Kisses Between the Lines: An Echo Ridge Anthology (Echo Ridge Romance Book 2)

by Lucy McConnell

  She ignored the warmth rising in her face.

  On the step above, he raised his arm and rested it on the opposite wall so that his body hinted of enclosing her. If he could hear her heart thump quicker, he gave no notice.

  “Oui, Lindy Marrchan, I am well. Today.” That rumbling waters voice. And the boyish blue of his eyes, open and clear, reminding her of the summer sky at Lake George on visits to her aunt and uncle in Glens Falls.

  Wait, he was speaking. “That’s good. Very good. Yes, I’m glad you’re recovered.” And then Lindy remembered— last night, the reading. Stay focused. “In fact, that’s actually a remarkable recovery, don’t you think? To what do you owe the miracle?”

  Likely sensing the accusatory shift in her tone, Armand tipped his head. “It must be the good medicine of being here in a beautiful place. And beautiful people.”

  So he was going the smooth-it-over route. With the familiar Damon tactic, Lindy clicked back to reality. “Must be. How lucky for you, for all of us.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him about the rescheduled reading but that wasn’t her style. Someone from the committee could do that, and likely in a more neutral manner. Besides, she was trying to be gentle, right?

  Lindy came to with a start. While she had processed, he had patiently stood, watching her with a kind expression, as if understanding her emotional questions that he would not answer. Yet.

  Something stirred within her, something she didn’t want to name or even know. She stepped down a stair and gave a seminar-smile. “I’m happy to see you’re better. I’ll be in touch.”

  Closing the door, she discreetly touched her cheek, chagrined that it was warm as she had feared. Her frustration at his ego-centered attitude had not changed. But now she added frustration that she could be so easily touched. That’s what a small-town, chill-out experience did to you.

  Tomorrow would be different. She would still focus on being kind— that was only decent— but get to the bottom of this issue. Smoke screens and heady colognes would not keep her from finding the truth of the problem and ensuring that the next reading was a success.

  The morning fall air blew a chilly crispness that threatened a storm. Though only 9 a.m., it felt too early to be out on a Monday. Lindy jiggled the key into the lock of This & That Antique Shop before it yielded.

  Standing in the entryway, Lindy drew a deep breath. Each time she entered this shop, a peaceful, cozy feeling came over her. In the center, set back several feet, sat the white distressed cashier counter that allowed for a few stools and two connecting but lower counters on either side. Dotting the decent-sized shop were dated armoires, restored cabinets, and side stands in colors varying from Robin’s egg blue to deep mahogany. Hardwood floors created a natural feel.

  To the right and left, shelves lined the walls in various configurations, holding eclectic pieces. From what Shen had taught her, some of them were very expensive. She sold them here and there but running the Big Barn Boutique and now being involved in creating the glamorous second floor at Kenworths, she had no time to devote to this “expensive hobby.” But her mother, Maisy, had begun it, loved it, and shared it with Shennedy, and the latter felt a desire to keep it going.

  Her eyes moved toward the stairwell. A wave of the brief close feeling she and Armand had shared last night danced over her. With a shake of her head she set it aside. She was simply at a vulnerable place right now and needed to stay in business mode.

  Lindy put her purse and keys on the high counter and surveyed what remained to be done. After dusting and tagging on Saturday, now came the trick of deciding which of those pieces to put out front. Then she would need to finish all the cleaning, pricing, and displaying in the other areas. Opening day was less than a week out and she needed to make it fabulous.

  Lindy suddenly felt tired. The whole antique industry was beyond her awareness, and her interest. Why hadn’t she paid more attention to Shennedy’s explanations of the shop instead of being in a sleep-induced coma?

  She dialed Shennedy’s number. “Hey there, how are you feeling?”

  “Will you stop asking already? It’s not like I’m pregnant. I’m good, just a little tired.” That had been her phrase for the past 48 hours but Lindy knew from her pained expression last night that there was more to the answer.

  “Right, got it. I’ve asked Dr. Marley to stop by— don’t even think about faking you’re not home. It’s a scheduled follow-up and he rarely makes house calls. If you miss it, they’ll haul your bum back to the hospital.” Which was sort of true but mostly for effect. No reason to take chances.

  “Who died and made you Nurse Cratchett? It’s these pain meds, makes my head loopy. I can’t think straight and I feel weird.”

  “You are weird. Now if you can stop whining and get clarity for two seconds, tell me again what you want done with this shop. I got the basics but what do you mean by creating display vignettes— do you want me to throw a bunch together or do they need to be in the same time period? All I see is a mass of worn, old things. Any suggestions?”

  A sigh through the phone. “I can’t think straight right now. Maybe put the pretty ones together. And make it near the front so they look nice. Together.”

  Pretty ones together? Yep, the pain meds were kicking in. “Sure, okay. I’m on it. You lay back and get some rest. Fall asleep to one of those Austen movies.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lindy hung up, shaking her head. Great. She could maybe Google some of this stuff. Or, she could just put the pretty ones together.

  “Can I ‘elp you?”

  Lindy jumped and gasped at the same time. Armand stood at the bottom of the narrow stairs dressed in tan slacks, a thin black sweater that hugged his tall surprisingly fit physique, and an unfortunately handsome tousle to his blond hair. He walked toward her hesitantly. “Pardon, I did not wish to frighten you.”

  Sincere and open. Also unfortunate. Lindy took an instinctive step back. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Beaumont, I didn’t expect you here. But, yes, of course, you’re upstairs.”

  “Armand, s'il vous plait.” He simply stood, hands in his pockets, taking her in.

  Lindy grabbed a knick-knack on the counter and played with it. He continued to stare, almost studying her. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “So, did you need something? I know we’re scheduled for an about-town tour tomorrow, but do you have all you need today?”

  Armand came to attention. “Oh yes. But, please to forgive, I overheard you talking on the phone. Only because I came down to see who was in the store, in case it was someone not permitted. You are to, how you say, collect— no— organize zis store?”

  Lindy looked around. “That’s about right. And I don’t know an antique from an antelope. I’m trying to be helpful, but…”

  “I could help. It iz possibility. My mother, she likes antiques, although many are from Europe. But I would help her unwrap and store them, and take them to the village clockmaker and he would sell them for her when things were bad.”

  Wow. His openness surprised her. “What do you mean, bad?”

  He shrugged. “Times could be hard, eh? We had to eat. My father traveled many days and tried many jobs until he was able to, how you say, be stable. And then we were okay. But I remember the young days.”

  A soberness mixed with melancholy infused his words. But he had stated them simply and without needing empathy. It was what it was. Lindy caught herself intrigued. How could he be open and engaging one minute, and then a prima donna the next? Was it Damon all over again?

  She nodded. “I’m sorry that’s how it was, that must have been very difficult. For everyone. But look how you’ve turned things around— a successful writer, a little bit of world traveler. Life has changed for you. And for your family?”

  “Oh yes, they do well now.” That was that. He glanced around the shop. “Would you allow me to help what I can? It gives me a good break from the writing.”

  “Yes, definitely. Any help is better than my guesswork
.” Although outwardly her sales presence likely welcomed the prospect, an undefined concern wriggled inside. It was much easier to dislike him from afar. Without that woodsy, expensive aroma that hugged him wherever he went. “We open the shop officially next week for the Harvest Hurrah. Shennedy, my cousin, wants it ahead of the celebration to capitalize on the potential customer base.”

  He stared at her.

  “The shop opening, it’s good timing, so, yeah.” With a few quick instructions, she caught him up on what they had done and what yet remained, wondering all the while if he was going to work in that designer leisure wear or change. The pants alone looked expensive enough to pay the shop rent. But it didn’t come up and he didn’t change.

  Interesting.

  At first they worked in tandem to pull items from the store room, Armand lugging the bigger ones like the large theater canvas cupboard. His easy conversation and his helpful suggestions surprised her. He recommended putting a few key pieces she wouldn’t have otherwise chosen close to the front door. Then he encouraged grouping from the same time period. Lindy felt a wave of gratitude, and lack of education, that he could actually guess with some accuracy which time periods they were.

  Lindy chimed in with her idea of combining layers of usable items to go with decorative ones. An 18th century French Provincial buffet was used to display beautiful scarves and vintage jewelry. A hand-finished flower-stand held pottery and frames. The process went enjoyably fast. All morning it was talking, sharing ideas, going back and forth on what to do and where to put things. Armand had a habit of listening by cocking his head and looking around to consider the viability of it. Then he would almost always say, “Zat is a good idea.” Or, a few times he shook his head and added, “No, no. Zat iz not a good idea. Zis iz better.” At first, the wording offended her senses. But upon repetition, she understood it came more from the language barrier, not so much from arrogance. And invariably— annoyingly— his idea was actually better.

  After almost three hours, Lindy stood and stretched her back, surveying the finished front section of the store. Night and day. What had been a jumble of things without rhyme or reason now appeared to be intentional shabby chic. She handed Armand a bottled water she’d obtained from the old-fashioned fridge near the cash register. For a moment she looked around for a place to sit— maybe the white tea table near the back. But Armand nodded to the wood stove. “I have an idea zat iz good.”

  Within minutes he had pushed a single Italian brown cigar arm chair in front of the wood stove, while Lindy— catching on— nodded to a patterned wingback stuck in the corner, a butter cream and pink roses pattern with a thin clear protective cover. He promptly lifted and brought it next to the arm chair in front of the woodstove.

  Finally relaxing in comfort, they cheered water bottles. “Incredible work, Armand. If you ever want to switch careers from writing, I think there’s a spot here for you.”

  He stretched his legs before him and drank the water, then glanced at their dusty clothes. “We did good, you and I. You learn very fast, do you not? And not afraid of work.”

  “You too.” Still no diva frustration over the work or the mess. “Yes, I’ve had to ‘learn to learn fast.’ In the sales industry you jump in with both feet and hands, and it has to be good the first time.”

  Armand turned his head to consider her. “What did you do?”

  “I ran big sales seminars for a dynamic wonder boy. All over the country, in major cities. We’d bring in several key names from different industries— financial, fitness, celebrities, authors— and do one-day seminars to whole arenas of people.” She paused for any recognition from him. Nothing. “Oftentimes tickets went to local businesses for a huge discount or free to bring in the numbers, then the big names could sell their product there. Kind of like a big Tupperware meeting.”

  “A what?”

  “Nothing.” She smiled, staring at the flames on the glass front of the wood stove.

  “Zat was good for you?”

  Pause. “Yes and no. At first it was. Very exciting, and when it hit a certain success point, we up-leveled to the next so quickly that things skyrocketed. But then…” She took a drink of her water. “It’s fast-paced and typical L.A. You can only do that for so long before you burn out. Working with that time frame, and lots of high-profile people and their personalities. It can be…difficult.”

  “Yez.” He sat up slowly. “Lindy Marrshan.” He said it the French way again, as if he were savoring it, with the softness and eliminating hard consonants. Very nice.

  She stared at him quizzically.

  “I know you. At first, your face it iz familiar, but I am unsure. I spoke with you, once in person, and once by phone.” Wow, that was specific. “I had appearance on a tour like zis. And could not make it.” His voice went low.

  Lindy stiffened. “You remember.”

  “I remember.”

  For a moment the only sound was the hum of the old fashioned fridge and steady whoosh of air from the wood stove. He opened his mouth to speak.

  Buzz. Buzz. The cell phone sound broke the moment. Lindy sat up and grabbed her phone. Damon flashed clearly on the screen as it continued to ring. She hit decline. He was calling? Usually a text sufficed. What was up with that? With an apologetic smile to Armand she moved to put it away.

  Another buzz. A text.

  If you won’t answer me, I’ll have to take more drastic measures. I’m serious when I say things have changed. It’s unfair not to give me a chance to explain myself and to apologize. So much good is happening, because of you and all you’ve done. We have built too much together, emotionally and financially, to not give this at least a few minutes of our time.

  Wouldn’t you agree?

  He must have had that text prepared. Damon always was efficient.

  “It iz bad news?” She looked up to find Armand staring at her in a concerned way.

  Brightening, she shook her head. “No, it’s all good. I should get back to Shennedy and make sure she’s set for the evening.” She stood, holding out her other hand to him. “A thousand thanks to you, Mr…Armand. Hopefully, I didn’t interrupt your writing.”

  He stood and took her hand with a surprising tenderness. A pleasant shiver ran up her arm. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her hand. More shivers. Who kissed a hand like that anymore? “It iz I who thank you. I was, how you say, writer’s stuck, and needed the change of seeing.”

  She almost corrected him to say ‘scenery’ but couldn’t. The surprising gesture, and the warmth of his lips pressed to her hand, made Lindy speechless. A slight touch, so subtle, and yet a desire surged through her to stay by the fire as he held her hand.

  What was up with her? And what was up with him? Something didn’t add up between the amiable shop volunteer to the prima donna event canceler. Hello, Lindy, you know better. Stay focused on facts rather than by-the-fire feelings.

  Breaking the intimate moment, Lindy gave a gracious smile while dropping his hand to reach for her water bottle. “Thank you. What time works for you tomorrow to see the incredible sights of Echo Ridge?” Her tone sounded a bit forced, even to her.

  “I’m at your disposal, mademoiselle.”

  Again, a sweet sensation traveled up her back at his words. “Terrific, I’ll swing by about ten and we can hit a few places, including iconic Kenworth’s, and a little art gallery that I think you might like.”

  His face brightened. “An art gallery. Zat iz a good idea.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. With a quick goodbye, Lindy let herself out and headed back to Shennedy, alive with happy shop news to share and ignoring a growing excitement.

  Back in the loft apartment, Armand sat down at his laptop waiting for it to boot, surprised by his energy and motivation. Being with Lindy had been…uplifting. Rejuvenating. He had known who she was from the start, from that terrible seminar, that thing Stanton had insisted upon. But he hadn’t been sure when to tell her.

  Of course he re
membered her. In a sea of people whose only words and thoughts included business words and perfect teeth, she had been a breath of realness, of joie de vivre. He had watched her from afar with the clients, especially the rudest ones. The way she listened, suggested wise solutions, soothed the ruffled feathers. She cared. And so did that man who hovered around her. What was his name? Damon.

  Armand had seen the text, not on purpose, and who it had come from. Yes, he remembered him also. Dark hair and very sharp. Yes, he was one to be watched. Though why Lindy was with him, he could not truly tell if it was romantic or only business. The way at times they looked at each other Armand could guess which. But why would she be here in a faraway town if things were romantic?

  His laptop beeped and he turned to the screen. Romantic. He’d had enough of that. He sat back and considered his writing goal for the morning. So far his work-in-progress book had stalled. The successful series feedback now was that his main character, Maximillian Dupont, was becoming stale. Something was missing. A new angle, an increased depth was needed. Armand had been told that his character, with his suave ways and sure skills, was in danger of becoming emotionally unreachable to fans, especially the females.

  He raised an eyebrow. That was it. Maximillian needed a serious love interest. A real romance. And for some reason, a blonde girl in blue jeans sorting antiques with an endearing furrowed brow came to mind.

  LINDY KNOCKED ON ARMAND’S door Tuesday morning, feeling strangely like a high schooler picking up the guy for a girls’ choice date. She shook off the notion, and the underlying wriggle of nerves.

  He opened the door, wearing his trademark designer slacks, deep burgundy shirt open at the neck, and a Cartier watch. The scent of woods and clean rivers drifted to her. From what she could see, the apartment appeared neat and smelled good. So much for the image of a stressed out writer.

  Riding in the passenger side of her Volvo, he glanced out the window. “Where do you take us today?”