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“I think maybe you’re thinking…of kissing me.”
“You do, huh?”
“Well. Are you?”
He crinkled his brow, as if deep in thought.
“Are you?” she demanded.
He smiled at her. Slowly. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
He touched her chin. He traced the back of a finger down the side of her neck, just beneath the soft fall of her hair.
“I…um…” Tessa’s breathing was agitated. “You shouldn’t. Really.”
“Yeah. I should.”
He took her mouth. Because he had to kiss her. And also to make her stop telling him not to.
Christine Rimmer came to her profession the long way around. Before settling down to write about the magic of romance, she’d been everything from an actress to a salesclerk to a waitress. Now that she’s finally found work that suits her perfectly, she insists she never had a problem keeping a job – she was merely gaining “life experience” for her future as a novelist. Christine is grateful not only for the joy she finds in writing, but for what waits when the day’s work is through: a man she loves, who loves her right back, and the privilege of watching their children grow and change day to day.
She lives with her family in Oklahoma. Visit Christine at www.christinerimmer.com.
The Stranger And Tessa Jones
By
Christine Rimmer
For Gail Chasan, my fabulous editor. You are the best!
Table of Contents
Chapter One
“More snow on the way.” The truck driver, a fifty-something guy in insulated pants and a plaid flannel shirt, fiddled with the radio dial.
The man in the passenger seat made a low sound in his throat, a sound of agreement that discouraged further conversation. He had a killer headache. Talking only made it ache all the harder. And he kept smelling alcohol.
He sniffed the sleeve of his jacket. Definitely. Booze. Was he drunk? He didn’t feel drunk, exactly. He just felt bad. Bad all over.
The two-lane road, dangerously slick in spots, treated with road salt and dotted with slushy ridges of brown snow, twisted and turned down the mountain. Piled snow, hard-packed and dirty, rose in twin walls to either side, so the big rig seemed to roll through a dingy white tunnel, a tunnel rimmed above with evergreens and roofed higher still by a steel-colored sky.
The passenger shut his eyes, tuned out the drone of the radio and leaned his pounding head against the seatback. For a while, he dozed. When he opened his eyes again, the walls of snow on either side had diminished. He spotted a sign that said this road was Scenic Highway 49.
With a hydraulic moan and hiss, the trucker slowed the rig as they came to a sharp turn. Another turn after that and they were slowing even more.
They passed an intersection, a road winding off into the tall trees, and then another. The passenger read the street sign at that second road: Rambling Lane. And Main Street. They were on Main Street. The two-lane highway had now become the central street of some hole-in-the-wall town.
Another turn in the road and they were rolling past a town hall and a one-room post office on the right. On the left, a café and a mountain bike shop and a store called Fletcher Gold Sales, followed by a couple of tourist-trap gift shops. The place was like something out of
