They sat in tense silence as his pickup deftly maneuvered the curves of the pitch-black road, careening through the tree-lined path to Karen’s apartment. Sydney reached for the gold chain at her neck and winced at its absence. Had it really been only twelve hours since she’d caught Connor in their bed with the blonde gyrating around on his lap like a second-rate porno actress? Between the cheating and her mother and the fender bender, she needed a Xanax or a martini or both.
Sam shifted, settling back into the driver’s seat in a position he seemed to have perfected. He commanded the vehicle with little effort, his right thigh flexing slightly as they took a tight turn and his foot eased off the gas pedal. The man radiated self-assurance, filled the cab with his presence. She felt every inch of space between them and wondered, despite herself and the tumult of the day, what it would feel like to be closer.
The pickup sped past pine trees and skidded around slippery bends, the headlights turning to strobe lights in front of her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be driving slower? Aren’t there thousands of deer around here?”
“Are you trying to give me tips on driving in the mountains, city girl?”
“I grew up in the suburbs of Albany, okay?”
“While we’re on the subject of avoiding car accidents,” he said, “you never even apologized for hitting me.”
“Your truck is fine.”
His eyes wandered over to her again, and this time they held no warmth. He tugged at his lips and shook his head. The desire to be closer evaporated like rain in the summer heat. From the second they’d first interacted he’d treated her like an outsider and passed judgment. So what if he was cute? She’d been pushed around enough for one day.
They drove the rest of the way in silence, and as he pulled into Karen’s parking lot, Sydney softened. She didn’t know how long she’d be in Pine Ridge, but it was far too soon to be burning bridges.
Before she could open her mouth, he opened his. “Don’t choke on your burger.”
Asshole. The apology dissolved on her tongue.
“Don’t hit a deer on your drive home.” She grabbed her food, climbed out of the truck, and slammed the door behind her.
She twisted the loose doorknob to apartment five to find Karen dozing in her recliner. She looked tiny, nearly swallowed up by the brown leather monstrosity, with her wiry gray hair sticking out in all directions. She jerked awake as Sydney neared, her expressive eyes lighting up at the sight of the paper bag.
“I smell Utz’s chili,” she said. “Were they busy?”
“No.” The remnants of her rough interaction with Sam still prickled under Sydney’s skin. She dug around in the kitchenette for plates and unpacked their dinner. “I accidentally bumped someone in the parking lot. . . .”
“Suds! What happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I didn’t look behind me before I pulled out and hit this guy’s pickup truck. His truck is completely fine, and my bumper is crushed. He gave me a ride home.”
Sydney pulled the container of french fries out of the paper sack and, with fumbling fingers, dropped them all over the kitchen floor. “Damn it . . . ,” she muttered, scooping up dusty fries and tossing them in the trash. Her nerves were shot.
“Who was the guy?” Karen asked.
“His name is Sam.”
“Sam Kirkland?” Karen’s voice came out in a breathy whisper, as if Sydney had said George Clooney.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Sydney, he is the nicest boy.”
“Actually, he was a real asshole.” She set the plate in front of her mother and settled into the couch with her own dinner. She dug into the burger with gusto and reveled in the greasy food. It wasn’t a Xanax, but it would do.
“You know,” Karen said, “Sam is a mechanic. He can probably fix your car for you.”
“Yeah, he mentioned that. I was . . . a little rude to him, though. Not sure if he’s willing to help me anymore.”
“You were rude?” Karen’s voice rose an octave. “Why?”
“Because he was rude to me! He insulted the way I look, the way I drive. He was a jerk. So I acted accordingly.” If it didn’t require spilling her guts, Sydney would’ve reminded her mother that she’d already been knocked down by a man once today. Her behavior was entirely warranted.
Wasn’t it?
Karen’s eyes glittered, and an all-knowing smile graced her lips. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just . . . Nothing.”
Tension built at Sydney’s temples, spreading through the mask of her face as she took another bite of the burger. Whatever pie-eyed opinion of the town mechanic Karen had to offer, Sydney didn’t want to hear it.
* * *
• • •
The following morning, just as the sun peeked over the pine trees, Sydney laced up her running sneakers and set out on a run. The only sounds were the slap of her feet on the gravel road and the chorus of shrieking birds, belting their early-morning calls from tree branches overhead.
As she rounded the bend toward town, the quick snap of a sleek brown head caught her attention, and she grinned at a deer just inside the forest. She breathed in the clean, cold, dewy air and tasted the new day on her tongue. Nothing in New York City rivaled this purity.
She unzipped the collar of her fleece jacket as her body warmed. The cool autumn air tickled her damp neck and sent shivers across her skin. Just a couple more miles and she’d reward herself with hot coffee back at her mom’s place.
She didn’t particularly enjoy running, but when her thoughts knocked around her brain like hummingbirds on steroids, she’d lace up her sneakers and find herself slightly more centered when the effort was behind her.
Being at her mother’s apartment would require at least a 5K. While Sydney loved her mother as any dutiful child should, she also pitied her. Karen’s small-town dreams seemed just that: small. Sydney had worked day and night as an undergrad in Chicago and then completed law school in New York to secure a six-digit income, while Karen chatted with locals about the weather and peddled spy novels to meandering tourists. Their lives couldn’t have been more different.
As Sydney rounded a bend in the road, brick storefronts appeared and then the familiar red neon sign at Utz’s. There, in the parking lot, sat her black BMW. She jogged closer to find a pair of dirt-splotched jeans and work boots sticking out from under the back end of her jacked-up car.
“Hey.” She slowed to a halt next to the jeans and boots and pushed the damp strands of hair out of her face as icy breath burned her lungs. When the body rolled out from under the car, that breath threatened to choke her. Shit, he’s good-looking.
“Hey.” As he stood, sharp early-morning light caught the auburn strands in his wild hair, and long lashes framed his bright chocolate eyes, her view unencumbered by yesterday’s baseball cap. With a firm brow he crossed his arms and stared down at her bumper.
She cleared her throat. Focus. “I figured after the way we left things yesterday, maybe you’d thought twice about helping me.”
“I did,” he said. “But I also thought maybe the sooner your car was fixed, the sooner you’d head out of town, so I woke up at the break of dawn to get started.”
Her eyes narrowed, but he cracked a smile. His whole face brightened.
“Lighten up.”
“Well, thank you. In any case.” She cleared her throat again and reached for her absent necklace while her heart continued to race.
His gaze lingered a little too long, like instead of a normal human woman she was a giraffe who’d wandered into town.
“It should be okay to drive.” He wiped his hands on his already filthy jeans. “I can replace the bulb in the taillight, and other than that, it’s mostly cosmetic. It won’t be cheap, but you don’t need to have it fixed right away. Maybe wait until you get back to t
he big city and find a dealer to take even more of your money.”
Defiance flared in her chest. “I have a friend who has a hookup.” If I ever get back to New York. “So, you’re right, I will wait. But I won’t pay more.”
He raised his eyebrows and shifted, widening his stance. Even with his feet spread, the man was tall. At least six feet two. His broad shoulders stretched the soft flannel of his work shirt, and peeking out from the sleeves were sinewy, tanned forearms that belonged in Dodge truck commercials. She’d never been attracted to rugged men before, instead going after slick finance guys, but anyone who found the male species attractive would be hard-pressed not to drool in Sam Kirkland’s presence.
“You always up this early?” he asked.
“Not really.” Not since I used to wake up at four to work out and be in the office by six. She forced the twisted expression from her face. This veritable stranger didn’t care about the ups and downs of the last two years of her life. “I’m sleeping on my mom’s pullout couch, and I think I clocked a solid forty-five minutes last night. It’s awful. I figured once the sun came up, I could take advantage of the quiet and the scenery. Clear my head a little. It’s so gorgeous up here.”
“You like the mountains?” He dropped his chin as his eyebrows shot up in his forehead.
“Sure. Why? Shouldn’t I?”
“Aren’t you a lawyer by trade, Sydney Walsh?”
Nausea rose up in her throat, and her hands instinctively crossed over her stomach. The stifling conference room, the creased brows of the partners, Mr. Fulton’s assistant with a phone in her hand, asking if she should call 911. The visions popped in and out of her head like camera flashes.
“No.”
“You seem like you love to argue.”
She shook out her tingling fingertips and capitalized on the sudden urge to run. “I’m gonna go. Thank you so much for taking care of the car. I’ll drive it over to wherever your shop is sometime soon for the taillight.”
His face twisted in confusion, but she didn’t have the time or energy to explain any further. With a quick turn and a soft crunch of dirt, she ran.
chapter three
The key slipped easily into the lock. No gate. No security system. No dead bolt. One simple lock opened with one single brass key and Sydney entered the Loving Page. Crime must be nonexistent in Pine Ridge. What did the cops up here do all day?
The modest bookshop specialized in Adirondack-themed novels, nature books, and field guides, along with posters from local artisans, pine-scented candles, and a handful of greeting cards. Infinitesimal motes floated through the stale shop air, and as Sydney ran her finger across a table display of Larry Harding’s newest mountain-themed thriller, Shoot! An Adirondack Whodunnit, a clump of gray dust clung to her skin.
Simple metal shelves along the walls and heavy oak tables served as spaces to feature the books, but the true beauty of the room wasn’t in what Karen had done to it but in what had been infused into the shop at conception.
Whoever had built this space wanted it to be something special. Exposed beams lined the vaulted ceiling, while textured cream-colored walls transformed the room from bookshop to literary haven, reminiscent of an English cottage by the sea. Loamy autumn light filtered in through heavy glass windows, and at the far side of the room, a green velvet tufted window seat all but disappeared beneath piles of old newspaper. Sydney’s fingers itched to find the nearest trash can and uncover the jewel underneath all the clutter.
She found a cinnamon-and-cedar-scented oil diffuser under the register and opened it, immediately regretting her offer to open the shop for Karen. The shop needed some serious tender loving care, not to mention a top-to-bottom clean. The warm, spicy aroma subtly radiated from the diffuser and forced an angry yawn from her gut. First things first. Breakfast.
The street was empty, save for a few straggling tourists on the hunt for an early breakfast. The scent of rich roasted coffee delicately layered with sweetness hung heavy in the air, and she crossed the street toward McDonagh’s Bakery, silently praying that the heavenly aroma originated there.
She pushed through the front door, sending a tiny bell jingling merrily over her head, and breathed in deep. The air was perfumed with toasted sugar, ripe fruit, and spicy chocolate, along with the familiar roasted coffee lifting each scent to new heights. Each bakery case boasted a new treat: domed muffins speckled with glittering coarse sugar; fry cakes dripping with chocolate icing; Danish featuring a rainbow of sumptuous fillings. Sydney could barely take it all in.
“Morning.” A bubbly young woman greeted her. “What can I get for you?”
“Oh, um, coffee, first of all,” Sydney said, her eyes glued to the bakery cases. “And then . . . Oh man, I don’t know. Which of these is low-calorie, sugar-free, dairy-free, gluten-free?” She looked up in time to catch the woman’s frozen expression. “Joking.”
“Oh, good.” Her face melted into a grin. She flipped her short blond hair to one side, revealing an impressive row of ear piercings. “I was about to throw a chocolate chip muffin at your head.”
“I want to order everything, but in the interest of not dying of diabetic shock . . . A muffin? Blueberry?”
“Great choice. They’re some of our best sellers. Although if you want the real McDonagh’s experience, have a donut. We’re famous for them.”
Sydney choked back a snide remark. “Famous” must’ve meant a write-up in the local Pine Ridge Gazette.
“Okay, you twisted my arm. I’ll take a donut, too. Whichever flavor is most popular.”
The young woman plucked a fat blueberry muffin from the tray beneath the glass counter and slid it into a white paper bag. A dusting of sugar crystals fell onto the counter, and Sydney had to take a step back to keep from licking them up.
“And let’s see . . .” The girl’s Barbie-blue eyes scanned the row of donuts in the case adjacent to the muffins. “Chocolate frosted. For sure.” She set Sydney’s bag on the counter and turned to the coffeepot in the back corner of the tiny shop.
“You in town for the weekend?” She filled a tall foam cup with deliciously dark coffee.
“Mm, kind of,” Sydney said. Am I? Is it just the weekend? If not, where the fuck do I go from here? She took a deep breath and forced confidence into her voice. “I’m Karen Walsh’s daughter.”
“Of course,” the woman said, her eyes lighting with recognition. “I totally see the resemblance now. Sydney, right? Karen showed me a picture once. I’m Jorie McDonagh. My parents own this bakery.”
“Jorie, very nice to meet you.”
“So, what have you been up to since you got into town?”
“Oh.” Sydney pushed away thoughts of Connor. Trying not to remember the real reason I’m here. “I only got in yesterday, so not a whole lot. Doesn’t seem like there’s much to do around here.”
Jorie’s smile faded, and Sydney immediately regretted her comment.
“Of course,” Sydney continued, “like I said, I just got in. So I’m sure I haven’t scratched the surface of Pine Ridge just yet.”
“Well,” Jorie said. “There is one bar that’s pretty fun.”
“Utz’s? I was there last night. It was . . .” Dead. Deader than dead. “Quiet.”
“No.” One side of Jorie’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Not Utz’s. This place is called Taylor’s, and they have music and pool and drink specials. It’s nothing as fancy as what I’m sure you’re used to in New York, but you might like it.”
“Sounds fun,” Sydney said. What was fun anymore? All the events Connor paraded her around at in New York were supposed to be fun but eventually turned oppressive. “Fun” seemed a distant concept, only truly achieved by sinking into a hot bath in the peaceful quiet of her apartment. No, not your apartment anymore. His apartment. Connor’s apartment. Connor and the blonde.
She swallowed.
“If you get bored you could come with me tonight.” Jorie’s goodwill confused her. Was she simply being kind to a new girl in town? Sydney couldn’t remember the last time anyone had been so unabashedly warm to her.
Should she join Jorie at the local bar? She hadn’t been the most gracious guest to Sam or her mother, and she feared she’d be even pricklier toward a group of locals. The sting of Connor’s betrayal still ran hot over her skin, and at this point, she’d do anything necessary to protect herself from future pain.
“Thanks so much for the invite, but I might stay in with my mom tonight. I feel bad bailing on her when I just got into town.”
“Okay, sure.” Jorie shrugged and brushed a few crumbs off the counter. “If you change your mind, though, here’s my number.” She scribbled a phone number on a slip of receipt paper and handed it to Sydney.
“Thanks,” Sydney said. With one last shot at kindness, she added, “If my mom falls asleep early or is just generally sick of me, I’ll definitely shoot you a text.”
Sydney carried her treats and steaming-hot coffee back to the Loving Page and settled in behind the register. The morning passed by slowly, with only a handful of people wandering in and out of the store, and not a single sale to be had. Lunch came and went, and the only action of the day consisted of twenty levels of Candy Crush completion. How could her mother maintain an income on this level of patronage?
As the sun lowered in the sky and dusk settled over downtown, Sydney rang up the single sale of the day. A middle-aged woman and her two children were forced to buy a small glass Christmas ornament that one of the rascals broke as he raced by in a game of tag. Sydney flipped the sign in the window to CLOSED and glanced around the shop. The ten-dollar ornament barely covered the electric bill for the day.
She found the key to the back office and let herself in, sitting down at her mother’s cluttered desk in search of receipts or an accounting ledger. The plug for the ancient desktop computer sat exposed on the cracked linoleum floor, coated in a fuzzy layer of dust. Seemed it wasn’t her mother’s top choice in bookkeeping efforts.
Wild Love Page 2