by Tessa Layne
Dottie’s head snapped up from her usual position behind the counter. The fire in her eye, combined with the pinch at her mouth, told him everything.
Where in tarnation have you been?
I will never let you hear the end of this.
She jerked her chin in the direction of a youngish woman talking quietly with a couple of women he recognized as part of the granny brigade.
Gunnar paused, taking in the scene. Dottie was right, even from behind, he could tell the woman was a looker. Five-ten by his estimate, lush curves that tugged at his memory. Suzannah had been curvy as sin. A real-life Jessica Rabbit, but blonde. A memory seared him. The two of them, naked, standing in front of a mirror, one hand splayed across her hips, the other nestled in a thatch of golden curls, caressing her sex.
His body went tight. Was the memory of her bound to haunt him at every turn today? On second glance, the woman in front of him was too prim, wearing dark slacks and a light sweater, golden hair pulled tight into a bun at the nape of her neck. Although her ass was damned near perfect, he preferred someone a little less buttoned-up. A little more passionate and fluid. A little more like how he remembered Suzannah – a woman in touch with her sensuality. From behind, this woman looked like she had a stick up her ass, which would make it that much easier to maintain a strictly professional relationship, well-intentioned grannies or not.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he called, weaving through the tables to where the women stood.
Three heads turned his direction, but the floor tilted as he locked eyes with Prairie’s newest resident. Heat flooded his body and his boots stuck to the floor as the greeting died on his lips. Gunnar’s stomach dropped like a stone. He flushed hot, then lost feeling in his limbs as white hot anger replaced shock. For a split second, his head exploded – all the unspoken words, all the hurt, swirling with the fury of an F-5 tornado.
As if in slow motion, her eyes sparkled, then widened, and went blank. At the same time, the color drained from her face, smile freezing then vanishing.
So.
Suzannah Marie Harper recognized him too.
CHAPTER 2
No. Way.
No fucking way. Suzannah froze, unable to believe what her eyes were telling her. This was head-of-the-board Gunnar? She’d expected someone in their fifties, not him. Not the man who stole her heart, then broke her.
And good lord… somehow, in the time that had passed, he looked better than ever. His face was more chiseled, more defined. The last of his boyish softness had disappeared, now replaced with hard man. His hair was shorter now, no longer the long ponytail he’d sported in Vegas that gave him the appearance of being a Viking warrior, especially with his shirt off. She missed the long hair. He was bigger than she remembered, broader, muscles more defined, stretching the fabric of both his shirt and his jeans. Her pulse tripped, and her body betrayed her. This was the man who abandoned her at the altar. She should be cool, indifferent, not unable to tear her eyes away, mouth watering over the thought of him naked.
Why hadn’t she thought to ask more about him in her interview? The name had set off a warning bell when she’d applied, but she’d also been a finalist for a similar program in North Dakota, where she’d met three Gunnars – all wizened old men descended from Swedish pioneers. In the end, she’d accepted the offer in Prairie so she could be closer to Kansas City, and her best friends. Her only support system for the last four-and-a-half years. The idea of being more than a few hours away had been unbearable. And not just for her. Lulah adored her aunties.
Gunnar dropped his hand, blue eyes like a glacier. “Hello, Dr. Winslow.” Sarcasm dripped from his voice.
Beside her, Gloria McPherson gasped quietly. Fine. She deserved that. She’d planned to explain a few things at the altar, but she hadn’t gotten the chance. They’d been too starry-eyed, high on hormones, champagne, and willing to throw caution to the wind. They’d bared their souls to each other, the names of their first pets, the foods they hated growing up, even the names they imagined for their children. Yet, she’d been too scared to disclose her last name – her father’s persona had a way of scaring people off.
Her mouth went dry. She needed to say something. The women were looking at her, aghast. Digging deep for a small smile, she extended her hand. “Hello, Gunnar. Nice to see you again.” She could barely hear her voice over the pounding in her ears.
He glared, refusing to accept her hand. A flash of anger whipped through Suzannah. Why did he look so furious? He was the one who ditched her. Refused to answer her frantic phone calls and texts, and was long gone when she finally made it to the little chapel where they’d planned to take the plunge. He was the one who’d smashed her heart to smithereens and left her to deal with the fallout.
“Gunnar Hansen,” Dottie boomed. “Where in tarnation are your manners? The least you can do is offer Dr. Winslow a chair and a piece of pie. Your mama raised you better than that.”
Suzannah bit back a smile. She liked Dottie Grace more and more. Gunnar’s eyes narrowed, but she held his gaze, unflinching. She’d been through hell and back since they’d kissed goodbye on the Strip, and it was going to take a lot more than an ice-cold glare to make her squirm. She’d dealt with doctors who were far worse. Heck, her father was far worse.
“I’ll grab the pie,” Gloria said in a rush, clearly ill at ease.
It would be rude to leave without a piece of pie, but she refused to be the target of Gunnar’s ire a second longer. Flashing him a bland smile, the kind she’d been taught from day one in sixth-grade cotillion, she pulled out the chair closest to her and offered it with a sweep of her hand. “Have a chair?”
He nodded curtly and moved toward her. As he sat, Suzannah caught a whiff of his cologne, a heady combination of bergamot and cedar. Her chest clutched in recognition, the force of it snatching her breath. Once upon a time, she’d wrapped herself in that scent, luxuriated in it. And in moments of weakness in the dark days that followed after their last kiss, she’d haunted the cologne counter at Hall’s, letting the scent and the memories wash over her.
She circled the table and dropped into a chair across from him. Better to keep a little distance. Her chest pinched, questions and hurt rising unbidden, ready to tumble out of her mouth the second she let down her guard. But her guard wouldn’t come down so easily. Not this time. Not when she had more than herself to worry about.
Gunnar held her gaze, glare gone, but definitely assessing. Suzannah stared right back, heat curling up her chest. Let him look all he liked. Let him realize what he gave up by throwing her away like a piece of trash.
His jaw remained tight, mouth firm. That mouth had done sinful things to her body, the memory of it permanently imprinted on her soul. His fingers, long, strong fingers that had brought her to climax so often she couldn’t remember her name, drummed casually on the table, the only outward sign that he might be agitated. He’d been the consummate poker player. At least he had been. Could he still bluff a table with nothing but a pair of threes and walk away with the winnings?
Gloria bustled back with thick slices of chocolate cream pie, and paused, eyes darting back and forth between them. “You’ve met before.”
Here it was. The first moment of truth. There was no use denying what was patently obvious. Her mind whirled. More was at stake than just her job. She should resign tonight. Go back to Kansas City and try to find a job in a family practice, resign herself to a lifetime of medical school debt. Her girlfriends would be thrilled to have her back in town. Or maybe there was another rural community far, far away from Prairie that had a similar program for paying off student-loan debt in exchange for years of service. Either way, it was clear coming to Prairie had been a huge mistake.
She arched a brow at Gunnar, daring him to speak. Her heart gave a curious little jump when the muscle at his temple twitched. Her mouth turned up as she nodded once, slowly. “Yes. Yes, we have.”
Gloria clucked, shaking her head. “I’m
gonna help Dottie shut things down. Holler if you need a refill.” She scurried back to the kitchen.
Any other day, the cream pie would have tasted heavenly. Today? The crust felt like sandpaper, and only the barest recognition of chocolate hit her brain. The longer they sat, the more the silence ate at her. Four-and-a-half years and the best he could do was give her the silent treatment?
Anger sparked to life deep in her belly. If that was how he wanted to play it, fine. Let him sit there, all big and broad, blue plaid shirt pulling tight across his chest, showing the faintest hint of the chiseled muscles beneath. She’d already explained herself, repeatedly. In frantic, teary voicemails and texts. He’d never responded, not once. Better she learned before she’d said I Do, that he couldn’t handle even the slightest emergency. Contrary to his silver-tongued promises, he wasn’t cut out to be a doctor’s husband.
Suzannah forced herself to chew slowly, to keep a lid on the anger that threatened to spill out like a volcano. She’d learned a few things from her crazy family, the first being that she who revealed feelings first, lost. The second, she who spoke first, lost. If Gunnar wanted to make this a battle of wills, game on. But this was about more than her, her conscience pricked, and whatever battles she fought, needed to be fought with that in mind.
For now, her questions would have to remain unanswered. Her hurt, buried and re-examined at a later date. She didn’t need to reveal her feelings to Gunnar at all. She owed him nothing. Drawing up her courage, she laid down her fork, then dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Then she placed both hands on the table, pushed back her chair and stood, resolve straightening her spine to an iron rod. Once again, gratitude for her height washed over her. There was power in her stature, and she needed every scrap she could get right now.
“My full name is Suzannah Marie Harper Winslow.”
Gunnar’s eyes widened a fraction.
“You’ve probably heard of my father, Orrin Winslow, one of the biggest real estate developers and business investors in the Midwest?” She rarely disclosed that bit of information, preferring to live a more anonymous life, far away from the media attention he enjoyed nearly as much as the money he seemed to create out of thin air. Gunnar started to speak, but she held up her hand. He didn’t deserve any other explanation. “There’s nothing more to discuss. The board will have my resignation in the morning.” Squaring her shoulders, she spun on her heel and marched out of the diner.
CHAPTER 3
Stunned.
Fucking stunned.
She acted like he was at fault. Like he had wronged her. He’d kept waiting for her to offer some kind of explanation, an excuse, an apology, something, anything. And now Dottie was storming over, looking as ruffled as a prairie chicken defending her nest.
“Never in all my years of knowing you, have I seen you behave like an ass,” she stormed. “You are better than that, Gunnar Hansen.”
His chest lurched. He hated disappointing people. His family most of all, and while he might not be related to Dottie Grace, she was family. “You don’t understand,” he started, then stopped, unsure he was ready to make his confession. Once Dottie learned about what happened in Vegas, everyone would know. Including his parents.
Dottie harrumphed, fisting her hands on her hips. “Then you better make me, sweetie pie, because there will be hell to pay if you’ve scared away that sweet thing.”
“I didn’t scare her away,” he snapped, burning at the insinuation that somehow this was his fault. “She resigned on her own.”
“Resigned?” Dottie’s voice rose an octave. “Let me see if I understand this.” She waved an arm, getting more worked up by the second. “The board that you’re in charge of, the board you’ve neglected, searched for months for the perfect candidate, and the night before Day One, you blow in here – late – wearing an expression that would terrify a demon, and scare her off without saying more than six words to her?” Dottie shook her head vigorously, mouth thinning to a straight line. “You are not leaving here until you’ve spilled. Everything.” She turned and called back to the kitchen. “Gloria, hon, can you bring out the crisis bottle? We have a situation here.”
Crisis bottle?
“Since when did you start drinking whiskey?” he choked out, hardly believing his ears.
“When Jamey was helping me with the food truck after the tornado last year, she brought a bottle. Got to where I enjoyed a little nip at the end of a long day.”
Jamey Sinclaire and her husband Brodie, worked the hunting lodge not far from where the Hansen property butted up against the Sinclaires’. With red hair and a fiery personality to match, she’d introduced many of Prairie’s ladies to her favorite Irish whiskey, a twelve-year Redbreast she termed ‘the crisis bottle.’ According to his little sister, Jamey’s crisis bottle had resolved more than one romantic conflict in town.
Gloria bustled out of the kitchen carrying the bottle and a stack of small juice glasses. She set the bottle down with a thunk, then laid out the glasses. She eyed Gunnar with a gleam in her eye as she splashed whiskey into the glasses. “Don’t think for a second I’m not going to eavesdrop on this conversation.”
Great.
He wasn’t sure which was worse, confessing to his mom, or to Dottie and another member of the granny posse. At least Axel wasn’t here. That would be much, much worse. He could just hear Axel snickering at the whole situation. Like a good younger brother, Axel never missed an opportunity to needle him, although he’d been surprisingly sympathetic when Suzannah had abandoned him at the altar.
Dottie and Gloria stared at him with an air of hunger. Prairie’s older women were like bloodhounds when it came to ferreting out gossip. They could smell a juicy story a mile away.
Stalling, he drained his glass in one swallow, letting the whiskey roll over his tongue and burn his throat. He was going to need another glass at least, before he was willing to spill the beans.
“That bad, huh?” said Dottie, raising a brow and giving him a motherly pat on the arm.
Oh shit.
All the shame and bitterness he’d buried, carefully contained in a secret part of his soul, geysered up and shot out of his mouth before he could stop the words.
“She took me for a ride, Dottie. Completely snowed me. Got me to promise her the goddamned moon on a silver chain, and then she stood me up. Left me standing at the altar with Parker and Axel, looking like a damned fool.” He slammed back the second shot, returning the glass to the table with a little too much force. The burn of the whiskey didn’t begin to come close to the inferno in his veins.
She thought she could quit and march out of here, head held high? Screw that, he meant to fire her. Let her have a taste of the humiliation he’d experienced that night.
Gloria let out a tiny giggle. Dottie chortled.
“There is nothing funny about this,” he snapped.
“Of course there is,” Dottie shot back. “What in Baby Jesus’ name were you thinking? Who gets married in Vegas? How long had you known each other? A day? Maybe two? What brain were you thinking with?”
Gloria was now giggling uncontrollably, tears leaking from her eyes. Gunnar shook his head. They had no idea what it had been like, how intense it had been. “Four,” he muttered. “Four days.” Four perfect days of soul-searing kisses, followed by sharing their deepest secrets, their closely held dreams. It was like Suzannah Harper, Suzannah Winslow, had been conjured from his dreams. They were meant for each other. There’d been no choice for either of them, except to marry.
Dottie shook her head, tsking. “If you’d come home from Vegas with a wife you’d known only four days, I’d have slapped you silly.”
“It wasn’t like that. I could tell you things about Suzannah no one knows.” Like the heart-shaped tattoo on her right hip bone. Or that her dog, Misty, had been hit by a car when she was eight. And that she wanted to name a daughter Talulah for her grandmother who she loved more than anything.
“I don�
��t care what you know or don’t know about Dr. Winslow,” Dottie retorted. “I don’t care if she can play the piano with her toes. We’re damned well not going to let an excellent physician get away, and a single mother at that, because your penis had a momentary lapse of judgment. She needs us as much as we need her.”
Gunnar’s hand fisted on the table. “What do you mean?” he asked when he finally found his voice. A wave of jealousy rolled through him with teeth-jarring intensity, as the picture of her, belly distended and heavy with child, shimmered before him. It should have been him. His stomach hollowed at the thought, acid rising in this throat. He’d have happily given her all the children she wanted.
Dottie started to speak, but Gloria nudged her. “Not our story to tell, Dot.” She speared him with a look only a mother could give. “It sounds like the two of you have some catching up to do.”
Had she married someone else? Had some asshole knocked her up then abandoned her? A flash of fierce possessiveness speared him. Family meant everything to him, and the knowledge that Suzannah was raising a child on her own didn’t sit well with him. He might be pissed as hell at her, but he wasn’t so much of an asshole that he’d push her out of town when she was raising a child on her own. What if she had nowhere to go?
“Darn tootin’,” Dottie agreed. “And don’t even think of showing your face back here until you’ve convinced our doctor to stay.”
Gunnar nearly turned around three times on the ten-minute walk to where the clinic stood on the edge of town. Across the street from the clinic stood a bungalow, built in the forties, with a wide front porch and stone pillars. The Graces had donated the house to the Warren G. Hansen Memorial Foundation, and Mason Carter, a millionaire friend of his cousin Maddie’s husband, had paid for the remodeling.