by Lori Wilde
“Stop it,” she hissed under her breath, but oh, her treacherous mind was in full-on revolt, picturing all manner of sexy things. It bewildered her, this instant attraction. Even with Steve, she hadn’t felt such intense physical longing.
That’s what bothered her. Right there. Disloyalty to her husband.
But Steve was gone. He would want her to be happy. He’d told her to marry again.
Marry? Good grief. Where was that coming from?
Determined to snap out of her odd mood, Felicity marched into her bedroom, which was next door to the room Tom Loving was staying in. She’d make the beds tomorrow. She dropped the laundry basket at the foot of her bed.
Heard him singing in the shower: “Bluebird.” He didn’t sound the least bit like Paul McCartney, but he was belting it out as if he were the superstar ex-Beatle.
She swayed in time to his music, swept up, dancing along with the song and the sound of the shower, waltzing around her room like a middle-aged Cinderella. The stress and strain of the previous morning drifted away.
His voice rose and fell, sometimes in tune, sometimes not, and her crazy heart swooned. Downstairs, she heard the kitchen oven timer ding, startling her out of her dreaminess.
The shower went off abruptly, and so did his song.
A fresh batch of naked Tom imagery tempted her. In her mind’s eye, she saw him stepping from the shower, toweling off those sexy muscles....
Stop it!
She raced down the stairs, not really knowing why she was running; her heart was an out-of-control pump, shooting spurts of blood through her veins. Once she reached the kitchen, she had to stop and take a deep breath.
Her hands trembled, and her knees were none too steady. She turned off the oven and searched for a potholder. What had she done with the thing?
She searched high and low, her head cocked, ears attuned for footsteps on the stairs. Finally, she spotted the oven mitt dangling from the magnet she used to fix it to the refrigerator.
Good gravy!
She jammed her hand into the oven mitt, opened the door to a blast of heat, and wondered if maybe she was losing her mind.
* * *
Tom strolled into the kitchen, hair damp from his shower, and found Felicity bent over the oven. Not the least bit ashamed of himself, he took a moment to admire the sight of her lovely fanny.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “How long have the bluebirds been gone?”
“What?” She jumped, blinked and straightened upright. A tray of chocolate chip cookies in her hand.
“There are no bluebirds on Bluebird Way. How long have they been gone?”
“Umm.” Her eyes were wide and dazed; her pink mouth formed a pretty O. “Several years now. No one has seen bluebirds in Serendipity for quite some time.”
“What’s being done about it?”
She shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose.”
“No county extension agent has gotten involved?”
“We only have one agent for the entire county. I doubt she’s got the time.”
“It’s called Bluebird Way. This is the Bluebird Inn. I’m assuming at one time there were lots of bluebirds.” He came closer.
She set the cookies on the counter, took off the oven mitt, looked flustered. By his questions? Or him? “Well, yes.”
“It’s a shame,” he said.
“I agree.” She pressed her lips together, reached for a spatula, and tackled a second pan of chocolate chip cookies that had already been cooling on the sideboard. “We had an influx of house sparrows, and new housing developments went up in the fields where the bluebirds used to mate, but what am I supposed to do?”
“Bring them back.”
“You make it sound like that’s within my control.”
“It is,” he said.
“How? I’m not a birdologist.”
He laughed, delighted. He loved teaching people about birds. “Ornithologist.”
“What?”
“Ornithologist is what a birdologist is officially called.”
“Oh, I didn’t know. Cookie?” She held out the plate of cookies. “We could have lunch on the patio. Sandwiches, and potato salad. Cookies for dessert.”
“I didn’t know that the B&B service included lunch.”
“It doesn’t.” She shook her head, sending her golden-blond hair, which was pulled back into a low ponytail and clipped in place by a brown barrette, swaying. She looked both efficient and effervescent. An appealing mix of zeal and decorum. “But since it’s just you and me, I thought why not? Unless you have other plans.”
No, no other plans. “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more,” he said, and held her gaze.
Her cheeks turned pink, and she dropped her head. “It’s settled. I’ll make the sandwiches. Turkey okay?”
“May I help?” he asked, having visions of working beside her at the butcher block island, their hips touching as they stood side by side.
“I’ve got it.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’m pretty proprietary about my kitchen. You can just relax. Have a seat.” She pointed the spatula at one of the stools at the bar.
He swung the bar stool around so he could watch her work and sat down. He expected her to open a package of luncheon meat from the fridge, which was what he would have done, but instead, she took out a roasted turkey breast and sliced it up on a wooden cutting board with an electric knife.
Her movements were graceful, adept. She’d done this many times before. Constructing sandwiches. Carving turkey. Slathering made-from-scratch mayo onto thick slices of fresh-baked rustic bread. Washing delicate garden lettuce in the sink, arranging the frilly green edges on the bread just so. Topping it with ripe red tomato slices and razor-thin shavings of baby Swiss cheese. She added crisp kosher dill pickles, three large, green Cerignola olives stuffed with pimentos, and a generous scoop of potato salad to each plate.
Felicity straightened, dusted her fingers on the utilitarian cornflower-print apron tied at her waist, and eyed her handiwork with pride.
Tom eyed her with lusty interest. She fascinated him for about nine different reasons—that she was gorgeous, sexy, and big-hearted to name a few. And there was a self-contained peacefulness about her that called to his world-weary soul.
She started putting away the sandwich-making ingredients and nodded at the laden plates. “Could you take those out to the patio? I’m right behind you with cookies and lemonade.”
“Absolutely.” He carried the plates outside, bumping open the lever handle of the back door with his knee, and left the door hanging ajar so she could come through behind him.
The afternoon sun was shaded by the treetops and cast soft shadows. A gentle breeze blew over the garden patio. Yesterday the place had been set up for a wedding. How quickly life had changed and rearranged.
A fresh pang of guilt plucked at Tom’s heart like a pucker pulled tight in the center of his chest. Rationally, he knew he wasn’t the cause of his niece’s cold feet, but he still regretted giving Savannah the keys to his Ducati.
Lighten up, bucko. He had managed to strand himself at a quaint inn with a beautiful woman. He should enjoy it while it lasted.
Good advice. He decided to take it. He set down the plates, turned to intercept the pitcher of lemonade and cookies as Felicity came up behind him. She smiled during the handoff, then headed back to the house for napkins, silverware, and glasses.
They sat under the sheltering branches of a stately old oak tree, near the gurgling garden fountain. The smell of flowers tinged the air.
“This turkey sandwich is so good,” he said. “Perfect. The best I’ve ever had.”
“You exaggerate.” Her laugh was light as the breeze.
He set his sandwich back on the plate, wiped his hands on a pretty linen napkin, angled her a sidelong glance. “I can’t believe you’re in such a cheerful mood after all those cancellations.”
She smiled, but he caught a glimpse of sadness in the way her mouth tugged to one side
. “I’ll bounce back,” she said, “I always do. What worries me is your niece.”
“Why are you worried about Savannah after she caused you so much grief ?”
“Small towns can sometimes be cruel. Don’t get me wrong. I love Serendipity, but there’s no anonymity here. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Savannah is accustomed to being treated like a princess, and it’s going to be a shock when she comes back to face the music.” A faraway look entered Felicity’s blue eyes, as if she was speaking from experience.
Tom felt a quick swell of empathy. He wanted to ask her a million questions, but he didn’t want to pry.
Her smile bounced back to normal, and she took a sip of lemonade. A squirrel chattered at them from the branch of the oak tree, and a pair of redbirds chased each other through the fountain.
“I love redbirds.” She sighed. “Wouldn’t it be awesome to see the bluebirds in here with them again?”
“If you’ve got a healthy garden full of different varieties of plants,” he said, working the conversation around to the idea that gave him a reasonable excuse to prolong his stay in Serendipity, “you could bring the bluebirds back to Bluebird Way. It would just take a little care and hard work.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you know so much about birds?” she asked, cutting her sandwich in half.
“I got my undergraduate degree in wildlife biology with a specialty in ornithology from Colorado State at Fort Collins.”
Felicity crinkled her nose in a completely adorable way, and took a bite of her sandwich, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and said, “That doesn’t seem like a degree that would translate well into the Army.”
“It wasn’t. I had big plans for being a game warden, but ultimately I was unable to refuse the call of the military. What can I say? The Army is in my blood.” He shrugged. “I signed up for ROTC during my junior year.”
“ROTC?”
“Reserve Officers’ Training Corps,” he explained. “It’s a path to military service you can begin while you’re in college. They teach leadership skills and offer scholarships that help pay for school.”
“What was your job in the Army?” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. A dainty movement that captivated him. Hell, everything about her captivated him.
“Civil affairs officer,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Civil affairs specialists deal with things related to civil-military operations.”
“That sounds vague and very military-ish,” she commented. “Does it mean you help the civilians in countries we’re at war with?”
“Among other duties,” he said. “There’s a lot of researching, coordinating, and planning. I spend . . . spent . . .” he corrected. His retirement was still so new he hadn’t yet gotten used to thinking of his career in the past tense. “More time at a desk than I would have cared for, but I loved being in the field during a crisis. And it felt good to know I was making a difference in difficult situations.”
She leaned over to pour him another glass of lemonade. “How did you get into civil affairs since your education was in wildlife biology?”
“The Army gave me an aptitude test, and it’s what I scored the highest in. I loved the job because I was good at it, but my heart”—he tapped his chest—“was always in wildlife biology. Particularly birds.”
“Interesting.” She propped her elbows on the table, her chin in her upturned palms, and leaned in closer. In that cute pose she looked all of sixteen, and in that moment he could see exactly what she’d been like as a teenager—coltish, observant, curious. “What fascinates you most about birds?”
“They’re free,” Tom said. “Truly free. There’s something primal and powerful about their ability to fly.”
“Is it their ability to escape?” Her tone carried weight and meaning, and her gaze was trained on him. She wasn’t talking about birds.
It was odd, how well she seemed to understand him when she knew nothing about him beyond what he’d just told her, and the fact that he was a Loving. Though not really a Loving in the Texas sense of the word, because he’d never identified with the cattle-baron history of his larger-than-life family.
He polished off the delicious turkey sandwich and ate a pickle. The sun glinted off her golden hair. She crossed her legs, and he caught a glimpse of her thigh as her skirt moved.
The redbirds sang. The perfume of roses decorated the air. It was a perfect moment. Tom felt as if he’d stepped into some quaint painting, or a time machine that had jettisoned him back to a kinder, gentler era.
“You’re different,” she said.
“Different?”
“From the Serendipity Lovings.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Neither.” That enigmatic smile of hers again. “Just different.”
“I wear that as a badge of honor.”
“Bad blood?”
“Not on my end,” he said. “Just a disconnect. Ancient history. A conflict between my father and the . . .” He paused, used her words. “Serendipity Lovings.”
“It’s left you something of a loner.” A statement of fact, not a question. She was right. “The Army became your family, your community.”
Her voice was soft, alluring, drawing him in, almost as if she were using it to cast a spell. Tom scooted his chair closer to her.
She raised an eyebrow.
“Sun was in my eyes,” he lied.
Her sly smile outdid the Mona Lisa. She knew the sun wasn’t in his eyes.
“How long have you been retired?” She pushed away her empty plate, sat back in her chair, and lowered her lashes.
“Two weeks.”
“You haven’t had time to settle into civilian life.”
“No.” He watched her watching him.
Felicity studied him as if he were an interesting, but totally foreign insect that had crept into her gardens overnight, and she was trying to figure out if he was useful or a pest.
“Do you know what you want to do with the rest of your life?”
Ah, there was the rub. “Quite honestly? Not yet.”
“What are the options?”
“That’s the thing—they are endless. I could go anywhere, do almost anything. I don’t know which path to choose.”
“Something to do with wildlife biology perhaps?”
He shook his head. “That degree was so long ago and far away—”
“But you just said wildlife biology was in your heart.”
“Following one’s heart isn’t very practical.”
“All the more reason you should follow it. Nothing truly rewarding ever happens by taking the practical route. Stretch, grow,” she challenged, passion flowing from her like lava waves. “Open your heart to possibilities as yet undreamed.”
“Poetic,” he said. “Do you really believe that?”
She nodded, swept her hand at the lush gardens. “That’s how I ended up here.”
“With an empty B&B,” he said, and immediately regretted it.
“Temporarily.” Her smile was warm, but her eyes cooled.
Tom pulled a palm down his face. “Forgive me for saying that. I don’t know—”
“It’s okay.” She tilted her head at him like a wise sage showing compassion for a clueless novice. “I get that you’re scared.”
“Scared?” That blindsided him. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re at loose ends. The job that was your identity is over. You’re disconnected from your family. And you’re worried about your niece.”
“You’re right.” He nodded, scraped up his courage to broach the topic he’d been working around the entire meal. “About all that. And I feel bad that you have no guests.”
Her spine stiffened. “I don’t need your pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he insisted. “It’s my guilt.”
“I don’t need that either.”
“Okay, truth?” To
m held up a palm.
“Why would I want you to lie?”
Well, well, she was feisty. He liked that. Liked it a lot. “I don’t have anywhere else to be right now. I am waiting to hear back on the resumes I have out, but until then . . .” He gave a rueful shrug. “I’ve got nothing to do, and I’m not a do-nothing kind of man. I hate that the bluebirds have gone away, and I’d like to see them make a comeback in Serendipity.”
Felicity studied him for so long without saying anything that his skin started to itch. “What are you saying?”
“Since you don’t have any guests, and I wouldn’t be taking up prime real estate, can we strike some kind of deal? Discounted room and board in exchange for helping you lure the bluebirds back to Bluebird Way? You could consider it my way of making up for causing so much chaos at the wedding. If the bluebirds come back home, how in the world could anyone consider this place jinxed?”
“It’s not the place that’s jinxed,” she said, her expression deadly serious. “It’s me.”
Chapter Five
What alarmed Felicity the most was how badly she wanted Tom to stay, and not just because she yearned for the bluebirds to return to the inn.
She yearned for other things too. Like the touch of a man’s hand on her body, and the feel of his lips on her skin.
But they were strangers, and she’d never in her life done anything as bold as have a casual fling with someone she didn’t know.
Then again, why not? There was a first time for everything, right?
Why not? Because she was jinxed. It could only end badly.
Stuff and nonsense. That was illogical. And yet the notion had burrowed into the back of Felicity’s brain and sat there like a virus.
“There’s no such thing as a jinx,” Tom said, his tone not poking fun or judging, just a simple statement of fact. “The jinx lies only in the interpretation of unfortunate events.”
Felicity considered telling him about the lore surrounding her birth and the series of sorrows that had dogged her life. But confiding in him was unprofessional. She was an innkeeper, and he was nothing but her guest.
A stranger. He did not want to hear her tortured story. Telling it made her more vulnerable, and she was already susceptible enough where Tom Loving was concerned.