Make Me Love You

by Elizabeth Bright

  Make Me Love You

  A Hart’s Ridge Novel

  By

  ELIZABETH BRIGHT

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Make Me Love You

  Copyright © 2021 by Elizabeth Bright. All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Christina Hovland

  Editing by Mackenzie Walton

  No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations utilized in critical articles or reviews.

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-7370702-0-7

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Elizabeth Bright

  Chapter One

  It said something that the town of Hart’s Ridge, North Carolina, was named for the mountain peaks that encircled it like a halo rather than for the valley in which it was actually located. Maybe it said that the people of Hart’s Ridge were optimists, that they were always looking up. Then again, maybe they were always looking up because they knew the minute they turned their backs, the volatile mountain weather would bite them in the butt.

  Emma Andrews leaned out the window of her Airstream-turned-food-truck, her gaze tracking the straight line down Main Street to where Hart Mountain loomed behind City Hall like a sentry. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, except a benign puffy white type here and there. Emma narrowed her eyes.

  Yep. Definitely a bite-you-in-the-butt kind of day.

  “Ain’t no point in staring out that window,” Cesar Martinez said, not bothering to look up from his book to verify the truth of his statement. “Nobody’s coming.”

  Emma sighed. Only a month ago, she would have sold a couple hundred cups of coffee and twice that in burritos. Her Airstream was the last stop on Main Street before the road turned to ten miles of nothingness that stretched all the way to the chicken processing plant. The processing plant employed nearly a thousand workers, which meant every morning a couple hundred swung by on the way into work to pick up coffee and a breakfast burrito, and maybe a second burrito to save for lunch.

  The processing plant that had, exactly one month ago, given formal notice to its thousand employees that it was consolidating its operations in Delaware. The North Carolina operations were shutting down. The law required sixty days’ notice, but now thirty days in, the plant was already nearly deserted. Workers who commuted in from other towns had no reason to come to Hart’s Ridge now—they weren’t going to make that drive just for Cesar’s burritos, even if they were the best burritos east of the Mississippi and north of Mexico. Some workers had probably left for Delaware. A good number lived in Hart’s Ridge, but who knew if they would stay? In a town of less than four thousand, there weren’t many jobs to go around.

  All of which meant they’d had a grand total of six customers that morning.

  Six. That wasn’t enough to cover her own wages, much less Cesar, her lone employee. Cesar was sixty-five and needed the job. And if she couldn’t cover herself and Cesar, then she definitely couldn’t cover her dad. He’d be home in four months—four months, good Lord—and who was going to hire him if not her? The good folks of Hart’s Ridge were not exactly lining up to hire themselves a convicted felon.

  And what about—

  No. She halted the doom train in its tracks before it could run away with her sanity, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. It wouldn’t do her any good to go down that path. She needed solutions, not nausea.

  “What are we going to do?” she said, as much to the universe as to Cesar.

  Cesar leaned against the oak cabinet that stretched from floor to roof, folded his arms over his chest, and crossed one long leg over the other. “I figure you will come up with something.”

  “Why in the heck would you figure that?” she demanded.

  “Because that’s what you do. You make it work. Eight years ago, your life was a mess. Mom dead, dad in jail, no money. A house that needed upkeep and this trailer that had seen better days. You didn’t know how to cook, didn’t know how to get this thing running. Look at you now.”

  Emma blinked. That was a pretty generous assessment of her life, and glossed over quite a bit of failure. College, for example. She hadn’t been able to keep up with classes and a job waitressing at Dreamer’s Cafe, which she’d needed to pay the mortgage and basic necessities like food and soap. She’d flunked her classes before dropping out altogether—to the surprise of absolutely no one. As for fixing up the Airstream, yeah, she had done that, with Cesar’s help and a lot of internet tutorials. It was honestly amazing what was on the internet these days.

  “You made it work. Though,” he amended, “you still can’t cook.”

  “I can cook,” she protested.

  “You can follow instructions. There’s a difference.”

  Considering that her cooking consisted of tortillas, scrambled eggs, sauteed vegetables, and heating beans that Cesar had worked some magic on the night prior, she had to admit he had a point. Cesar was responsible for everything that tasted good. When she’d first come up with this hare-brained idea, born of sheer desperation, she’d provided the Airstream—a relic from her family’s happier life before her mom’s cancer diagnosis—and he’d provided the skills. They made a good team.

  “Well, I haven’t come up with anything,” she grumped. “What am I supposed to do, chain myself to the plant until they agree to stay?”

  Cesar shrugged, completely unconcerned, as though both their livelihoods weren’t at stake. “You’ll think of something.”

  Emma slapped a dishrag against the counter and then did it again twice more, for good measure. She felt helpless. She couldn’t even clean anything—her go-to for stress relief—because without customers, the place was already spotless.

  “So, what, if I don’t come up with something, the town is just going to fall down around our ears? The processing plant was the biggest employer in Hart’s Ridge. Small towns die when they lose income like that.”

  “Yeah, yeah, go tell the mayor,” Cesar said drily.

  The mayor.

  Someone who could actually do something. Supposedly. And even if he couldn’t, it would make Emma feel better to yell at someone.

  “I will tell the mayor. See if I won’t.” She untied her apron and hung it on its hook. Underneath she wore a plain white T-shirt, jeans, and scuffed sneakers that had more than one hole. Her mom would have told her to wear a nice dress if she was going to yell at someone important, but her mom wasn’t here to stop her. Cesar just shook his head. He was used to her by now. “You good here without me?”

  Cesar made a big deal about looking left and looking right. “But what about all the customers?”

  “Shut up,” she growled, already hal
fway out the door.

  “You walking?”

  “Yeah.” It was only a couple blocks. Not worth taking her truck.

  “Take an umbrella. Storm’s coming.”

  Emma glanced up at the nearly blue sky. The lone cloud had increased to four. But she wasn’t fooled by that. The air had that thick, humid feel that promised a summer dumping, and the clouds might be puffy like cotton balls on top, but underneath they were flat and quickly darkening. “Not until this afternoon.”

  The May heat was intense, but that didn’t stop her from walking as fast as she could. It felt good to stomp on the sidewalk, to move her muscles. Frustration made her stride long and purposeful. She was nearly there when she caught sight of a police car moseying by.

  Instantly she hunched her shoulders and ducked behind a lamp post, trying to make herself as invisible as possible. Not that she was afraid of being arrested—she’d never had so much as a parking ticket—she just didn’t want to see him.

  Eli Carter. Her one-time best friend until he’d arrested her dad eight years ago for cooking meth.

  The black paint on the lamp post was chipped in several places. She peeled anxiously at it with her thumbnail, holding her breath until she saw the number on the car: 699, not 701. It wasn’t him. She glanced around, hoping no one saw her being weird with the lamp post, and continued to City Hall.

  Her strides weren’t quite as purposeful now. She was thrown off by the not-Eli sighting. In truth, she shouldn’t be so worried. She hadn’t really seen him in eight years, not since that night she’d told him she never wanted to see him again. It shouldn’t have been possible to avoid a person for eight years in a small town that had two gas stations, one grocery store, and not much in the way of entertainment. She should have run into him constantly.

  Apparently, he had taken her at her word. Oh, she’d seen glimpses of him here and there, at a party or around town, but he was always gone so quickly she was never completely sure it was him or wishful thinking.

  No, not wishful thinking. The opposite of wishful thinking, whatever that was. Fearful thinking?

  Emma was so lost in her thoughts that she found herself staring at the mayor’s door without any memory of having arrived. She shook her head to clear her mind and then rapped sharply on the oak door.

  “Come in!” Mayor Whittaker bellowed. He glanced up as she entered. “Ah, Emma. What can I do for you? Nothing to do with angles and planes, I hope.”

  Emma blinked, abashed. Before retiring five years ago, Mayor Whittaker had been the tenth grade geometry teacher at John Hart High School. Geometry wasn’t her best subject—although, to be fair, she didn’t have a best subject. She was a B-average student—a source of endless disappointment and frustration to her education-minded parents—with a couple A’s and C’s sprinkled in. Geometry had been a C, and she had worked hard for it.

  But she could tell from the twinkle in his eyes that Mayor Whittaker didn’t realize his joke stung, so she shrugged it off. She wasn’t here for geometry, anyway.

  “You can tell me how I’m to keep my business open when the chicken plant closes, that’s what you can do for me.” Ignoring the fact that she hadn’t been invited to take a seat, she yanked back a chair and plopped down on the cracked vinyl cushion. “People came from all over western North Carolina to work in the factory, and they stopped by my place every morning for breakfast on their way in. No one’s coming in anymore. They’re staying in their own towns, or they’re moving to Delaware. What are you going to do about that?”

  Mr. Whittaker leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, and steepled his fingers. He peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “Sounds like a job for the mayor.”

  Emma loved Mr. Whittaker. He looked like Santa Claus. So much so, in fact, that he dressed up every year and read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” to kids at the library. But right then, Emma wanted to strangle him, and it she didn’t care if that would get her coal in her stocking. “Yes. That’s why I’m here. You’re the mayor.”

  “Hm.” He pondered that. “How old are you now, Emma?”

  “Twenty-eight. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “A person must be twenty-five or older. It’s one of the two qualifications for mayor. The other one being that a person can’t otherwise be employed by the town. Which you aren’t.” He leaned back and grinned like a fox in a hen house. “Have at it.”

  A bad feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. “Have at what?”

  “Have at being mayor.”

  “No, thank you.” She laughed. It was a joke. It had to be a joke. But Mr. Whittaker didn’t laugh. He stared at her patiently.

  She stopped laughing.

  “But you’re the mayor.”

  “Turned in my resignation to City Council last Monday. My final duty is to find someone to act as mayor until a special election can be held.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He sighed. “I’m tired, Emma. Sick and tired, if you want to know the truth. Doctor O’Hare says if I don’t get my blood pressure under control I’m not long for this world. When I first ran for mayor five years ago—unopposed, you remember—I was newly retired. I thought this would give me something to do, and be a nice way to give back to the community I love so much. I still love it, but I can’t do it anymore. My wife and I are heading out to California, where Cecily moved with her husband. We want to see our grandkids every day.”

  Her heart sank into her beat-up Converse sneakers. The Whittakers were a Hart’s Ridge institution—and Mrs. Whittaker was the deputy mayor.

  “It’s time for us to go, Emma. We need to find someone to step up.”

  “And I’m the best you’ve got.” She slumped in her chair.

  “Not exactly.” He frowned. “You weren’t my first choice. Everyone else said no.”

  Well, wasn’t that a kick in the teeth. She wasn’t the best hope. She was the last resort.

  “Look, it’s two months. That’s all. You don’t even have to do very much. Keep your door open from eight to ten every morning for residents to bend your ear, sign some things now and again, and that’s it. Heck, you don’t even get a salary.”

  Her eyes bugged out. “What? You mean I have to work for free?”

  “Why do you think I’m having such a dickens of a time finding a replacement? Everyone is busy with their own thing, things that actually make money.” He laughed. “Now, don’t you worry, I’ve already found someone to act as deputy mayor and help you out a bit.”

  “I didn’t say yes.”

  His shoulders drooped. “I’m sick,” he reminded her.

  She glared, even while her insides softened. A pox on her kind heart. It was nothing but trouble. “That’s cruel, Mr. Whittaker. You’re not playing fair.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes.” She regretted her answer the instant it left her lips. But what else could she do? She couldn’t say no, not to Mr. Whittaker.

  “Wonderful.” He beamed. “Don’t look so glum, Emma. It’s only two months, to give City Council enough time to hold a special election for my replacement. We’re halfway through May. You’ll have to sign off on some Fourth of July celebrations and permits, but budget talks don’t start until August. You’ll be off the hook and some other sucker—” He caught himself and cleared his throat. “I mean, citizen. Some other citizen will take the helm.”

  Emma eyed him suspiciously. “You said you ran unopposed. I don’t recall you ever having an opponent, in fact.”

  “Afraid no one else will step up to the plate? Don’t you worry about that, my girl.” He leaned forward and patted her hand encouragingly. “Someone always wants power, even in a small town like Hart’s Ridge.”

  Emma opened her mouth to respond, but a knock on the door silenced her.

  “Ah, good. That will be the acting deputy mayor. Excellent timing.” Louder, he called, “Come in!”

  The door opened, and in stepped the last man on e
arth Emma wanted to see again.

  Eli Carter.

  ***

  Eli Carter stopped dead in his tracks. Emma Andrews. He was so stunned by the sight of her that he let himself do the thing he never let himself do: He drank her in.

  She hadn’t changed much in eight years. Her pale blonde hair was pulled back into a neat and tidy bun, a requirement of her job working with food. When it was down it reached a couple inches past her shoulders—a fact he knew from spotting her at the grocery store two weeks ago. He hadn’t let himself look too long then, slipping out of the store before she could see him. He hadn’t wanted to ruin her day.

  But unless she had suddenly been struck blind, she saw him now. Her day was already ruined, he couldn’t do anything about that, so he might as well take what enjoyment he could. He stood there and looked his fill.

  Her gray eyes still looked at him like he was all that was wrong with the world. It broke his heart, the way she looked at him. Fair enough, he supposed, since he had broken hers first. His gaze lingered on her mouth, on her full bottom lip topped by a deep cupid’s bow. A kissable mouth that he had always been too afraid to kiss. Back then, losing her friendship, the most important thing in the world to him, wasn’t worth the risk.

  He should have kissed her. If he could do one thing differently, that would be it. He’d kiss her. Why not? He was going to lose her anyway.

  Two things. If he could do two things differently, he’d go back and kiss her. If he could only change the one thing, he wouldn’t have arrested her dad. Maybe then the whole kissing thing would have worked itself out.

  But he didn’t want to think about that mess right now, though it was never far from his mind. He’d save that torture for when he was wide awake at three in the morning. Right now he just wanted to look at her.

  Of course, now that she had turned around to face Mayor Whittaker, that meant staring at the back of her head.

  “You said the mayor couldn’t be otherwise employed by the town. That means he”—Emma jerked her head in his general direction—“isn’t qualified for deputy mayor. He’s a police officer.”