could wander under those skies and never feel lost. She observed her hands clenched in her lap.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” She essayed a smile. “Sometimes reminiscing gets a little crazy.” They were talking like old friends, comparing tragedies, lives. Did you know my husband slept with my sister?
He remained silent.
She sighed, needing to explain. “I’ll get over it.”
The smell of bacon, grits and grease aromatized the room.
“Sorry for getting tight-assed about your career.” His lashes were sooty, thick as lawn grass. “There have been things— Never mind.” He took a sip of coffee. “Living in a new town, changing jobs, it’ll help.”
“If it doesn’t, I’m in trouble. Well. Enough of the maudlin. What time can I expect you Monday? We open at nine-thirty.”
“I’ll be there at one o’clock.”
She nodded, grateful he hadn’t quit on the spot, what with all her blubbering. “Do you need us to prepare the yard before you arrive? Mow the grass? Move shrubs?”
She caught it again, the amusement playing in his eyes, on his lips. As if he envisioned her and old Paige spading up the cement blocks, tossing them into a neat pile on the perimeter.
“No,” he said. “But I’ll need to take some measurements. Six tomorrow okay?”
“I’ll be there.”
And she would be. Her shop, her town. Maybe next September—depending how the shop fared under her management—she could buy Paige out. Leftovers from the sale of the house in Frisco might even mortgage a rambling-rose cottage near her aunt.
Wishes and dreams, peaches and cream.
Like Seth Tucker’s somber mouth. How would it feel on hers?
“Where—” She cleared her throat. “Where is your office?”
“A couple blocks that way.” He inclined his head.
“I’d like to discuss some details about the work.”
He set aside the mug. “Why not go over them now?”
“I should talk to Aunt Paige first.”
“Sure. We could meet back here for lunch.”
Such a strong face. And those Dakota eyes— “How about five at your office?”
He extracted a napkin from the dispenser, flicked a pen from his shirt pocket. A map took shape. “Follow Main east to Chicksaw Lumber, then turn left on Peak Avenue. After you cross the railway tracks, turn left for a block. The office is on the corner. Old, red-brick building.” A circle marked the spot. “Can’t miss it.”
The napkin glided across the table under his hand. She took the paper; electricity zinged between their fingers.
Caching the map in her tote, she smiled. She could find the place blindfolded. Misty River was that kind of town, that kind of community. Simple, uncomplicated—the way she wanted her life. She held out a hand. “Thank you, Seth.” His palm was warm, calloused. Familiar.
A slow, slanted grin staged a chipped front tooth. “See you at five,” he said. Vest in hand, he slid from the bench.
She watched him walk away, long legs, lanky hips, trucker shoulders. Incredible. “Yeah,” she mumbled, trying hard to ignore her thumping heart and not succeeding. “Five.”
Seth stepped out of Kat’s Kafé into hazy sunshine and walked eight feet across the sidewalk to where his pickup was angle-parked. He set the heavy thermos of fresh coffee beside the lunch bucket on the seat, then climbed behind the wheel.
Through the country-paned window of Kat’s, he observed Breena paying her bill. One minute, a stranger bumming a ride, the next, his employer.
He reached for the metal clipboard, scanned the day’s jobs. Put the truck in gear, fool. Get the hell out of Dodge.
He had no business mooning over a woman running from a bad marriage. Not quite mooning, more like unable to stop dreaming about those eyes. Why hadn’t he noticed the other night? They were damn near purple, like the tiny pansies growing alongside his house. Brave things striving to stave off the approach of winter.
So, why didn’t he start the truck and drive away, instead of spying like a dumbass jock?
Did she dump the husband? Or vice versa? What about kids? So far, gossip said she’d arrived alone.
So was she divorced?
Oh, yeah. Her eyes told him before her words. “A regular carousel ride.” God help him, but he’d felt a pang in his heart at that moment. Hadn’t his own carousel sported fire-breathing dragons?
Oddly, he hoped she would make it in Misty River. Okay, she spelled Big City. Possibly old money. Elite education. Family therapist.
But her face was honest, her smile sweet.
She’d worked with Social Services.
“Find yourself a different woman to drool over, Seth,” he muttered, tossing the orders. A local woman like…
His mind blanked.
A rap on the window had him jerking around. A black-haired devil smirked through the glass. Seth rolled it down.
“Stick to trucking, bud,” his brother advised. “Surveillance isn’t your gig. She’ll make you the minute she steps out outside.”
“Go ’way.”
Jon threw back his head and laughed.
“Goof,” Seth muttered without offense as his brother sauntered down the sidewalk, the khaki police chief’s uniform impressive on his tall, rangy frame. Seth’s mouth worked up a half grin. There, with the love of a damn fine woman went a damn happy man. All the power to you, Jonny.
Rolling up the window, he contemplated the café again. Dammit. This was his town. Where he’d been born, married, had his child, divorced. Established his company. Culture and adventure he gleaned from the PBS or Discovery channels. Tending his own house, his own lifestyle was what he enjoyed.
He’d part with it all if it would give him back every missed year with Hallie.
Through the café’s windows, he saw Kat laugh with the Quinlan woman. As a Ph.D. in San Francisco, her nails would be clean and filed, even polished, her clothes fashionable, her hair styled.
Sighing, he reached for the ignition. He had to be hard up, squandering priceless time on a woman like Breena Quinlan. If he wanted a woman, why not someone like Peggy Whatshername? Or was it Kathy? No, Katie.
He couldn’t remember. Two, three years loomed as a century when it came to placing a woman he’d walked home once or twice.
For
