Willowleaf Lane Read online

  He still couldn’t believe she was the same person he had known before. He wanted to think he hadn’t been so shallow that he couldn’t see the loveliness inside her but he had been a stupid teenage boy whose idea of the perfect female body was the one on the current Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Hell, he’d married a supermodel, hadn’t he? And look how delightfully that had turned out.

  As he watched her read, her features becoming more animated with every page, a fine tension tightened his insides. He wanted to kiss her, just reach across the space between them, slide his fingers into silky honey-gold hair and capture that lip she was tugging between her teeth with his own....

  “This could work!”

  Her excited voice jolted him out of a very pleasant fantasy involving the two of them, this comfortable sofa and a great deal less of that gauzy white dress.

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I know.”

  “I really like this idea about adding wheelchair-accessible cabins behind the recreation center.”

  “I think that has to be an urgent priority. We can use condos or hotel rooms at the resort at first but it would be better having more of a village feeling with our own small cabins.”

  “You might want to talk to Sam Delgado about that. He runs a construction company in town and has a reputation for fast, excellent work.”

  She blushed a little when she said the name, and he had to wonder why. He jotted the name down, curious to meet the man.

  “Katherine Thorne is on the city council. She might be able to help you fast-track the construction through the permit process.”

  Charlotte must know everybody in town. She would be an invaluable asset.

  “This is fabulous information,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “I can talk to Mary Ella tomorrow, if you’d like. We’re having a birthday lunch for a friend of ours.”

  “You know, now that I think about it, I prefer going straight to Harry. It seems devious to go around him and manipulate him that way, and I don’t want to start out on the wrong foot. Still, it can’t hurt to have the support of his future wife, too. We can take a double-team approach. Thank you.”

  “You’re right. It’s a good cause.”

  She organized the papers, then faced him with a half curious, half wary expression. “Do people really spit on you in the streets?”

  The question came out of nowhere and it took him a moment to remember he had hurled those words at her in the heat of their argument.

  He didn’t really want to talk about this but didn’t see how he could avoid it, since he had been the one who brought it up.

  “Not literally. More than a few have probably wanted to. I did have somebody break through my security system and spray paint PUSHER on the side of my house. We never caught the guy.”

  * * *

  HIS TONE, CASUAL and light, didn’t deceive her. What had it been like to tumble so quickly from hero to goat? He had been vilified in the national media, had been made an example of all that was wrong in professional sports. How it must have hurt when his team members, his fans, jumped on board to denigrate and condemn.

  She caught herself. Spencer Gregory did not need her sympathy. He was rich, he was gorgeous, he had a sweet daughter—and he obviously had insane luck and darn good attorneys if he could escape prison time when it seemed all the evidence against him had been overwhelming.

  Still, it had probably been a heavy blow to lose his career and his reputation so abruptly.

  She looked down at the papers on her lap. He had accumulated an amazing amount of research in only a few days, had taken what had only been a vague concept and turned it into something concrete and eminently viable.

  She didn’t know what to think. Which was the real Spence? The hardworking teenage boy she remembered, who had juggled two or three jobs at a time to support his drunk of a mother, while going to school and trying to play sports? The nightclubbing, irresponsible partier the media had made him out to be after the accusations emerged?

  Or this earnest, caring man who appeared to be trying to do something worthwhile with his life, to become something more than he had been?

  She couldn’t discount the last, especially when she—of all people—knew it was certainly possible for a person to make radical changes and to reshape his or her direction.

  Yes, she had very personal reasons to be angry with him. It didn’t seem right to let those stand in the way of something that could be of benefit to many people.

  “I don’t see anything in here about creating a network of community volunteers to help out,” she said.

  He frowned. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  “You need to. That should be part of the whole concept for A Warrior’s Hope from the beginning.”

  “You think so?”

  “The recreation center was intended for use by the community. If you want to repurpose a portion of that mission and open the facilities to a wider population, it seems only right that you give the people of Hope’s Crossing a chance to be part of the effort.”

  “How?”

  “I can think of dozens of ways. Fund-raising, organizing welcome parties for the veterans. Restaurants could join in to help feed them. I’m sure Pop would love to cater some meals and so would my friend Alex McKnight, who is the chef at Brazen. My friend Evie Thorne is a rehab therapist and she might have insight on what kind of activities would be most helpful for certain injuries. Oh, and I happen to know somebody who’s really good at making fudge and would be happy to donate a steady supply.”

  Skepticism flickered in his eyes. “That all sounds wonderful but do you really think people would be so willing to step up to help perfect strangers?”

  She gave him a long look, then shook her head. “You obviously haven’t spent enough time in Hope’s Crossing lately. The town has changed since you were here.”

  “Yeah. That’s fairly obvious. Every time I turn around, I see a new business or condo development.”

  “The growth is only part of the difference. Tourism has taken over as the leading industry since you left. It was already headed that direction fifteen years ago, I guess. As more and more people have moved in to buy vacation homes and condos, the year-round residents have had to make a conscious effort to stay united.”

  “Seems like that wouldn’t be an easy task.”

  “It hasn’t been. I think Harry’s idea behind the recreation center was to help foster the sense of community. We also have our own annual day of service. We call it the Giving Hope Day and it was started to honor my friend Maura Lange’s daughter Layla, who was killed in a car accident a few years ago.”

  “Giving Hope. Catchy.”

  She narrowed her gaze, trying to detect sarcasm in his tone or expression, but he appeared genuinely interested.

  “It’s really wonderful. You just missed this year’s event. It’s held in early June and it’s a time when everybody comes together to make the community better. Painting the bleachers at the football stadium, cleaning up yards, preparing meals for senior citizens. The day ends with a big benefit gala and auction up at the ski resort. All proceeds go to a scholarship fund.”

  “You really think a one-day event is enough to bring a town together?”

  “No. We have other things. There are weekly summer concerts in the park—in fact, that’s where I was earlier tonight—a townie ski day every month when the resort gives reduced lift tickets to residents, a couple different parades throughout the year. Oh, and I can’t forget the Angel of Hope.”

  “Somebody mentioned that to me the other day. Who is the Angel of Hope?”

  “Wouldn’t we all like to know? Actually, I have suspicions but I’m happy to leave them unanswered. I can tell you the Angel is someone who goes around helping people in need. Bags of groceries left on t
he doorstep of a struggling family, rent or utilities mysteriously paid, a sudden delivery of needed medical equipment. The Angel has attained folk hero status around here.”

  “All in secrecy? I find that hard to believe. Really, nobody knows who it is?”

  She couldn’t say that with certainty. Maura and Mary Ella had once said something that made her think they knew who might have started the whole thing but she hadn’t pressed them.

  “I suspect some people do know, but they’re keeping it zipped,” she answered. “After more than two years, the Angel has become a symbol of the need for increased kindness than an actual person. People do nice things anonymously and are happy to give the Angel credit.”

  She herself regularly figured out who to help each week, which had become one of her favorite pastimes. When she ran out of ideas, she often took a different route for her workout, thinking about the people whose houses she passed as she ran and what their needs might be.

  Since the whole point was anonymity, she didn’t mention that to Spence.

  He remained skeptical. “You’re right. The town must have changed, then. This all sounds rosy and sweet but I have to tell you, my memories of Hope’s Crossing tend to be a bit more...gritty.”

  Yes, he would have seen the uglier side of the town, the part where a mother stayed out all night at The Speckled Lizard. Again, that sympathy fluttered through her.

  “It’s still not a perfect town,” she said. “We have our problems. Pain, loss, financial troubles. Overall, it’s a pretty nice place full of caring people. I’m sure more than a few of them would be eager to jump on board a project like this as one more way to give back.”

  “Okay. We will definitely incorporate a community volunteer effort in the planning. Thank you for looking through everything and for offering a different perspective.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He stood to go, all big rangy muscles, and she suddenly wanted him to stay, for reasons she wasn’t quite ready to examine.

  Deep down, apparently she was still that giddy teenage girl when it came to Spence Gregory.

  He moved in the direction of the door, and she got up and followed him. As it was only a short distance, she didn’t bother with the crutches. “I think A Warrior’s Hope could really be amazing, Spence.”

  “Thank you for seeing that this isn’t about me and whatever you might think of...my past.”

  He gazed down at her and the moment seemed charged, somehow, glittery and sweet. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Her lungs felt tight, achy, as if she had just run hard up the Woodrose Mountain trail.

  “You’re welcome,” she whispered, then felt stupid. Why had she whispered?

  She opened her mouth to repeat the words louder but before she could, he was leaning down, all those big hard muscles coming closer, and then he pressed his mouth to the corner of hers.

  CHAPTER NINE

  SHE FROZE, HER heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear. His mouth was warm and he tasted of mint underlined with a hint of something sweeter.

  He wasn’t moving, either, just standing so close to her she couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and then the soft whisper of a kiss shifted to something else. Something more. His mouth slanted over hers and he was kissing her, really kissing her.

  Spencer Gregory was kissing her, as if he couldn’t get enough.

  This was crazy. She should say something. Shove him away, wipe her mouth, tell him to go to hell. But, oh, my. All her girlie parts were doing handsprings of joy.

  She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck, telling whatever small rational part of her brain that was still working that she only needed the support to keep from standing on her ankle. He helpfully complied, leaning back and absorbing her weight.

  At the same instant, he intensified the kiss, his mouth searching, exploring, devouring.

  She had never really been kissed before. Not this sort of kiss, with passion and fire and urgency.

  How ridiculous. She was nearly thirty years old and had no idea how to handle a man like Spence, completely unprepared for the onslaught of sensation. It felt as if a whole factory’s worth of fireworks was exploding inside at the same time, bursting with bright color and heat, sound and wonder.

  In a weird way, she felt as if her body had been sleeping for all these years, just waiting for this moment. Every part of her wanted to sink into him, to drag him back into her house and spend all night just like this.

  She didn’t want it to stop. She wanted to stay right here forever, until their lips fused together and they starved to death. She couldn’t imagine another experience on earth that could possibly be as wonderful as right now, his mouth on hers, his arms holding her against those hard muscles, the scent of him, masculine and sexy, filling her senses.

  Life sometimes took strange twisting journeys. In the tiny corner of her brain capable of stringing two thoughts together, she remembered being fifteen years old and painfully in love, watching him on the baseball diamond or the football field or joking with customers at her father’s café and wanting nothing in her entire life as much as she wanted him to see her, really see her.

  Okay, and maybe to love her back a little.

  How very odd that all these years had passed with her minding her own business, living her life—establishing a successful store, loving her family, changing old habits—and here she was at last in the arms of the man...the same man she had convinced herself she now detested.

  “You taste like strawberries and something else. I can’t tell what, but it’s delicious.”

  Every single nerve ending seemed to shiver at his hoarse voice against her skin.

  “Prosecco,” she murmured, the single word sounding ragged. “I...had a glass at the concert.”

  “Nice. Very nice.”

  He kissed her again, his tongue sliding along hers in ways that made those girlie parts start leaping around again, doing corkscrews and triple spirals.

  She wanted more. She had a nice convenient sofa just steps away. How could she maneuver him inside so she could explore all these gorgeous hard muscles?

  A low sound suddenly pierced the glittery haze of hunger. A long musical wooo-wooo.

  Tucker.

  She had completely forgotten about the dog but his bark was enough to bring her back to her senses, to realize she was standing in her entryway, tangled up with Spence Gregory like peppervine around a cottonwood.

  She slid her mouth away, mortified. Was she that desperate that she completely lost her mind the moment a gorgeous man kissed her?

  Spence gazed down at her, those changeable hazel eyes looking murky and dark.

  She didn’t know what to say or do, especially not when he was looking at her in a way that seemed to send her thoughts ricocheting around her head like a six-year-old set loose in her store.

  She desperately wished she could be like her friend Alex, someone breezy and confident—the kind of woman who thought nothing of kissing a gorgeous, athletic, complicated man like Spence Gregory.

  But she had had no idea what to even do with her tongue, for heaven’s sake. He must have realized how inexperienced she was.

  When he looked at her, how could he not see the dumpy, awkward girl she had been?

  Somehow—drawing on reserves she had no idea existed—she managed to produce a casual smile. “You know, you didn’t have to kiss me to seal the deal. I was going to help you with A Warrior’s Hope anyway.”

  He eased farther away, those eyes going murkier still. “You can’t honestly think I kissed you only to make sure you were committed.”

  She shrugged. “You probably figured it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you—because I’ve wanted to kiss you since I came ba
ck to Hope’s Crossing.”

  She couldn’t honestly believe that, but the words still sizzled through her. She fiercely tamped down her reaction.

  “I guess it’s good we got it out of the way, then, isn’t it?”

  His mouth tightened and she realized he was seriously growing annoyed with her. She was feeling so flustered, so discombobulated, she couldn’t figure out how to respond.

  This was stupid. It was only a kiss, certainly nothing to send her spiraling into a panic attack.

  Her ankle throbbed as if someone had kicked it. She firmly ignored the pain. “I’ll be sure to let you know what happens after I talk to Mary Ella and the others tomorrow.”

  He ran a hand through his hair, his narrowed gaze studying her intently. His mouth opened for an instant.

  “Good night,” Charlotte said quickly, before he could spill out the argument she could see forming in his expression. Her lips still throbbed and tingled and it was all she could do not to touch her finger there, to feel the heat that still lingered.

  “Yeah. Okay. Good night.” He headed out but paused in the doorway, his gaze on hers. “For the record, that was one hell of a kiss, Charlotte. You know I’m not going to be content with just a little taste, don’t you?”

  Before she could come up with any sort of answer to that, he walked out and closed the door behind him.

  She waited on the other side of the door until she heard footsteps going down her porch and along the sidewalk before she moved. Only when she was convinced he had truly left did she hobble back to the sofa and lift her aching leg up.

  She again wanted to touch a finger to her lips but she curled her hand into a fist instead.

  Why had he kissed her? It made no sense. She couldn’t believe he had suddenly discovered some consuming passion for her.

  Why, oh, why hadn’t she worked a little harder to lose this stupid virginity when she was in college? Yes, she had been overweight but she knew plenty of other big girls who were popular and well-liked and had dates all the time.

  In Charlotte’s case, she had been burdened with a deadly combination when it came to having an active social life. She had been shy and fat—not to mention studious and far too serious. She had driven home from the university most weekends to help Pop at the café, even though he had discouraged it. Now she wished she had spent more time putting herself out there. Maybe then she would have a little experience under her belt and know better how to deal with a man like Spence.