by Lucy Score
And just like that, sharing time was over. Summer was far from done but bit her tongue on the thousand questions his simple statement sparked. Instead, she handed over the rental car’s keys. His hand closed over hers, and again she felt that interesting tingle.
Without another word, Carter stalked down the hallway and out the front door. Summer sighed. Usually she was much better at easing people into interviews. His entrance and the fierce frown on that incredible face had thrown her.
One thing was for sure, there was a lot going on in the fine head of Carter Pierce. She would bide her time and find a way to make the weeklong interview more comfortable for him. She would crack him. She always did.
Carter popped the trunk on Summer’s car and put the single suitcase and leather bag on the front porch. At least she hadn’t packed her entire wardrobe. It was a point in her favor. He slammed the trunk lid shut and looked around him.
He meant what he said. The farm, with its gentle rolling hills and neatly cordoned pastures and fields, was sanctuary. His sanctuary. One that had just been invaded by a nosy, appealing woman with Dresden blue eyes. The jolt he felt when he shook her hand had gone straight to his chest like a jumpstart to the heart. It was so unexpected he let his fingers linger on hers when he took the keys just to see if it happened again.
It did.
He wasn’t sure if it was just the knee-jerk physical reaction to her or something else. Either way, it was a complication and one he didn’t want to make time for. He had worked hard to get himself to a balanced place, and he had a feeling that someone like Summer Lentz could destroy that sweet spot with just a smile from those glossy, full lips.
He’d have to keep his distance there.
Carter decided to buy himself a little more time and distance by moving her car out of the drive and into the garage.
He pushed the start button, and the car and its stereo came to life. She had been listening to classical from a playlist on her phone. It struck deep when he realized it was Beethoven’s Silence, a personal favorite.
When he had come home from Afghanistan—broken and battered—the wordless symphonies of long-dead greats had soothed and strengthened, restoring his soul as his body healed.
He was a man who believed in signs.
He just didn’t know what to do with this one.
3
“Your phone was still in the car,” Carter said, pulling it out of his pocket and handing it to Summer who was admiring the dining room table his father had made. “I think you got fifteen texts and emails between the car and here.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him. “The magazine never sleeps.” She scrolled through her messages. “I can take care of these later.”
“I’ll show you to your room,” Carter said, nodding toward the staircase. He waved her in front of him, and they started up the stairs together.
“You’re the first door on the right.”
It had been his room growing up. Overlooking the front yard, the large window and sloped porch roof had offered the perfect late night escape for a teenager with secret plans.
The side window afforded a view of the neatly trimmed pasture and the small, bi-level barn. Every Saturday, June through October, Blue Moon Bend’s environmentalists, organic-hungry yuppies, and vegetarians descended on the farm and the little barn to pick up their share of Pierce Acres’ produce and enjoy a little bit of farm life.
The double bed with its wrought iron frame had been his, as had the writing desk under the window. He put her suitcase on the bed and her laptop bag on the desk.
“This is really nice, Carter. Thank you for letting me stay with you,” Summer said.
“Think you’ll be able to sleep without drifting off to the sound of traffic and sirens?”
“It’ll be an experience, that’s for sure,” she laughed.
He liked the sound of her laugh and how it filled the room. He’d only recently begun to realize how quiet the farmhouse was at times.
“I’m assuming you’d like an upstairs tour, too?”
“Yes, please,” she said, clasping her hands in front of her.
He led her back into the hallway where she poked her head into the bedroom across the hall. It was set up as an office with a desk angled to take in the view of green fields and clumps of forest.
“Is this your office?”
“Mostly. But my mother uses it, too. She’s bringing dinner over tonight so she can meet you.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Summer said.
“Yeah, well, she may end up interviewing you, so watch out.”
“Noted.” Summer smiled, her eyes dancing.
“Mom keeps our books and runs payroll. We’re thinking about redoing the second floor of the barn next to the house to use as a bigger office. A ‘center of operations’ as Mom calls it.”
“Do you have a lot of people who work for you?” Summer asked as they continued down the hall.
Carter pushed open the second door to reveal the main bathroom. “Joey and I are the only full-timers. She runs the riding program and takes care of the horses. Then we have a half-dozen part-timers who help out. My brother Beckett—he’s coming to dinner tonight, too—gives us some hours every week, and Mom pitches in a lot.”
“You have another brother, too, right?”
“Jackson,” Carter nodded. “He’s a script writer in LA.”
“From family farm to Hollywood,” she murmured, taking in the wood-framed mirror that hung over dual vanities.
“Does he miss it? Living here?” she asked.
Carter shrugged. Jackson had skipped town the day before his high school graduation, headed for the West Coast and leaving a hole in the family with no explanations or apologies. It was something he knew still bothered them all. Some more than others.
He opened a skinny door next to the tub, stocked neatly with linens and every bathroom product known to man. His mother had gone shopping in preparation for Summer’s visit, explaining that women needed more than just soap and toothpaste. “Here’s the towels and probably anything else you’ll need.”
Summer peered around him, and he caught her scent. Something sweet and light that teased the senses.
He took a step back and led her out of the bathroom. “That’s another bedroom over there,” he said, pointing to the last door on the right. “And this is the master.”
He had focused much of the renovation on this room. The existing gabled roof had flowed into the great room addition, which allowed him to add a cathedral ceiling here. Two original windows were replaced with glass doors that opened onto a small but functional balcony facing west for sunset views.
The large bed with its tall wooden headboard faced the view.
The walk-in closet was practically empty. He stored most of his jeans and t-shirts in the center island with its endless drawers and cabinets.
“I’ve never seen a closet this empty before,” Summer remarked. “In fact I’ve never seen a man’s bedroom that was so clean. You don’t even have dirty socks on the floor. Army, right?”
Carter nodded and pretended that he didn’t hear her reference to other men’s bedrooms. He pointed her in the direction of the master bath. “Bathroom’s through there.”
“Did the military influence how you keep your home?”
“That and growing up with a mother who wouldn’t let us leave the house on Saturday until our rooms were clean. I learned very quickly that if it was clean to begin with, I didn’t have to spend hours shoveling dirty dishes and laundry. If you maintain what’s yours, you don’t have to spend as much time putting out fires. Or scraping gum off your hockey equipment.”
Summer laughed. “Beckett or Jackson?”
“Jackson.”
“Your mother must have some stories from raising you three.”
“You’ll probably hear every single one of them tonight,” Carter sighed.
“I can’t wait.”
Carter left her in the h
ouse so he could finish up some work outside before dinner but not before promising her the full farm tour tomorrow. Summer used the opportunity to set up her laptop and dive into emails and blog comments.
She handled the work-related communications first, confirming a shoot with a freelancer in Rome for a piece in the October issue and doing a final look at page proofs on an article about a young European designer who was making her big push west.
She texted Niko to let him know she had arrived safely and had not been run off the road by tractors or farm life.
She saved the blog for last. A dozen more followers since she had last checked this morning and several new shares and comments. Her boss, Katherine Ackerman, a senior editor with Indulgence, had been skeptical about the value of adding a behind-the-scenes look at the magazine to her blog. But the popularity spoke for itself.
It was the one place where, as long as she adhered to the magazine’s strict guidelines about advertisers and designers, she could use her own voice and talk about the things that were important to her.
Summer drafted a brief post about spending the next week at Pierce Acres. It needed art, she thought. She moved to the doorway of her room and snapped a picture with her phone. Downstairs she captured the kitchen and great room in their sunshine and stainless steel glory. In the driveway she snapped the front of the house from a few different angles. The light was getting softer as afternoon gave way to evening, giving the house a cozy feel.
Back upstairs, she tweaked the pictures with filters in her editing apps and then uploaded them to her draft post. She needed one more picture. Her followers deserved to see the striking Carter Pierce. A shot of him on the blog would guarantee fevered interest in the story when it came out in the September issue, she thought with a smile.
Speak of the devil. She heard him on the stairs. A moment later, he was framed in the doorway of her room. His arm rested on the frame, thumb swiping at a streak of dirt on his forehead.
“Hey. I’m going to take a shower. My mother will be here soon to start dinner. I should be out before she gets here, but she’s obnoxiously early to everything.”
Summer raised her phone and clicked a picture of him. “I’ll keep an eye out for her just in case,” she said.
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
Summer smiled innocently. “It’s for the blog.”
He pushed away from the door and stalked down the hall, muttering about blogs and articles.
While Carter got naked, Summer distracted herself by changing into black skinnies and a soft gray tunic with a flattering scoop neck. It was the exact color of Carter’s eyes.
She styled her hair into a simple topknot and slipped on ballet flats. Some subtle smoke at her eyes and rose on her cheeks and she considered herself presentable for a casual family dinner.
Summer was halfway down the stairs when the front door swung open.
“Yoo hoo!”
The woman was wrestling a stockpot through the door when Summer got to her.
“Here, let me help.”
“I’ve got this if you can grab the grocery bag out of the backseat,” she said with a quick grin. “I’ll meet you back in the kitchen for a proper introduction.”
Summer hustled outside and grabbed the cloth bag out of the late model sedan. Back inside, she found the woman hunched over the pot on the stove. Dressed in a chunky knit cardigan and jeans, she had dark-rimmed glasses and a blunt bob with streaks of silver that framed her oval face. Trim and fashionable, she was clearly very comfortable in Carter’s home.
Summer put the bag on the island.
“Ah! Thank you,” the woman said, slapping the lid back on the pot and turning around. “So, you must be Summer Lentz.” She extended her hand, and a trio of bracelets jingled.
“I am.” Summer took her hand.
“Welcome to Blue Moon Bend. I’m Phoebe Pierce. Carter’s mom.”
Her grip was just like her expression, friendly and confident.
“Mrs. Pierce, it’s great to meet you. I’m so excited to be here.”
“Call me Phoebe. And we’re excited to have you,” she said, digging through the drawers for a wooden spoon. “Spaghetti okay for dinner tonight? It’s one of Carter’s favorites.”
“It smells incredible.”
“Pierce family recipe and Pierce family veggies. So where is my handsome oldest?”
“Carter’s upstairs taking a shower.”
“Good. Then we’ll get to know each other before he comes down. Wine?”
Summer grinned. It was going to be much easier getting answers out of Phoebe than her son. She was sure of it. “Sure. Can I help with anything?”
“How about you start chopping for the salad? Pretty much anything you find in the fridge is fair game,” Phoebe said, gesturing with a loaf of garlic bread toward the stainless-steel behemoth.
When Carter came downstairs, fresh from a shower, he found his mother and his houseguest chatting and laughing in the kitchen.
“There’s my favorite son,” Phoebe said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek.
“That’s what she calls us when she can’t remember our names,” Carter explained to Summer.
She was clutching one of his nicest knives in a white-knuckle grip and focusing on her massacre of a carrot. Anticipating bloodshed, he grimaced and moved in.
He closed a hand over hers clutching the knife. “I’ve got this. Why don’t you sit and interrogate my mother?”
Those long lashes fluttered as her eyes widened in surprise. He knew she felt it too. That zing of current that passed through them every time their hands met.
She had changed and put her hair up, revealing the curve of her neck. Those full lips, painted with a tempting cherry gloss, were parted. The rounded neckline of her sweater would have seemed modest to anyone shorter. But at six-foot-three-inches, Carter was afforded an accidental and spectacular view.
He frowned. He was thirty. Not seventeen. Leering at a houseguest, no matter how punch-in-the-gut gorgeous, was not acceptable or respectful.
He couldn’t exactly remember the last time he’d had sex. And that meant it had been way too long. He’d been busy, had other things on his mind. But since Summer had walked in, it had been the only thing on his mind.
She handed over the knife and then bobbled her wine glass in her haste to get out of his way.
Carter caught his mother’s smug smile out of the corner of his eye and frowned harder. He knew nothing would make her happier than to see him stupid in love. But a fling with a writer that he’d never see again? That didn’t qualify.
He concentrated on salvaging what was left of the carrot while Summer peppered his mother with questions about the farm’s humble beginnings. He moved on, expertly dicing pepper, onion, and radish.
“You’re good with a knife,” Summer observed. He hadn’t rattled her too badly, he decided.
Carter snuck a piece of pepper off the mound and popped it into his mouth.
“Is that kitchen or Army expertise?” she pressed.
His brother’s greeting from the front door saved Carter the trouble of answering.
Beckett strolled into the kitchen carrying a six-pack, his wingtips echoing on the hardwood.
“Didn’t we say dinner was casual?” Carter eyed Beckett’s pinstriped trousers and unwrinkled button down. Only his brother would wear a starched, white shirt to a spaghetti dinner. The only nod to casual was that Beckett had removed his tie and opened his top button.
Carter and his youngest brother, Jackson, shared a suspicion that Beckett slept in a suit.
“Give me a break,” Beckett grumbled. “Mediation ran long. Didn’t I order my spaghetti with no beard hair?”
“Boys!” Phoebe said in mock exasperation. “Not in front of our company.”
Carter saw the exact second that Beckett registered Summer’s appeal. There was a widening of his eyes, and he smoothly shifted into baby-kissing mode.
“You must be Summ
er,” he said, taking her hand in both of his.
“And you must be Phoebe’s favorite son,” Summer quipped.
“You’re obviously very observant,” he grinned down at her.
“Writers generally are,” Carter muttered, glowering at Beckett behind Summer’s back. His brother was still staring and still holding her hand. He put the knife down on the cutting board a little louder than necessary.
“What’s in the six-pack?”
Beckett finally let go of Summer’s hand and brought the pack around the island. “A variety of BP’s finest.”
Carter met him at the fridge and opened the doors.
“Why didn’t you tell me she looked like that?” Beckett hissed, throwing an elbow in Carter’s gut.
“Don’t even think about it,” he muttered, checking Beckett with his shoulder.
“Are you calling dibs?”
“She’s a woman, not the last piece of fucking pie. And yes, I’m calling dibs if it keeps your hands off her.”
“Did someone say pie?” Summer asked hopefully from across the island.
“If you two are done with your conference over there, I need someone to cut up the garlic bread.” There was amusement in Phoebe’s voice.
“I can do it,” Summer offered.
“No!” Carter insisted, a little too sharply. “I got it.”
He pulled a bag of spinach out of the fridge and gave Beckett one last shove before moving back to the island.
“Where is it?” Beckett called from the depths of the refrigerator.
“Where’s what?” Summer wanted to know.
“Boys and their beer,” Phoebe sighed and topped off their wine glasses. “My sons are obsessed with home brewing.”
Beckett triumphantly pulled an unlabeled bottle from the vegetable crisper. “You think you can hide this pretty little CP Blonde from me.” He grabbed another bottle from the six-pack he brought. Opening them, he slid one down the granite to Carter.
Taking a deep swig of his bottle, Beckett sighed. “It’s almost as good as my IPA that you’re drinking.”