Confessions of a Small-Town Girl. Christine Flynn
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dark. I’ll walk you to it.”
The offer caught her off guard, the chivalry behind it. A warrior and a gentleman. The combination held a certain lethal quality of its own. “You don’t have to do that. Really,” she insisted, backing up. “I know the way.”
For a moment, Sam said nothing. He simply watched as she kept going, glancing behind her so she wouldn’t trip over a tree root or a stray piece of lumber. She clearly wanted nothing other than escape. The thought that it was him she wanted to get away from kept him right where he was.
“Be careful then,” he finally allowed.
“I will,” she assured him, and turned, her movements as quick and silent as a deer’s as she headed for the trees.
Sam watched her disappear in the direction of the footbridge, but he stayed where he was until he heard the distant sound of her car engine when she started it up. Only then did he move the ladder from where she’d propped it beneath the window, shaking his head at the thought of her wrestling its cumbersome weight in the dark, and return, smiling, to the trailer and bed.
Kelsey buried the diary in the bottom of her travel bag the moment she slipped back into her room, locked the bag and dropped the key into her purse. Any relief she felt having it back in her possession was pretty much buried beneath the embarrassment she’d suffered listening to Sam read from it.
She didn’t know how long she lay with her head under her pillow after she’d crawled into her old twin bed trying to block the inescapable feeling. But the tenacious sensation was still there when her mom knocked on her door a little before 5:00 a.m. and started loudly humming “Oh What a Beautiful Morning,” which had always been her way of telling Kelsey it was time to wake up. That awful discomfort remained, unbudging, as she threw together batches of blueberry and carrot raisin muffins, fired up the griddle and made herself smile at the morning’s first customers, all the while dreading the moment Sam would walk through the diner’s door.
From what she’d learned yesterday, he ate there every morning. Usually around seven-thirty.
The Fates apparently decided to toy with her a little more. Seven-thirty came and went, which left her feeling that much more anxious each time the door opened because each time it did, she thought it was him. There was something a tad distressing about facing a man who knew she’d once obsessed about him. Especially since he now knew that what she’d wanted was for him to get up close and very personal. But that had been a lifetime ago, back when she’d been all imagination and no action. Not that she was into action that much now. Or ever had been, actually.
She could honestly say that no man had ever consumed her thoughts the way Sam once had. She could also swear on every bible the Gideons had ever printed that she had not written down her thoughts about a man since her last entry in that diary, whatever it had been. She hadn’t looked. As rattled as she’d been, still was for that matter, she’d been in no hurry to read what else she had written and further embarrass herself.
By ten o’clock, Sam still hadn’t shown up. Desperately hoping he’d chosen to avoid her, and finding a certain humiliation in that, too, she busied herself peeling apples for pies since the breakfast rush was over while her mom scurried past to answer the ringing telephone. Within seconds of her mom picking up the dated instrument on the wall by the stainless steel fridge, Kelsey’s agitation was joined by an entirely different sort of distress.
“It’s for you,” her mom announced, leaving the receiver dangling by its black cord. “It’s Doug Westland.”
Doug wanted a decision. Unfortunately she was no closer to making one now than she’d been when she’d left the day before yesterday. Because Sam and that damnable diary had totally occupied her, she’d thought of little else. “Tell him I’ll call him back, will you?”
Her mom’s forehead pinched as tightly as the coil of her intricate bun. “This is the second time he’s called since you’ve been here. He sounds very nice, dear. You should talk to him.”
She had talked to him. Yesterday afternoon, she’d returned the call he’d made while she’d been at the Baker place. He’d wanted to make sure she hadn’t yet accepted the offer from the Regis-Carlton so he could overnight the contract and offer they’d talked about rather than wait for her to return. She’d told her mom that. What she hadn’t mentioned was how he’d assured her again that he knew they would work well together and repeated what he’d maintained before, that they would make a great team, a great partnership.
You have no idea how passionate I can be about what I want, Kelsey. And what I want right now is you.
He’d first informed her of that in the beautifully appointed bar of his most successful restaurant to date, the restaurant he and all the critics predicted soon would be surpassed by the endeavor he’d invited her to join. It had been midmorning, the restaurant wasn’t yet open and he’d made the offer over coffee and pie-charts illustrating parts of his proposal at the long granite bar.
It had been strictly a business meeting. In her mind, anyway. Yet, the way he’d looked at her, the way he’d sounded, had made it clear that his words could be taken however she chose. There had been times in her meetings with him since then, too, when he’d subtly let her know he was interested in more than business. She would concede that she cleaned up fairly well when she bothered with heels and a skirt rather than the comfortable baggy pastry chef shirt and clogs she worked in. But the man was a hugely successful entrepreneur. He was smart. He was wealthy. He oozed charm. He had gorgeous single women on his staff and hanging around his establishments. He could easily have the pick of any one he wanted.
He was a player. She was not.
At the moment, however, all she cared about was not being pushed. When her mother’s refusal to pass on her message resulted in her having to take his call, she told him that, too. Nicely, because the professional opportunity he’d offered was incredible and it was entirely possible that her own insecurities were playing with her head. As she stood at the back of the room, holding the phone to her ear with one hand and rubbing at the little knot at the back of her head with the other, she told him she wasn’t signing anything with anyone until she returned to Arizona. She also assured him when he asked that she wasn’t stalling as a ploy for a larger salary or bigger percentage of the partnership. And that, yes, she was enjoying her visit with her mom.
It seemed like a good news/bad news sort of morning to her. The good news was that she would only be in Maple Mountain for less than a week, which meant she only had less than a week to go before she never saw Sam MacInnes again. The bad news was that at the end of that time, she really did need to make a decision about her future employment. She just didn’t know which position was the better move for her career. Or her personal life.
Listening to Doug—who sounded as if her coming on board was a done deal—and thinking of how the Regis-Carlton’s manager assumed the same about her accepting the promotion, she could feel a headache brewing. With a silent sigh, she pulled off the chef’s cap covering her hair and rubbed once more at the little knot on her skull.
From where he’d just sat down at the counter, Sam caught the pinch of Kelsey’s brow and the tentative motion of her hand.
He had arrived late on purpose. He wanted to talk to Kelsey. He just didn’t want to do it with the regulars around. He knew how nosey the locals could be. Proof of that had been evident less than two hours ago when Charlie had stopped by to see why he hadn’t been at the diner that morning. Amos had driven by two minutes later and stopped when he’d seen Charlie’s pickup.
When Amos had asked why he hadn’t shown up for breakfast, Sam had told him the same thing he’d invented on the spot for Charlie. That he just hadn’t felt all that hungry when he woke up. The explanation seemed inconsequential enough, until Charlie proceeded to confide that the last time he’d lost his appetite, he’d been coming down with a summer cold. According to him, the best remedy for that particular ailment was lemonade spiked with whiskey and honey. Heavy on the whiskey.
Amos swore by chicken soup. Homemade.