“We’ve been tossing around a couple of titles. ‘Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes’ got the most votes.”
Not bad. She liked it.
“Although ‘Happily Never After’ is still in the running.”
Rachael didn’t like that one so much. It was too negative. As if romantic love wasn’t possible at all.
Maybe it’s not.
“So may I call my editor-in-chief and give him the good news that you’ll be writing for us?” Maggie asked, drawing her cell phone from her purse.
Rachael paused, knowing she was on the verge of a monumental opportunity. Her mouth was dry, her stomach in knots. Writing for such an acclaimed regional magazine would stretch her creative skills beyond anything she’d ever dared. It was a dream she’d never even thought to dream.
But this wasn’t strictly about her. There was something else to think about. What would the column do to her hometown?
It could put it on the map, but it could also hurt a lot of people. Good, decent people who were just trying to make their way in life. Did she have any right to shine a floodlight on her community without the permission of its citizens?
On the other hand, she couldn’t be held responsible for the way some people might react to her column. She’d spent her life as a people pleaser. It was time for her to do what she thought best.
Chin up, she met Maggie Lawford’s eye. “Tell your editor I’m on board.”
“That’s wonderful.” Maggie smiled. “Now, there’s just one more thing.”
What now? Rachael’s muscles tensed. “Yes?”
“We’re planning a big romance exposé edition for Valentine’s Day and we want you to lead the charge. To quickly build you a following, we want to get your column started as soon as possible. The November issue will be going to press in three weeks and we want ‘Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes’ to be in it. With that deadline in mind, we’ll need your first column by the end of the week. Can you handle it?”
It didn’t give her much time to take a breath, much less think this through. She’d already gone this far out on the limb. What was a couple more feet? “I can handle it.”
“Excellent.” Maggie Lawford got to her feet and extended her hand to Rachael again. “It’s great to have you on board.”
It felt great, too.
Except for the sinking feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that she had no idea what to write about that wasn’t going to step on a lot of toes in Valentine.
THE PRESSURE WAS ON.
An hour after she’d accepted Maggie Lawford’s offer, Rachael sat in Bristo Park across from the courthouse, laptop resting on her thighs, the cursor blinking accusatorily at her from the blank Word document. She hadn’t a single idea in her head.
What was she going to write about?
Think, think.
Nothing.
She shifted on the park bench, ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth, twisted a curl of hair around her index finger. Hmm. What could she say that she hadn’t already said on her Web site?
The emptiness inside her brain was excruciating. She wasn’t a writer. She was a kindergarten teacher. Why had she agreed to write that column? It had been a momentary lapse of sanity.
Pursing her lips, she gazed out across the clipped green lawn for inspiration and saw nothing the least bit inspiring. A flush of red chrysanthemums encircled the tree. Maybe she could rant about the practice of romanticizing football homecoming games with high school football mums.
It was something.
She typed “Mums.” Then paused to nibble her bottom lip. She thought about her own high school football mums and her heart went all melty remembering the boys who’d given them to her.
Snap out of it!
But the mums brought back such happy memories. Why would she want to bash the practice? Why deny other young girls the fun simply because she’d had rotten luck with romance? It felt like sour grapes.
Come on, come on, you’re getting soft on me. You’re in danger of falling off the wagon. Remember why you painted that billboard in the first place. You said you wanted to get your message out about the folly of buying into the myth of romance. Here’s your chance.
Except she just couldn’t seem to work up the requisite anger. At least not in reference to homecoming mums.
She backspaced, erasing “Mums.”
Great. Blowing out her breath, she cruised her gaze around the courthouse square.
And spied Mayor Wentworth hustling down the steps of City Hall, his white Stetson jammed down on his head. Where was he off to in such a hurry?
Rachael narrowed her eyes. Probably heading out to cook up some new way to bolster his standing in the polls. She thought about the way he’d acted toward her ever since she’d begun her anti-romance campaign and suddenly an idea came to her.
It was perfect in its simplicity.
Lay the blame on Valentine’s obsession with romance squarely where it belonged. On the shoulders of the man perpetuating the myth in order to hold on to his job.
And the sweet thing was, she was in tight with the mayor’s assistant.
Smiling, Rachael stowed her laptop in its carrying case, then got up and walked across the park to interview Rex for her scathing exposé on Kelvin Wentworth.
RACHAEL PACED MRS. POTTER’S living room. Two days had passed since she’d e-mailed Maggie Lawford her column. Maggie had sent a terse reply, saying she’d call her today. Rachael had been waiting by the phone since eight a.m.
“Honey,” Selina said. “You’re getting yourself all worked up over this. Come on, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“Maggie could pull the plug on the column.”
“And you wouldn’t be any worse off than before.”
Good point, but Rachael wasn’t in the mood to listen to common sense. She couldn’t explain it, but it felt as if her entire future lay in Maggie Lawford’s manicured hands. She’d given up being a starry-eyed romantic to become an eagle-eyed journalist. She was ready to fully embrace this identity and her newfound philosophy on love. The column was a validation of her progress.
Selina looked at her watch. “It’s almost six o’clock. She’s probably left for the day. I imagine she hasn’t even had a chance to read your article, much less —”
The ringing phone cut off her mother’s words. “Texas Monthly” scrolled across the caller ID screen.
Palms sweating, Rachael snatched up the cordless phone. “Hello?”
“Rachael,” the editor said in her cool, clipped tones. “Maggie Lawford here. Your article . . . ”
“Yes,” she whispered and held her breath. In the space of time it took Maggie to answer, Rachael’s heart skipped two beats.
“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. This is exactly what we were looking for from you.”
Relief turned her knees to rubber and she dropped down on the sofa beside her mother. Selina raised a quizzical eyebrow. Rachael covered the mouthpiece with a hand and murmured, “She loves it.”
“Yes!” Selina mouthed silently and showed her support by raising her fisted hands over her head in a triumphant gesture.
“I’ve got to warn you about something, however,” Maggie said.
The mindless fear was back, grabbing at her belly and squeezing hard. “What is it?”
“There’s going to be fallout from this column when it hits the newsstands next month.”
“What do you mean . . . fallout?”
“The Wentworth name carries a lot of clout. Are you sure of your facts?”
“Absolutely. I have a source inside the mayor’s office.”
“Okay, then,” Maggie said. “But I want you to be prepared.”
Rachael ran a hand through her hair. “Prepared for what?”
“This little story is going to set off one hell of a firestorm.”
“You’re serious? The one article?”
“Rachael, don’t you realize what you’ve done?”
&nbs
p; Apprehension tickled her bones. “Um, no.”
“Why, honey, you’ve fired the opening salvo in what I predict will become a protracted civil war between cynics and romantics. And not just in your hometown, but all across Texas.”
“WHAT ARE YOU going to do about this business?” Kelvin demanded, slapping a slick new copy of Texas Monthly on Brody’s desk.
It was more than three weeks until Halloween, but Kelvin looked like he was already gearing up to attend the annual harvest bash as the Incredible Hulk. His blue eyes flashed fire, twin veins at his temples bulged, and his big neck was overflowing the top of his starched white collar.
Brody cocked back on the legs of his chair, interlaced his fingers, cradled his head in his palms, and leveled the mayor with a steady gaze. “Do about what?”
“You haven’t seen this?” Kelvin thumped the magazine with a meaty thumb. “Your little girlfriend is making a mockery of our entire town.”
“First off, Rachael is not my girlfriend,” Brody said evenly. “Second, it seems to me she’s making a mockery of you and your ancestors, not Valentine.”
“It’s the same damn thing,” Kelvin roared.
“Ah, but you see, it’s not. That’s where I think the problem lies, and actually it’s what Rachael’s article is all about.”
“She’s going to cause me to lose the election.”
“You’re going to cause you to lose the election. Not Rachael, not Giada Vito. Your own behavior.”
“Listen to this.” Kelvin grabbed up the magazine and flipped the pages until he found what he was searching for. “The Wentworth family has molded the town of Valentine into an image that benefits them financially. Since the nineteen fifties, they’ve perpetuated harmful romantic myths, not out of any real belief in the lasting power of love, but simply to make their fortunes. Valentine isn’t so much a town as it is a tourist trap, with its romantic novelties and a man-made, heart-shaped lake. And Mayor Wentworth, who, by the way, has never been married, is the ringmaster of this romantic circus.”
Kelvin flung the magazine across the room.
“Any part of that untrue?” Brody asked.
“She makes it sound like I don’t care about this town and the people in it. She’s unpatriotic, un-American, un-Valentinian. What’s the matter with her? Everyone believes in true love.”
“Even you?”
Kelvin snorted. “Of course I do.”
“Then why haven’t you ever been married?”
“Because I never found the right woman. You have any idea what it’s like to live in a town saturated with romance? To grow up indoctrinated in the family business of making Valentine’s Day novelties, while all around you people are falling in love, but you never find that special someone?”
“Wow,” Brody said. “You’re sounding dangerously close to believing what you’re saying.”
Kelvin’s eyes flashed in anger. “I have supporters. People in this town loved my father, my family. They love me and everything I’ve done for Valentine. This is going to cause a heap of trouble. Are you prepared for an uprising?”
“There you go being all dramatic again.”
“And there you go, not taking this seriously.”
Truth was, Brody was struggling not to smirk. “I can’t arrest her for having an opinion, Kelvin.”
“It’s Mayor Wentworth,” Kelvin said, pulling rank.
Brody couldn’t resist. A smiled curled his lips. “Enjoy the title while it lasts . . . Mayor.”
Kelvin whipped his head around to drill Brody with a glare. “What does that mean?”
“Rachael’s got her supporters, too. And I happen to be one of them. I think the Wentworths have made this town look foolish for too long.”
Kelvin stared at Brody as if he’d kicked him in the family jewels. A pained expression pulled his mouth downward. “I supported you for sheriff.”
“You did.”
“And this is the thanks I get?”
Brody spread his hands. “It’s just an article. It’ll blow over if you don’t make a big deal of it. Show the town you have a sense of humor. Show them that —”
But he didn’t get any farther. Kelvin stormed out the door, flipping Brody the bird as he went.
Brody shook his head and let out a breath of air. From the way things were stacking up, it was going to be a long few weeks until the election.
RACHAEL WASN’T HAVING any better a day than Mayor Wentworth. The phone had been ringing off the wall with citizens calling to read her the riot act over her column in Texas Monthly.
She’d been called a traitor, a communist, a bitter jilted old maid, and much worse. People she’d known her entire life snubbed her on the streets. Her hairdresser canceled her appointment, saying that under the circumstances she felt it would be hypocritical of her to cut Rachael’s hair when Rachael hated the town so much.
That one really stung.
Maggie had warned her, but she still hadn’t been prepared for the vitriol.
Sure, she had her supporters — the folks from her romanceaholics group, her mother, her father, and her sister, Hannah. Even Delaney, Tish, and Jillian had called to offer moral support. But she really hadn’t expected the onslaught of hatred. Perhaps she was naive, but she’d thought people would appreciate her shedding light on Valentine’s flaws. She’d mistakenly believed they would want to change the things holding the town back.
What had happened to her life?
Unbidden, her gaze slid over to Brody’s house. She saw the patrol car parked in the driveway. He was home. Deana’s car was gone, however.
He was home alone.
Rachael remembered the last time she’d been alone with him and her heart knocked. She saw his gate was open. She could hear the faint sounds of music coming from his backyard. It was a Chris Isaak tune about not wanting to fall in love.
The haunting melody drew her across the street.
Before she could stop herself, her hand was pushing his honeysuckle-covered gate open wider and she was walking into his backyard.
She rounded the corner of the house, his name on her lips, but the word died on her tongue when she saw him standing beside the patio table in his swim trunks, his tanned body glistening wet from a dip in the hot tub.
His back was to her and he was drying off his shoulders with a fluffy white bath towel. Her gaze slid down the well-defined muscles of his shoulder blades to the waistband of his shorts. Her mouth went dry. She could smell the scent of chlorine and redwood decking mingled with the fragrance of honeysuckle flourishing all along the fence, blocking the neighbors’ view of his backyard. She heard the sound of the hot tub jets churning, Chris Isaak’s mournful lyrics, and the soft, brisk, whisking noise of the towel rubbing vigorously against his skin.
He ducked his head, toweled his hair.
Then her gaze dropped from the view of his wet swimsuit cupping his firm butt to his thigh.
Her breath left her body in an exclamation of air as she saw the rounded stump below his knee where his right leg had been. The stab of hurt and sadness that she felt inside her heart for him was so powerful, she took a step backward.
And she bumped into a metal patio chair.
It screeched across the cement.
Brody lifted his head, looked toward her.
Rachael froze, her gaze riveted on his damaged leg.
“What are you doing here,” he demanded, his voice harsh. He dropped the end of the towel to hide his leg. “Get out of here.”
“Brody . . . I . . . I . . . ”
“Go on.” His face was a mask. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling compelled to hold her ground. If she ran away now, he would think it was because the sight of his leg disgusted her. It did not, but she realized he was prepared to believe that.
For the first time, she spied the prosthetic leg propped against the hot tub decking. It looked bionic. Futuristic. Fascinating.
She to
ok a step forward.
“Get out,” he said harshly.
“I’m not afraid of you.”
He was throwing daggers at her with his eyes. “You damn well should be.”
“Why?” She raised her chin.
He hardened his jaw, pointed a finger in the direction of her house. “Go.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You’re trespassing.”
“Your gate was open.”
“Maisy must have forgotten to close it.” His dark, damp hair fell across his forehead. He looked so vulnerable standing there trying hard not to look vulnerable. He was embarrassed that she’d caught him in a moment of weakness. Her heartstrings tugged.
“Brody.” Her voice came out lower and softer than she’d intended. The sound of his name hovered between them like the wings of a butterfly, soft and fluttery.
His jaw clenched tighter, as if he were holding back words or emotions he didn’t dare let escape.
“Brody,” she whispered again and crossed the patio between them, until she was directly in front of him, the thin towel the only barrier separating him from her.
Rachael shouldn’t have done what she did next. She knew it as she was doing it, but she couldn’t stop herself, didn’t want to stop. Brody needed to know that he wasn’t repulsive or disgusting or half a man. He needed to know that she found him sexy and virile and very attractive.
Her eyes didn’t leave his face. She stared at him, stared into him, telegraphing with her eyes how much she admired and respected and desired him.
God, how she desired him.
He dropped the towel. She didn’t see it fall because her gaze was transfixed on his, but she felt the terry cloth brush against her ankles as it landed on the cement. She didn’t look down. For her there was nothing to see but his beautiful face.
“Rachael,” he murmured.
His hand — fingertips, actually — brushed her hair from her forehead, then dropped down to feather her cheekbone, his calloused palm curving against her soft skin. She stared into chocolate brown eyes glittering with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. Sexual hunger? Yes, lust was certainly a component, but there was much more lurking in the shadowy depths of his gaze. She saw tenderness and concern and worry and apprehension as well.
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