“Who will bid two hundred and fifty dollars to take Harper out on a date?” Beuford Danforth had asked after Connie had not very politely dragged Harper onto the stage.
Beuford was the unofficial host of just about every event in Temptation, since he’d been a radio personality for twenty-five years before retiring. When there wasn’t some type of town get-together, Beuford could be found on the wraparound front porch of his lime green–shingled house, putting together one of his Lego creations. He was seventy-two years old and still fascinated with the toys.
Harper’s cheeks had burned, not only at the question, but at the complete and utter silence that fell over the room like a tent. She’d clasped her hands in front of her and clenched her fingers until she worried she might actually pull off skin. Her heart beat wildly and her shoulders had begun to shake.
All reactions she’d had before and ones she’d sworn she would never have again.
She’d tuned out everything by that point—everything except the man touching her hand. At that moment a jolt brought her back to reality, and she’d looked up into warm brown eyes. He wasn’t from Temptation; that was her first coherent thought as he held her hand tightly in his. There was no man in Temptation who looked like this. Harper would remember if there was.
He was taller than her, with an athletic build—a very toned and alluring athletic build. His hands were large and engulfed her long fingers. His light complexion was a perfect backdrop to the dark hair of his goatee and thick eyebrows. He was wearing simple dark slacks and a white T-shirt, yet he still managed to look like a movie star—perfect enough to be on the big screen seducing women across the world.
Women like her.
No, never her, she’d reminded herself just in time to reply to the question he’d asked.
“The Veterans Fund,” she’d said after taking what she hoped was a mind-clearing deep breath and releasing it. “The two thousand and twenty-five dollars will go to Temptation’s Veterans Fund and provide support for those who fought hard to protect us and this country.”
Her grandfather and her father and all the other brave men like them.
Connie hadn’t liked that one bit, a fact Harper knew she’d hear about in town for the next week. When Constance Gensen was upset, everyone in Temptation heard about it. This time, as was the case too often in the past, Harper would be involuntarily entrenched in Connie’s discontent.
“Do you need a ride home?”
His voice was deep and had the effect of a good shot of whiskey—grabbing her immediate attention and making her shiver all over.
“Ah, no,” Harper replied and then cleared her throat. “I drove my car.”
“Because you didn’t have a date.”
“I didn’t need one,” she replied quickly and with certainty.
“Yeah, I know how that feels,” he said and then looked away.
“You’re not from around here,” Harper stated. “Are you visiting someone?”
He didn’t reply, but he did look at her again. Then, as if just remembering, he looked down at her hand. The one he was still holding. Harper’s cheeks warmed again and she attempted to pull away, but he held tight.
The Freedom Hall—now called the Gloria Ramsey Place—was part of the old shoe warehouse that had gone out of business ten years ago. The building had been purchased by Kittinger Hale, a retired schoolteacher who had hit the lottery and found his birth mother in the same week. Gloria Ramsey had been on the run from her abusive husband when she’d stopped in Temptation to give birth to the son she would leave at All Saints Hospital the next morning. Buying the building and slapping Gloria’s name across the front window was—Harper figured—Kittinger’s tribute to Gloria. To the citizens of Temptation, it hadn’t meant nearly as much. The building would always be called the Freedom Hall, after Freedom-brand shoes, which had been manufactured there for fifty years before the company went out of business.
The building was on the corner of Maple and Grove Streets. There was a black streetlamp still sporting the multicolored spring fling banner just a few feet away from them. The light was excruciatingly bright, bringing even more attention to the fact that they were holding hands.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he said. Harper stopped looking around to see if anyone was outside at the moment, and stared at him.
“Neither should I,” she replied.
He was rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand at this moment. Attempting to pull away again was certainly an option, except that Harper didn’t want to break the contact. The warmth from his hand was comforting, his strong grip protective and the heated spikes moving quickly throughout her body foreign, but not unpleasant.
“I should go,” he said.
“Me too,” she replied.
Yet neither of them moved.
There was space between them, even though their hands were connected. His body wasn’t touching hers, and while she felt as if she were being physically drawn to him, Harper hadn’t moved an inch.
So why did it suddenly seem warmer?
“Thanks for agreeing to donate to the veterans,” she said because she didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s no problem,” he replied.
Then, finally, after more silent moments, Harper figured this situation was absolutely ridiculous. She yanked her hand away from his—not realizing he’d lightened his grip so that her extra effort made her look even more preposterous.
“I’ll also apologize for what just happened back there. I don’t know what they were thinking, but getting a tourist roped into their shenanigans probably wasn’t the plan.”
“I’m not a tourist,” he told her in a very exacting way. He didn’t sound like he was offended, but that he wanted her to know this for certain. It was odd, but then, wasn’t this entire situation?
“Fine. Well, I apologize. Good night.”
“I’ll walk you to your car.”
“It’s not—” Her words trailed off as he once again took her hand.
“Which way?” he asked.
“Down here on the corner,” she replied.
Now she was walking down the street with a guy she didn’t know. This was strange. And it was dangerous. And she should know better.
“Well, good night, again,” Harper said when they reached the car. She kept her back to the driver’s door and her eyes on him.
He was standing with his legs slightly spread, hands tucked into the front pockets of his slacks. Again, Harper noted how attractive he was and how that thought exacerbated the unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Good night, Harper,” he said.
Once again
