Hometown Hope: A Small Town Romance Anthology

by Zoe York

  Holy cannoli, I'd kill for some pasticiotti from Manetti's. She fantasized about the pudding-filled Italian pastry as she dumped slices of onion into the roasting pan. Lynne reached for a scrubbed potato. Each chop of her knife subconsciously mimicked the rhythmic blows of Bram's hammer. She straightened, tucking her hair behind her ear and wincing when she caught a whiff of pungent onion.

  “Mmm, sexy,” she muttered, moving to the sink. Rich foam flowed between her fingers. Her gaze drifted to the window above the sink and the yard beyond. She held her hands under the streaming water and stared at the muddy grass trampled below the bare clothesline.

  She pumped more soap into her palm and started over again, hoping to erase the worst of the lingering scent from her hands. In the mudroom, the washing machine chugged, diligently removing all traces of mischief from the linens. She turned to glance at the ancient appliance, her gaze skipping over the spot where Thelma and Louise's cage sat a short time before.

  “Oh my God.”

  A quick flick of her wrist shut off the water. Not bothering with a towel, she ran for the door, wiping her dripping hands on her back pockets. The storm door smacked against the side of the house. “It wasn't locked.” she announced.

  Bram didn't bother straightening. He dropped a handful of nails into an open box on the step and peered up at her from under dark brows. “What wasn't locked?”

  “The back door wasn't locked. Maybe that's what happened to Thelma and Louise.”

  His full, soft lips pursed. Razor-sharp cheekbones stood in harsh relief as he bit the inside of his cheek. Her heart gave a strange little leap, and she pressed her hand to her chest. Not even the skeptical gleam in his bright blue eyes dimmed her desire to smooth the tiny furrow between his brows with her tongue.

  “You think a couple of baby chicks went out for a stroll?” he asked at last. “It's a nice afternoon, but.”

  Her fingers curled into a fist. The liquid honey of his voice poured through her veins, thick and hot. For a moment she had a hard time deciding whether she should smack him or smother him in kisses. She chose neither.

  “I think,” she said with exaggerated patience, “whoever trashed my washin' might have gotten into the house.”

  He took two of the porch stairs in one stride before coming to an abrupt halt and shaking his head. “Wait. You think someone broke into your house and swiped your chickens?”

  “Well, maybe they weren't after the chickens to start with.”

  “But when they saw them, they ditched your fancy laptop and whatever other fancy stuff you have for a couple of baby chickens?”

  “Why do you keep saying fancy?”

  “You're fancy.”

  “I am not.”

  “You are.” He took her hand in his. Rough, work-hardened fingers traced her softer, more delicate digits. “You're very fancy.”

  “It's only stuff,” she murmured.

  Bram chuckled. “Stuff. From what I hear, your purse cost more than a tractor tire.” When she scowled at him, he simply smiled and pulled her fingers to his lips. “Tractor tires are mighty pricey, Miss Lynne.”

  “At least a purse is useful,” she grumbled. He laughed, and she yanked her fingers from his grasp. “I carry that bag every day.”

  He pursed his lips again, and the effect was even more powerful up close. She glared at him, trying to concentrate on not swaying into him.

  “So it costs you less than five dollars a day, huh?”

  An indignant huff of a laugh rushed from her lips. “Thanks for justifying my choices for me. For your information, that bag was a gift.”

  “Wow. Nice gift.” He planted his foot on the next step, rising slowly and using his height to his best advantage. “Boyfriend?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Jealous?”

  “Just seein' if I need to up the stakes to three dozen chickens.”

  She gave an unladylike snort and planted one hand on his chest, copping a feel as she knocked him down a step. “My former mother-in-law was a designer diva.” She glanced out at the empty yard. “Me, I just want a few chickens around the place. That's all.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “What's the deal with the chickens?”

  She shrugged. “My grandmother had chickens. She let me feed them.”

  Bram's smile crept up on her, wrapping her up in its warmth before she had a chance to brace herself against the onslaught. He reached for her hand again and laced his fingers through hers. “You want chickens, I'll get you chickens.” He punctuated his statement with a nod. “Porch should be fine now. I'll ask Mama if she knows of any of the high school boys who may want to earn a few bucks painting next weekend.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I've got a few things to do at home.” Strong fingers gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I'll clean up and be back around seven?” he asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.

  Butterflies tickled her stomach as she calculated the time apart. “You can come by at six-thirty. If you want.”

  His reluctance to release her hand was palpable. The boyish smile that creased his rugged face was almost too delicious. Sooty lashes lowered in a slumberous sweep to flirt with his cheekbones. They fluttered again. A wicked gleam lit his eyes as he leaned in and pecked a soft kiss on her cheek.

  Another gentle squeeze reassured her. “Six- thirty,” he confirmed, his fingers slipping from hers.

  Lynne sighed and cursed her weak negotiation skills. I should have gone for six o'clock.

  Bram checked his watch for the fiftieth time. The pre-cut and sanded headrests he'd ordered from a lumber mill outside Eureka Springs were left in a crate at the door to his shop. He stacked them neatly on the workbench, checked his progress on the two orders he had working, and spent a whole fifteen minutes trying to concentrate on plotting out his work for the coming week.

  He didn't know why he bothered. His hand kept straying toward the half-finished salad bowl perched atop the silent boom box. Heaving a sigh, he checked the time again.

  “Pathetic.” He gave his wrist a shake and checked again, but the hour hand remained stuck on the four.

  He snatched the bowl from its resting spot, carried it over to the low-slung chair, and switched on the old lamp he used for extra light. Cupping the bowl in his palm, he tried to survey his work with a critical eye.

  That didn't work either. Within moments, he was envisioning that same hand cupping something else entirely. Something softer. Much softer.

  Bram's heart slammed into his ribs. His stomach clenched. His breath seeped from his lungs like he'd sprung a slow leak. “Oh shit.”

  The bowl fell from his numbed fingers, clattering on the concrete floor, its hollow echo reverberating in his ears. “Oh shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled, curling his fingers into a fist and rubbing his scraped knuckles over his bottom lip. His mind whirred, clicking on various scenarios and possible outcomes. He launched himself from the chair, crossing to the door in four long strides. He glanced over his shoulder, half-tempted to hide out in the safety of his shop.

  No. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth and stared at the bright circle of light spilling from the lamp. No. You can't chicken out now. You want this. You want her. She wants you.

  The pep talk continued as he forced himself to turn around and head back into the shop. This is right. This is good. This is healthy. He switched off the lamp and whirled resolutely on his heel. The pale afternoon light streamed through the open door, trapping dust motes in its golden glow. Enjoy this. Don't think about her leaving. Enjoy being with her for however long she's here. Doesn't have to last forever. Nothing lasts forever.

  He stumbled into the waning sunlight and drew in a deep breath, gathering strength from the wood-scented air. We're two healthy, mature adults, enjoying each other's company and maybe a little more, that's all. The shop door slammed behind him. Even if it's only for a little while.

  His steps quickened as he crossed the lawn. Not
hing has to happen. Best to be prepared. Like a Boy Scout.

  He took the porch steps two at a time. The front door banged into the never-used coat rack. He jogged down the hall to the master bath. He yanked open the vanity drawer and began to paw through its contents. He found the small box he'd purchased in Little Rock years earlier and plucked the contents from its cardboard confines with two fingers. Squinting, he scanned the package, his shoulders slumping when he spotted the expiration date. He'd never been a Boy Scout.

  His cell phone buzzed and he stuffed the evidence of his failure back into the box before flinging it at the small trash can in the corner. Yanking the phone from the clip on his belt, he growled a hello.

  “Hey,” Abe said in a cautious tone. “Bad time?”

  Slumping against the vanity, he rubbed his forehead. “No worse than any other time.”

  “So it's okay to tell you we dumped a load on the way to Springdale?” his son said dryly.

  “Aw, hell.”

  “The guy said he swerved to miss a deer.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How bad?”

  “Not too bad. A few dozen. The driver said he secured the load, so he's goin' on. The carrier was bonded, so we'll have to settle up with them.”

  “You contact the farm to let them know?”

  “Yep. They said they'd inventory what they get and let us know what they'll need to replace them.”

  “Plus a couple dozen more,” Bram added with a short, cynical laugh.

  “I'm sure.” Abe hesitated for a moment. “The cost of doing business, right?”

  He chuckled at having his oft-spoken words thrown back at him. “And it ain't chicken feed, boy,” he grumbled in a fair imitation of his own father.

  “The old guys had a good time at the sale barn today.”

  “I bet. They buy anything I should know about?”

  “Afraid you're gonna find another longhorn steer in your backyard?”

  He expelled a tired sigh, feeling more like a steer than a bull, and glared at the box sticking out of the trashcan. “Wouldn't you be nervous with Granddad and Rufus on the loose?”

  “They can get a little wild.” His snort echoed off tiled walls. He began to reach for the box but pulled back when Abe said, “Dad?”

  He stuffed his hand into his pocket. “Huh?”

  “You okay?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “You sure? I mean, you sound a little...uh... You don't sound okay.”

  He raised his head, catching sight of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His nostrils flared as he leaned forward, planting one hand on the cultured marble top. The salt was overtaking the pepper in his stubbly beard. The grooves in his cheeks seemed to cut deeper, and the tiny white lines around his eyes splayed like a fan.

  I look like crap. When did I get so old? Maybe I'm too old for this. She's older than I am, and she looks a helluva lot better. He tore his gaze from the mirror and focused on the toes of his battered boots instead.

  “Dad?”

  “I'm fine,” he whispered, but he wasn't convincing either of them. Sneaking another glance at his watch, he cleared his throat and tried to inject a little more life in his voice. “I need to get going.”

  Abe hesitated for a moment. “Got a hot date?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh.”

  Bram ran his hand through his hair, his fingers tightening on the phone. “How do you.... Uh, are you okay with that?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does it matter?”

  He shot a worried glance at his reflection. “Well...yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  The sound of his own breath echoed in his ear. When Abe said nothing more, he stopped breathing altogether. The silence stretched, interrupted only by a crackle of static. “It's okay if you're not,” he said, the dregs of the air left in his lungs carrying the words. He shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers curling around the earring he still carried.

  “Oh. No. I am,” his son answered too quickly.

  “You are?”

  “Sorry, I was.... Aw, hell, Dad. We're all a little worried, that's all.”

  “Worried about me or her?”

  “Both.” Abe went on in a rush. “I'm sure she's a nice lady, but—”

  A cold edge of steel crept into his voice. “She is a nice lady.”

  “But, I mean, she's not staying here, right?”

  Lifting his chin, he stared straight into the mirror, testing himself as much as his son. “No, she's not stayin' here.”

  The straight answer seemed to throw Abe off his stride. “Okay. Uh, well, are you okay with that?”

  He pulled the earring from his pocket and stared at it. “I'll be fine.”

  “Dad....”

  “You know what? It's not any of your business,” he snapped, tossing the mystery earring onto the vanity. “I'm a grown man. I'm single, she's single, and it's nobody's business what we do.”

  “You're right, but—”

  “Hell, I can sleep with every woman from here to Memphis. It's nobody's damn business.”

  “Sleep with—”

  “Damn right.” Bram struck the tiled wall with the side of his fist. Pain shot up his arm. Cradling his hand he muttered, “I've gotta go. I have a date.”

  “Dad, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything bad about her.”

  The sincerity in his boy's voice knocked the wind right out of him. He closed his eyes, trying to ignore his throbbing hand. “I know you didn't.”

  “I only.... Aw, crap.”

  Bram smiled, picturing his son's wide-eyed bewilderment. “It's okay.”

  “I want you to be happy. You haven't been in a long time, and I want you to be, uh, you know,” he said gruffly. “I'd hate for you to—”

  A lump rose in his throat, and Bram swallowed hard. “I know, son.”

  Abe drew in a ragged breath. “If this...if Ms. Prescott makes you happy, then I say you go for it.”

  “I plan to.”

  “Okay. Well.” He chuckled softly. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Be a gentleman,” Abe said, tossing a few more of his platitudes back at him.

  “Shut up.”

  “Be respectful. Treat her like a lady—like you'd want someone to treat your mama.” His son's soft laughter hummed through the phone, warming him from the inside.

  “I raised a smart ass.”

  “Two of 'em,” Abe confirmed. “Now listen,” he continued in a stern voice. “If things do happen to get a little out of hand, make sure you always use protection.”

  Bram's eyebrows rose as he met his own gaze in the mirror. He cleared his throat and sucked in a deep breath. “Hey, would you do me a favor?”

  Thirty minutes later, he tucked the tail of his shirt into his pants while he rushed down the hall. “Not locked,” he called. The door swung wide and he pulled up short when he saw his son's scowl.

  “Here.” Abe kept his feet planted on the welcome mat and extended one arm across the threshold, a small brown paper bag dangling from his fingers.

  Bram snatched the bag and tossed it onto the table as if the contents could burst into flames at any second. “You, uh...you want a beer?” he asked, giving his freshly-shaven jaw an absent scratch.

  “No thanks. I need to get home and try to explain this little errand to my wife before the grapevine winds its way around to her.”

  “I, um...I appreciate you doin' this.”

  “Uh-huh.” He whirled and began to stomp down the steps toward his truck. Bram followed him, coming to a stop on the porch. “If you don't get home before they get to her,

  have her call me, and I'll explain.”

  “I can't believe I bought my father condoms.”

  “Hey, I bought some for you once,” he shot back.

  Abe's eyebrows rose. “You also told me if you found out I was usin' them, you'd make me wish I had something left to use them on.”<
br />
  Crossing his arms over his chest, he couldn't help but grin. “You can bet I'll listen to you better than you listened to me.”

  Their gazes locked, and the younger man's lips twitched. “Good. I'm not sure Willie would be too happy about a little brother or sister.”

  Bram snorted. “Get home to your wife, smart ass, or I'll tell her I have no idea what you're talkin' about when she calls.”

  “You'd never do that.” Abe slammed the door and rolled down the window, grinning at his father. “If she kicks me out, I'll have to move back in with you.” He chuckled and shook his head. “That would surely cramp your style, wouldn't it, Daddy?”

  Chapter 13

  Sweet and savory salad dressing, her brain screamed. Lynne's fingers wrapped around the edge of the door, praying the solid oak would be strong enough to keep her upright. “Hi.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, hoping to banish the girly breathiness in her voice. When she opened them again, Paul Newman's hotter, sexier, younger, infinitely more accessible clone was still standing on her doorstep.

  His hair curled damply at his collar. Her mouth watered. The stained and battered jeans he wore earlier had been replaced by a pair of pressed khakis. She wanted to press herself against them. Oh hell, now I'm jealous of an iron. How pathetic is that?

  A dark red polo shirt stretched across his broad chest. The sleeves clung to his muscular arms. She didn't realize she was ogling him until he laughed. Her heart did a stutter-step then kicked into overdrive. Oh, eat your heart out, Joanne Woodward. You can keep your salad dressing. This man's overdressed as it is.

  “Hey.” Bram cocked his head. “You gonna let me in?”

  “Oh.” She stumbled back a step but kept her grip on the door.

  “Smells great,” he said as he crossed the threshold.

  “You look...nice,” she stammered at the same time.

  His smile widened, and he leaned down. The soft, sweet kiss made the hair on her arms stand at attention. Her fingernails scored the weathered varnish on the door. The musk of his aftershave combined with minty toothpaste to raise the stakes in this round of chemical warfare. When he tried to back off, she grabbed a fistful of shirt and held him where she wanted him. Without opening her eyes she whispered, “Once more with feeling.”