over an hour later and killed the engine.
She wasn’t going to blow her diet with a brownie. She was headed straight for the health food store next door and a carob cookie with tofu frosting or a bran muffin with yogurt filling or something. A healthy alternative with just a teeny tiny ounce of sweetness to help steady her frantic heartbeat after the visit to Big Earl’s place.
She hadn’t actually had a face-to-face with the man himself, but she had come this close to being ripped to shreds by his dogs.
Charlie would freak fifty ways till Sunday if she found out. Luckily, she’d moved into the dorms at the University of Texas last year and so Gracie didn’t have to worry about explaining the ripped hem of her skirt or the dirt smears on her blouse. At least not until this weekend when her little sis came home for her weekly visit and caught wind of the gossip.
If she came home.
She’d canceled the past three weeks in a row with one excuse after the other—she was studying; she had a date; she wanted to hit the latest party.
Not that Gracie was counting. She knew Charlie would much rather go out with friends than make homemade pizza with her older sister. Charlie was growing up, pulling away, and that was good. Still, when her little sister finally did make it home, Gracie would be here.
She would always be here.
Because that’s what home meant. It was permanent. Steady. Reliable.
Her gaze swiveled to the two old men nursing a game of dominoes in front of the hardware store directly across the street.
At ninety-three, Willard and Jacob Amberjack were the oldest living twins in the county. And the nosiest.
She debated making a quick trip home to change, but that would put her back at the health food store after hours and she needed something now—even something disgustingly healthy.
She drew a deep breath, braced herself for the impending encounter and climbed out of her car.
“Don’t you look like something the dog just dragged in,” Jacob called out the moment her feet touched pavement. “What in tarnation happened to you?”
“Was it a hit-and-run?” Willard leaned forward in his rocking chair. “Was it a car? A truck? Or maybe you got molested.” He pointed a bony finger at his brother. “I been tellin’ Jacob here that the world’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket.”
“It wasn’t a hit-and-run. And I wasn’t molested,” she rushed on, eager to set the record straight before their tongues started wagging. “I was just cleaning out my office and I snagged my skirt on a loose nail.”
“You sure? ’Cause there’s no shame if’n’ you was molested. Things happen. Why, old Myrtle Nell over at the VFW hall accosted me just last night on account of I’m the best dancer in the place and she really wanted to waltz. Had to let her down easy and I can tell you, she was none too happy about it. Poor thing headed straight home, into a bottle of Metamucil. Ain’t heard from her since.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Damn straight. Everybody knows there ain’t no substitute for good ole-fashioned prune juice.”
O-kay. “Enjoy your game, fellas.” Before they could launch into any more speculation, Gracie put her back to the curious old men and stepped up onto the curb.
“Afternoon, Miss Gracie.”
“Hey there, Miss Gracie.”
“See you at the church bake sale tomorrow, Miss Gracie.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she told the trio of women who exited the bake shop, glossy pink boxes clutched in their manicured hands.
The youngest one, a thirtyish soccer mom by the name of Carleen Harwell, held up two of the boxes that emanated a yummy smell. “Sarah donated ten dozen Rice Krispies Treats.”
“Excellent.” She waved as the women headed down the street and said hello to a few more people passing by before turning her attention to the display case that filled the massive storefront window. Dozens of pies lined the space, along with a sign that read It’s Pick Your Pie Tuesday!
Not that she was going to pick a pie. Or a cake. Or anything else tempting her from the other side of the glass. But looking... There suddenly seemed nothing wrong with that.
“Go for the chocolate meringue.”
The deep, familiar voice vibrated along her nerve endings. Heat whispered along her senses. Her stomach hollowed out.
“Or the Fudge Ecstasy. That’s one of my personal favorites.”
Excitement rippled up her spine, followed by a wave of oh, no because Jesse James Chisholm was the last person she needed to see right now.
He was the reason she was so worked up in the first place. So anxious. And desperate. And hungry.
Really, really hungry.
Run! her gut screamed. Before you do something stupid like turn around and talk to him.
“If memory serves—” the words slid past her lips as she turned “—you were always partial to cherry.” So much for listening to her instincts. “In fact, I seem to recall you wolfing down an entire cherry cobbler at the Travis County Fair and Rodeo.” She didn’t mean to bring up their first date, but her mouth seemed to have a mind all its own. “With two scoops of ice cream on the side.”
“Miss Hazel’s prizewinning cobbler,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips as the memory surfaced. “That woman sure can bake.”
“So can Sarah.” Gracie motioned to the display case and the golden lattice-topped cherry pie sitting center stage. Inside gold certificates and blue ribbons lined a nearby wall, along with an autographed picture of Tom Cruise in his Risky Business heyday. “So why the switch to chocolate?”
“When I was laid up after Diamond Dust, Billy thought he’d cheer me up with some fresh-picked cherries from Old Man Winthrow’s tree. I ate the entire basket in one sitting and made myself sick. I’ve been boycotting ever since.”
“I don’t do chocolate,” she announced. She didn’t mean to keep the conversation going. She had a strict no-talk policy where Jesse was concerned. And a no-closeness policy, too. Because when she got too close, she couldn’t help but talk.
Which explained why she’d avoided him altogether for the past twelve years.
No talking. No touching. No kissing. No—
“I mean, I like chocolate—brownies, in particular,” she blurted, eager to do something with her mouth that didn’t involve planting a great big one smack-dab on his lips, “but I don’t actually eat any.”
“What happened to the Hershey’s-bar-a-day habit?”
“I kicked it. I’m into healthy eating now. No Hershey’s bars or brownies or anything else with processed sugar. I’m headed to the health food store.” She motioned to the sign shaped like a giant celery stalk just to her left. “They make an all-natural
