Warm Front

by Patricia McLinn

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Anne saw Quince’s car slow when it crested the rise.

  But then he covered the rest of the distance to where her car was nose-down into the ditch beside the road in record time.

  She waved him past, emphatic movements telling him not to stop.

  She did not want to talk to him—to anybody. She was on the brink. If she lost it, she didn’t not want an audience.

  Especially not him.

  Especially since he had to know she’d burst into tears that first day, no matter how discreet he’d been about ignoring it.

  He pulled over and parked.

  Then he got out.

  “What are you doing? Didn’t you see me waving you on?”

  “I saw,” he said. “I’m stopping to see if you’re okay, and if you need help.”

  “What I need is a tow. How are you going to help with that?”

  “The more important question was the first one: Are you okay?”

  “This piece of junk—”

  “Forget the car. I’ve already—”

  “I can’t forget—”

  “—called a tow truck. But are you—”

  “A tow truck? I can’t afford a tow truck. Not to mention afford to fix this damned thing.”

  “That’ll work out.” He gripped her shoulders. “Just tell me you’re not hurt.”

  She shook off his hold without taking her glare from the car. “I’m fine. As long as you or some other miracle-worker can tell me how the hell it’s going to work out.”

  “I’ll pay— No, okay, don’t say it. I see that expression. You won’t accept a gift. Fine. Borrow the money. Enough for the tow and repairs. I’ll charge you interest rates that would make a Wall Street banker blush. Okay?”

  “And go in personal debt with no prospect of getting out of it?”

  He stared at her an instant, then swung away, swearing.

  Long and proficient — at least from what she could tell, since it was all under his breath. When he turned back, he crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes still hot, but his face under control.

  “Tell me what happened?”

  “The engine just stopped. Everything stopped. No steering. I braked, but with going downhill and the curve…”

  “Thank God you weren’t hurt. It could have been a lot worse.”

  “It’s doesn’t matter how bad it is, since I have no way to pay for repairs. No. Way.”

  She hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to say any of what she’d been blurting out to him.

  She couldn’t do anything about that, but she wouldn’t cry. She would not cry.

  “Trade repairs for additional work for Stenner Autos. A sort of advance on pay,” he said.

  The swirl in her head stopped as if someone had flipped a switch. Shreds of worry and fragments of despair, no longer suspended by the swirl, began to settle, like flakes in a snow globe.

  She licked her chapped lips. “That might work.”

  “It will work.”

  “Probably.” That was as far as she was going. She looked at him then, to be sure he understood that, and saw him — really saw him — here for the first time.

  He wore that charcoal gray top coat that had to be cashmere from the way it made her fingers itch to stroke it. A gray and deep blue paisley scarf — more cashmere — filled in the neckline. It could have looked feminine, but of course it didn’t. And leather shoes that probably cost more than the tow and repairs combined.

  The idiot.

  “You shouldn’t be let out on your own.”

  He blinked. “Where’d that come from?”

  “Look at you.” She amended that. For clarity’s sake only. “Look at the way you’re dressed.”

  He looked down. “So?”

  “You might be fine to go from limo to boardroom in Virginia — and I’m not even so sure about that, since it’s winter there, too. What happens if the limo breaks down? Huh? But no way is it okay for Illinois, with nothing to break the wind, nothing to stop the cold. No hat — are you nuts? Do you know how much heat you lose through your head? Not even your ears covered. It would serve you right if you got frostbite. And those shoes. It’s bad enough you aren’t wearing boots, but slick soles? That’s insane.”

  She propped her mittened hands on hips well-padded by her parka. “Not even gloves. That’s so basic — even kindergartners know to wear mittens. At least have the sense to put your hands in your coat pockets as long as you’re standing out here.”

  His mouth quirked. “No pockets. Ruins the line.”

  “Oh, for— Then get back in your car. Better yet, drive to the house.”

  “Sure. We can do that.”

  “Not me.” In that tiny space? Right next to— But that wasn’t the issue. She wasn’t the one inappropriately dressed. Parka over layers, mittens, ear warmer, scarf and hood. She was fine.

  “Then I’m staying. Without gloves.”

  She sighed. “Take my mittens. I’ll put my hands in my pockets.”

  She started tugging them off — he’d be lucky to get half a hand in each, his hands were that much bigger than hers, but it would be something.

  “No.”

  She looked up at that tone. “Quince—”

  “No.”

  “The sun’s going to set fast and frostbite is nothing to fool with.”

  “So get in my car.”

  “No. But you go ahead and—”

  “Both of us or neither of us. Put your mittens back on. End of debate. But I’ll tell you what. I will put my hands in your pockets.”

  The whirl was back, not in her thoughts this time. It seemed to be centered in the pit of her stomach.

  “Since frostbite isn’t anything to fool with,” he added.

  Frostbite.

  Not an issue with her right now.

  “Fine. Last thing I need is to have to take care of a frost-bit male.”

  His mouth quirked again, but he had it straight when he took the first step toward her. After that she didn’t look at his mouth.

  She kept her hands at her side, her gaze averted as he slid his hands into the parka pockets. He had to reach over and back to get the right angle, since the pockets were slanted for her use. It brought him close.

  Too close.

  Far too close.

  Through the layers she seemed to feel the firmness of his chest. She certainly felt his breath, warm across her forehead.

  If she looked up, with him right here…

  She crossed her arms at her waist as a buffer.

  His hands spread inside the pockets, seeming to grip her hips. Was the angle really so awkward that he needed something to hold onto to keep his hands in the pockets? But even if it was…

  “This isn’t going to work. I can’t—” She backed away, her parka riding up as she pulled free from his hands. “Uh, I can’t see the tow truck coming this way.”

  “Do you need to?”

  “Yes,” she said curtly. “You didn’t have a precise location, so we might have to flag them down.”

  He looked up and down the otherwise empty road, but said, “Okay. Then I’ll stand behind you.”

  She hesitated.

  He balled his hands against the cold.

  She pivoted, arms once more crossed at her waist.

  His hands slid into her pockets more easily from this angle. He was right behind her. That cashmere coat must be warmer than it looked, because it had just cut her chill factor.

  She no longer had her nose practically in his paisley scarf, but he was flush up against her back. This was—

  “No better,” she muttered.

  “They’re still cold,” he said, apparently interpreting her escaped words as referring to his hands. “Put your hands in the pockets, too. That should help.”

  Help what?

  “Heat up my hands,” he added, as if he’d heard her question.

  It would help warm his hands. And keep her hands warmer, too. And sinc
e she might need to help the tow truck driver, that was practical.

  “Damned coat,” she muttered as she added her mitten-clad fists to the pockets.

  “Don’t be so hard on my coat. It’s all part of the presentation.”

  She half turned on the instinct to look at him, then stopped. But she did welcome the topic. “Presentation? Like the one you guys gave yesterday.”

  “Sort of. A lot of business is a kind of presentation. What you show to the world, what this coat or a suit shows, that’s part of the presentation.” His fingertips had found the tops of her mittens, sliding inside, against the backs of her hands. “Who you are is inside. Protected.”

  She shivered.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Want me to—?”

  “No.” If his hands were that cold — cold enough to make her shiver — he needed every bit of warmth he could get.

  “Because the last thing you need is a tenant with frostbit hands.” His voice seemed to be right at her ear. She didn’t turn her head to check.

  “That’s right.”

  They stood like that, not moving. Except she felt the rhythm of his breathing, felt as if she took it inside her.

  “That’s quite a sight,” he said.

  She turned her head to look, bringing her cheek against the warmth and softness of the cashmere.

  “Looks like a field of icicles,” he added.

  She tried to snort. It came out breathy, vulnerable. She spoke fast. “If icicles were a cash crop, we’d be doing fine.”

  That was breathy, too, and said more than she wanted to.

  But he let it pass. Let it drift away, just like the vapor of their breathing.

  There. Together. Then gone.

  They remained like that.

  How long?

  She didn’t know.

  The sun was setting. She should be thinking about the temperature dropping. About how much longer before she’d have to put common sense over some inarticulate disinclination to get in his car.

  Instead, they stayed there, watching.

  The red ball of the sun spread at the horizon, bleeding across the snow, blazing Quince’s field of icicles into a field of flames.

  “That’s something,” he said, low.

  “It’s everything.”

  She felt him shifting. He was turning her. Or she was turning. Inside the circle of his arms.

  Turning to him—

  A beep jerked her back.

  The tow truck. The lights coming down the hill toward them.

  Closer and closer.

  He released her and drew his hands out of her pockets.

  *

  Quince slowed at the turn in to the drive to Hooper Farm.

  His car’s heater poured out warmth but couldn’t make a dent in the coolness that had descended on her.

  She’d been friendly enough with the cheerful tow truck driver, who’d freed her little car with nonchalant expertise, then carried its bedraggled carcass away while she watched.

  Only when it was out of sight did she get in his car.

  And then she spotted his gloves on the console between the seats. She didn’t say a word, but the glare she sent them should have incinerated them.

  His gloves. His car. His coat. What did she have against his belongings?

  Or was it him?

  He slowed more.

  Stopped.

  He hadn’t noticed before — not consciously — the way the Hoopers’ house sat so far from the road, its back up to a sweeping curve of trees.

  That’s what drew the eye — the trees. The house appeared an afterthought. In the spring, when the trees and bushes leafed out, it would probably disappear. Even now, it appeared as no more than a demure white block against the intricate web of black-inked tree trunks and branches. The snow-tipped green of firs and evergreens stood out more clearly. Even the mass of the barn snagged more attention than the house.

  From here — the public view of Hooper Farm — the dormant fields swept cultivator-wide lines of stubble into a mesmerizing pattern that faded the house to an out of focus background.

  Could say, he thought with a twist of his mouth, that the fields came first, while the house — and its occupants — sat nearly invisible under the overhanging drama of nature and behind the stubborn demands of farming.

  “Getting fanciful, Quincy,” he muttered to himself.

  “What?”

  He caught the reflection of her frown in the side window.

  She didn’t seem to notice that he’d stopped.

  “Nothing.”

  He eased the car forward again toward the house.

  *

  Anne burrowed deeper under the comforter, welcoming the warmth.

  Not, however, welcoming the thoughts slipping in now that she’d released her guard in hopes of falling asleep fast.

  She should have gotten in his car at the start.

  Or she could have climbed down and gotten back in her own car, although the tow truck might not have seen—

  It had nothing to do with the tow truck.

  She’d seen that fancy, impractical car sitting there, offering warmth and comfort, and she hadn’t been able to accept it.

  It had felt … disloyal.

  She skidded away from that thought and slammed right into another.

  No. A memory more than a thought.

  Of turning in Quince’s arms. Of turning to him. Of being a moment, a breath away from kissing him.

  Disloyal.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Instead of going to his usual position at the kitchen table, Quince came closer. Closer. Next to her desk.

  He set a piece of paper beside her computer keyboard.

  “What’s this?”

  “A website I’d like you to look at.”

  “Quince—”

  “Please.”

  Anne sighed and typed in the url.

  In the three days since he’d held her…

  She stopped and reworded her thought.

  In the three days since her car broke down, they’d regained normalcy. Complete normalcy.

  Except her car was still in the shop, with Jorge O’Fallon working on it in spare moments to keep the cost — or in this case the exchange of her labor — down. So she was driving the farm truck.

  And now this not-normal detour and odd request from Quince.

  On the screen, an image came up of a kitchen island — her kitchen island she realized after a moment. Though something had been done to the picture that made it look a whole lot better than it usually did.

  There was type across the image, but it wasn’t coalescing into words for her.

  It couldn’t be because Peter Quincy had pulled up a chair right off her shoulder to look at the screen with her. Had to be because the island looked so completely different. Warm and sunny and homey and … lovely.

  “What is this?”

  “Just what it says.”

  The breath behind his words stirred the hair around her right ear. A warm shiver of reaction arced down her throat and across her shoulders.

  She shifted, blinked to bring the type into focus.

  “Anne’s Kitchen?” Her reading added a question mark that wasn’t on the screen. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s a prototype.”

  “A prototype of what?”

  “You said you know what a COO does, so you know I spot issues and provide solutions. More revenue could help Hooper Farm in a lot of ways. Diverse sources of revenue spread out risk beneficial. Oats could give you a new revenue stream.”

  “Oats? Your reading didn’t mention that oats don’t compete with corn or soybeans in gross income around here? Premium oats, the kind horse owners use for feed and that captures top dollar, come from Canada or other cold-weather spots. What we could grow here wouldn’t get us the return we need.”

  “Not as a feed crop. But it might as a specialty crop. Others are doing similar things. Working with dehydrated foods. Soups and—”


  “Where did this come from? This website and all this?” She pointed to a new photo showing an angled banner of sunlight coming to rest on a pair of the worn white coffee mugs. It gilded them, making them look almost alive.

  “I took some photos. I’d line up a professional for the real thing. But what matters is…”

  This was as real as a thing got.

  He’d taken these photos.

  The bumper of the farm truck, with the sky unending beyond it.

  This must be one of the pictures he’d been taking when she came out to use the truck to check the field draining.

  His position had stretched the denim of jeans that had looked like an entirely different species from her work clothes. She’d refused to consider where they stretched and where they cupped.

  …Except somehow she had immediate recall now of where they stretched and where they cupped.

  Photos. Look at the photos.

  The angle of her elbow from beneath a dishtowel as she dried a dish. Everett’s scarred, wise hand dipping a spoon into a bowl of oatmeal, the milk flowing in, the rich toppings spilling over.

  It all seemed so rich and full and … sweet.

  Quince had captured moments and angles and vignettes that she’d stopped seeing — if she’d ever seen them quite this way. It made her heart pound faster and swell.

  “…with the goal to monetize Hooper Farm—”

  Her head came up at his words. “Hooper Farm is monetized. We grow crops. We sell crops. That’s what a farm does.”

  “But you don’t grow enough. You don’t sell enough.” Despite his even tone, that delivered a blow.

  He reached for the mouse, brushing her arm.

  She pulled away.

  He pretended not to notice.

  Though how she knew he was pretending…

  She concentrated on what he was showing her. Other sites. Not as beautiful, but still nice. Other farms. Other farmers. Selling dehydrated soups or special flour or goat milk products.

  “You and Candy Benzil could team up to do the corn chowder, but I’d recommend not doing that until later. Get established with the oatmeal first. It differentiates you from the others.”

  “Others…?”

  “Call them retail farmers. You can’t sell produce the way the farmers we helped last year do, but you can still benefit from people’s interest in food coming direct to them from farms. In fact, you fill in when they can’t serve their customers — winter — with dehydrated foods. So you could share customers.