, stepped backward.
“You know, normally people ring the doo
rbell before walking into someone’s house.”
“I knocked.”
“And then barged in.”
“‘Barged in’ would be breaking down your door. I was playing hero to your damsel in distress. Which is apparently becoming a theme with us. Bloody nose, wasp sting, closet mishap.”
She only rolled her eyes, but if he wasn’t mistaken she hid a grin as she turned to pick up her hamper.
“What happened anyway?”
“I was trying to get those plastic tubs.” She pointed overhead.
“A step stool might have been the better choice.” He brushed past her and pulled the tubs down. “There you go.”
“Thanks.” She placed them on her bed, its bright green duvet the main splash of color in the room otherwise decorated in black and white.
His forehead scrunched. “So you packing or something?”
“Just need to store some books.”
“Books.”
“You know, covers, pages, spines.”
He looked around the room. “And where are these books?”
“In my spare bedroom.” She reached for the tubs once more, but he snatched them up first.
“I’ll help.”
“That’s okay, Blake. I’m sure you have things to do.”
“My things to do involve talking to you about the festival. We can do that while I help you box your books.”
She bit her lip, indecision clear, but finally shrugged and sashayed through the bedroom doorway. “You haven’t seen how many books I’ve got.”
He followed her down the hallway, into a second bedroom. And whoa, she wasn’t joking about the books. Shelves lined two of the room’s walls, filled with paperbacks and hardcovers. A daybed edged up to a third wall underneath a square-paneled window.
She stopped in the center of the room. “See what I mean?”
“You put new meaning to the word bookworm. More like a book . . . boa constrictor.”
She chuckled. “I’d take offense at that if it wasn’t absolutely true.”
“So how much are we packing up?”
“As many as we can fit into these tubs until I find more boxes.”
He swept an armful of books from the nearest shelf. Anne of Green Gables faced up on the top. Typical girl fare. But the one underneath, a Winston Churchill biography, was interesting. “Any particular reason you’re packing them?”
“I need the space.”
“For . . . ?” He lined the bottom of the tub with books.
“A houseguest. You know Betsy, my chef? Well, her sister Lucy—” A knock sounding from the front door cut her off. “That’s probably her now.” Her focus shifted from her half-filled tub to the still-almost-full shelves.
Another knock. “Go on. I’ll keep working.”
She turned before exiting the room. “By the way, Blake, hear that knocking?” Teasing tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Notice how they’re waiting for me to answer the door before barging in?”
He tossed a paperback at her retreating form, then stood, a grin of his own leading the way back to the bookshelf. But instead of hooking his arm around another bundle of books, he paused, gaze drawn to a framed photo serving as a bookend. The faces of Autumn and her family stared back at him from the porch of the inn—all smiles and carefree poses, arms locked around each other.
He picked up the frame, his scrutiny moving from Autumn’s little-girl grin to her father’s face, awareness creeping through him. He’d forgotten about her family’s loss.
“And this will be your bedroom, Luce—if you decide you’d like to stay here, that is.”
He turned at the sound of Autumn’s voice and shuffled steps entering the room. A man followed Autumn in, along with the young woman who must be Lucy. Straight blond hair hung in pigtails on both sides of her heart-shaped face. She peered around the room with interest, movement slow but smile steady—features both endearing and telling.
“What do you think?” Autumn asked Lucy. “We’ll clear out the bookshelves, and I’m going to clean out the closet, too. It’ll be all your own.”
“I can’t stay at Hope House?”
Blake recognized the name of the nonprofit in a neighboring town—a home for adults with Down syndrome or other developmental challenges.
The man beside Lucy placed his arm around her shoulder. “I’m afraid not, Luce. But I think you’d really like it here. It’s right by where Betsy works, and you can come to the house and see your nieces and nephew whenever you want. We’re all excited about having you so close.”
Must be Betsy’s husband.
“Is he staying here, too?” Lucy pointed at Blake.
At that, both Autumn and the man chuckled. “No, this is my friend Blake. He’s just helping me get the room ready for you. If you decide you like it, I’ll have it all ready when we help you move tomorrow.”
Lucy stepped forward and jutted out her hand. “Hiya, Blake.”
“Hiya, Lucy.” He mimicked her greeting and didn’t have to work for the warmth in his voice. Partially because Lucy’s sweet demeanor naturally drew it out of him.
But, too, because he couldn’t stop the rush of respect toward Autumn. Opening up her tiny home. Reaching out to a friend’s sister. Watching Lucy with as much care and concern as if she were family.
Lucy glanced around the room once more. Nodded. And then, “Okay.”
Autumn’s lips spread. “Good.”
“Can we go say hi to Betsy now?”
Autumn and Betsy’s husband laughed at the quick change, and seconds later, as she walked them back through the house, he heard Autumn promising to help pick up Lucy’s things tomorrow.
Blake was loading up another box of books when Autumn returned. And she must have read the question in his eyes. “Hope House is closing. Betsy and Philip live in a three-bedroom house with four kids. I have this spare room. So . . .”
From his kneeling position he looked up at her, pretty sure the wave of admiration surging through him was visible on his face.
“Anyway, I thought it might feel a little more like home if my stuff wasn’t crowding the space.”
He held her gaze. “You’re something else, Red.”
Embarrassment flitted through her eyes, and she turned to the shelf. “It helps that she already knows me. She spent a lot of time at the inn before moving to Hope House. And I hang out at Hope House a couple times a month and lead a book club for the residents.”
He dropped another load of books in the tub. “They got the right woman for the job.”
“Lucy’s the biggest reader in the group. It takes her a while to get through a book, but she has this uncanny ability to pick up something surprising in a story, to sum up a theme or insight in such a clear way you wonder why you didn’t see it yourself.”
“You like her.”
“A lot. So you wanted to talk about the festival?”
He’d come to tell her he wasn’t sure he was up for it anymore, that it was too hard knowing William Baylor wasn’t the only one in this town just waiting for him to fail.
But Autumn’s commitment to others, and her expectant expression as she watched him, suddenly made him very much want to succeed.
“I thought maybe we should start by going over Georgie’s notes, then making a to-do list.”
She grinned. “A to-do list. You might just be a man after my own heart, Blake Hunziker.”
Okay, so he wouldn’t quit.
Why would Dylan Porter come back?
Autumn covered the distance to the inn, cold poking through the thin fabric of her gray sweater boots and frosting her toes. Black leggings and a jean skirt hadn’t been the most practical outfit for cleaning out the spare bedroom, but she’d planned to head in to work at lunch.
Hadn’t planned on the call from Harry, though, letting her know Dylan and his fiancée were waiting for her at the front desk.
The belled wreath on the inn’s back door—the only Christmas decoration they’d put up so fa
r—jingled when she entered. At the sound, Betsy turned from the stove, the smell of her signature mushroom soup wafting. “Why’s he here?”
Autumn’s appetite niggled. “No idea. Harry didn’t say. Maybe he changed his mind about the reception.” Or rather, changed Mariah’s mind.
“I mean Blake. I saw him walk past the back window to your place.”
Autumn stopped short. “Came to talk festival business.” Except that they hadn’t. They’d packed books to the tune of their own banter after Lucy and Philip left. He’d called her a book nerd. She’d called him a show-off for seeing how many books he could carry at once.
And all the while, she hadn’t been able to clear her mind of the way he’d looked at her when Lucy stopped in—warm and admiring. It’d been enough to turn her common sense to mush for a minute. Or sixty. Wow, had an hour really gone by while they worked?
“You left him at your house?” Betsy swirled a spoon through the oversized pot on the stove.
“He’s boxing up my books to make room for Lucy.”
At that, Betsy’s fingers uncurled from around the ladle and she turned. “What you’re doing for Lucy . . . we’re beyond grateful.”
Autumn moved to Betsy’s side. “You know I’d do anything to help you guys—and I adore Lucy.” She looked down, nudged a crumb on the laminate floor under the stove. “Well, duty calls.” Lord, help me.
She left the kitchen but halfway through the dining room slowed her steps. She reached down to pull up the fabric of her boots, then gulped in as much resolve as she could muster and passed into the lobby.
“Dylan, hello. What brings you by?” Yikes, too much perk. Tone it down.
“Morning, Autumn.” He stepped aside to reveal the woman who was clearly his fiancée. Pixie-cut hair, striped scarf, rosy cheeks. At 5'8" Autumn had at least four inches on her and probably five times that in pounds.
Suddenly she felt like a Raggedy Ann doll next to . . . Barbie. Which was way too ironic considering Dylan . . .
“Autumn, this is my fiancée, Mariah Bates.”
They shook hands, Mariah’s once-over swift, her “nice to meet you” stilted and uncertain. Clearly, the woman wasn’t excited to be there. And yet, as her gaze moved around the lobby and over the ornate open staircase winding toward the second floor, veiled appreciation played over her face.