he feel an obligation to his parents? Had the divorce she’d heard about set him back emotionally so that his return to Whistler Creek was as much a healing exercise as anything else? Rosalie could almost understand that explanation. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else herself.
But Bryce, at least the young man she’d known and fancied herself in love with, had always displayed enough confidence to combat any of life’s trials. Surely he could handle news of his father’s declining health, the breakup of a marriage. After all, he’d recovered easily enough from the death of his best friend.
And why had he approached her in the parking lot yesterday? Did he suspect the truth about her quick getaway—that she’d seen him and was avoiding a face-to-face meeting? She’d tried to appear casual, spontaneous, as if she hadn’t noticed him. She hoped he’d believed that a sudden thought had occurred to her and she’d naturally and without ulterior motive gotten into her car and sped away. And if not, did he suspect the other, more devastating truth, that facing him, dredging up memories, both good and bad, possibly initiating new ones, was the last thing she needed in her life?
Thankful that the electric gates had been parted a few minutes early, Rosalie drove onto Benton property and headed a quarter mile down the road toward the steel buildings that housed the wholesale division of Benton Farms. As she pulled up next to the overstuffed bins of vegetables, she noticed that she was the first local produce dealer to arrive. The usual farmhands, wearing the trademark green Benton Farms polo shirts, waved at her as they always did. She knew each of them would be willing to help her choose her stock and load it into the back of the truck.
She climbed out of the driver’s seat and spoke to Juan Gonzalez. He’d been hired by Roland Benton to work under her father’s direction when Enzo Campano had supervised the wholesale area. Rosalie had known him since she was a little girl.
“Juan, I need red peppers today and ten bushels of corn. Maybe eight pounds of Vidalia onions.” She handed him her list.
“I get you set up in no time, Miss Rosalie.” He began loading cartons while she walked among the bins of rich, ripe crops recently harvested on Benton land.
She picked up a tomato and was deciding if this particular one was overripe when a hand settled lightly on her shoulder and a familiar voice spoke into her ear. “Hello, Rosalie. Been a long time.”
She jerked as if his fingers had delivered an electric shock to her nervous system, whirled around and dropped the tomato on the pavement. It exploded into a pulpy mass, which immediately attracted a number of tiny winged insects. Rosalie swallowed and looked up into clear blue eyes that had haunted her teenaged dreams. She swore under her breath. What the hell was Bryce doing out here at the crack of dawn? Her voice came out dry and tinny sounding when she frowned down at the mess by her sneaker. “Sorry about that,” she said.
Dressed in the same Benton Farms shirt as the other employees, Bryce grabbed a paper towel from a nearby dispenser and bent over to scoop up the mess. “No problem.” He swept his other hand over the loaded cartons of tomatoes. “As you can see, we have a few others.”
He tossed the soggy towel into a trash can and wiped his hand on his jeans. If he’d planned to shake hands with her, he changed his mind. Thank goodness. Rosalie didn’t need to test her reaction to another touch.
“I saw you last night at the high school,” he said.
She blinked a couple times, trying to blur the image of Bryce’s face that seemed determined to burn itself into her retina. Last night he’d worn a ball cap low over his forehead, and he’d been at the other side of the room. Today his features were clear, undiluted by shadow and the play of artificial light. And she would have known him anywhere. Just as she remembered, the corner of his mouth quirked up in an odd half grin. His eyes, nearly the rich color of blueberries, narrowed under thick, brown lashes. Strands of his hair, longer than she would have thought he’d like and darker blond than she recalled, fell to the arch of his slightly darker eyebrows.
He continued to pin her with a disturbingly intense gaze as the grin broadened. “Rosalie? You okay?”
Of course he would ask that. She’d been standing for several awkward moments hoping her senses would return along with enough intelligible words so she wouldn’t sound like an idiot. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. What had he said? Something about seeing her at the high school. Hunching one shoulder with feigned indifference, she said, “I was there. Canfield wanted all the faculty to witness …”
She stopped, knowing she was about to finish the sentence with a biting example of sarcasm.
“… the spectacle?” Bryce filled in for her.
“I wasn’t going to say that.” Sure she wasn’t. That was the exact word that had popped into her mind.
He chuckled. “Well, that’s what it was. Only an appearance by the Wildcat marching band could have been worse.”
“Obviously your return is viewed as a miracle by some people around here. Who better to take over for Bucky than a hometown football hero?” A shudder rippled down Rosalie’s spine. She really hadn’t meant to sound so unkind. A better plan would be to appear totally indifferent to Bryce.
“I guess we’ll see about that,” he said.
“Miss Rosalie!” The call came from a few yards away.
She stood on tiptoe to see over Bryce’s shoulder. “That’s Juan by my truck. He must have my order together.”
“I’ll give him a hand.”
Bryce stood aside as she walked ahead of him to the pickup where her order was stacked on the pavement. Knowing he was behind her made the skin at the nape of her neck prickle. Her footsteps felt leaden; the distance of only a few yards to her truck was like the length of a football field.
A line of trucks and trailers had started to form behind her. “We’d better hurry and get this loaded,” she said. “You have other customers.”
The three of them filled the pickup’s cargo area. Rosalie quickly consulted her list and wrote a check. When she tore it out of the book, she hesitated, looking first at Juan and then Bryce. “Who do I give this to?”
“Give it to Juan,” Bryce said. “He’s the boss. I’m just here to do what I can.”
She handed over the check and opened the door to the truck. “I suppose your father is happy you’re back.”
“He seems to be. I hope I can be more of a help than a hindrance.”
She climbed inside the truck, shut the door and started the engine. Bryce leaned on her open window. “Funny, but as soon as I got out here among the harvest this morning, it all came back to me,” he said. “I suppose produce is in my blood.”
“And football,” she said.
“Yep. And football.”
Rosalie stared out her windshield. All she had to do was put the truck in gear, and this whole anxiety-inducing episode would be over. She’d survived a face-to-face with Bryce. Maybe she could even walk by him in the halls of Whistler Creek High School without dissolving into a mass of insecurities. Not risking another look at his face, she lifted her hand. “Well, see you. Say hi to your parents.”
“I will. Give my regards
