Falling for Leigh
Autore
Jennifer Snow
Letto da
16,8K
Capitoli
13
Chapter One
“WHAT IS THAT NOISE?” Logan Walters asked through clenched teeth. He paced the hardwood floor in his room at the Brookhollow Inn, the room phone cradled to his ear. His laptop sat open on the antique writing desk, and papers were strewn about the bed. Discarded, rolled balls of yellow legal-pad paper lay near the trash can in the corner of the room. So much for the peace and quiet he’d been expecting from the small town in the middle of New Jersey. He’d been making just as much progress in his sublet studio apartment in Manhattan as he was here in Brookhollow.
None.
“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Walters,” the Brookhollow Inn’s new owner, Rachel Harper, said. “My children aren’t running through the hallways of the guest quarters again, are they?”
“No, not today.” That had been yesterday’s distraction. He couldn’t believe the bed-and-breakfast was home to so many kids. Funny, they’d forgotten to mention it on their newly designed website. He suspected complaints about noise were common now.
He ran a hand through his hair, which reached the back of his shirt collar. Past due for a cut.
Man, he missed the nice, quiet, little old lady that used to own the place. Had he known of the switch in ownership the year before, he certainly wouldn’t have come.
“I don’t hear anything here at the desk. What kind of noise is it?” she asked.
“It’s a hammering sound.” How could she not hear the deafening vibrations echoing off the walls?
“Our renovations have been complete for quite some time.”
He picked up on the note of pride in her voice.
Yes, their renovations—he’d noticed them, too. New paint, new windows, new tiled roof...improvements for sure, but he’d been relieved to see they hadn’t messed with the antique furniture in the guest rooms.
“Maybe it’s coming from outside,” she said. “Would you like me to go take a look?”
Logan was about to reply when the hammering ceased. He waited.
“Mr. Walters?”
“Hang on.” He waited a second longer. Nothing. He brought the receiver back to his ear. “No, that’s okay. It stopped.” Hopefully this time for good.
“Okay, then. Is there anything else I can do for you? I noticed you didn’t come down for breakfast yet. Would you like something brought up?”
Logan glanced at the clock on the mantel of the old wood-burning fireplace: 8:26. He’d been awake since five, surviving on the in-room coffeemaker. His stomach growled. The offer was tempting, especially as the smell of fresh-baked pumpkin-spiced muffins filled the house. Scanning the messy room, he hesitated.
In less than twenty-four hours, he’d made quite an impact on the small space. Clothes spilled out of his carry-on suitcase in front of the window. Yellow Post-it notes decorated the freshly painted dark blue walls above the desk, and his notebooks littered the floor, along with the homemade quilt thrown in a heap next to his damp towels. And the room still held the faintly nauseating smell of the Chinese takeout he’d ordered the night before.
“Um...no, thanks. I’ll come down.” After he restored the room to a livable state.
“Great, thank you. I have several guests checking in any minute, so I really shouldn’t leave the desk until my partner, Victoria, arrives.”
As Logan replaced the receiver, the sound of children squealing, running through the hallways made him wince. Spoke too soon about not hearing her children.
Coming here was a bad idea. He was never going to get any work done with the never-ending noise, in and outside the B & B. Being away from the distractions in the city was supposed to cure his writer’s block. Alone in a place where he could focus on the story in progress and not the stack of personal issues that competed for his every thought.
He’d first discovered this small town when he lived in New Jersey, at the start of his writing career. Brookhollow had been a great weekend escape during his first novel. He’d hoped the inspiration he’d once found here might be waiting for him. He’d foolishly believed that things wouldn’t have changed in the place in almost a decade.
Sitting at the desk, he stared at the open document on the screen. The idea of this sixth book—the final one in his mystery series—made him cringe. Halfway through, he realized his original idea of how to end the series that had defined his career and put him in the spotlight years before just wasn’t good enough. His fans expected more and he didn’t want to disappoint them.
He didn’t have an alternative plan, either.
He scanned the last few paragraphs he’d written. The scene had stalled and he couldn’t figure out why. He wondered if the point of view was the problem. Or maybe it was the setting? Something was definitely off. Maybe it was him. He needed to move on...come back to it later that evening. He worked better in the evening, anyway....
He flipped that page of his legal pad over and wrote “next scene” on the top of the next page, underlined it twice, then tapped his pen against the daunting blankness. If only he knew what the next scene was.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Dillon and McKay Law Office paperwork and reached for it. Leaning back in the chair, he scanned the letter from his ex-girlfriend’s lawyer for the millionth time. His vision blurred as it always did when he skimmed the third line. She was filing for full custody of Amelia Alexandra Kelland.
Full custody...and he’d get what? Visitation? No rights to make decisions about his little girl’s future?
He tossed the papers onto the desk.
If only they’d been married, he’d have had more rights. The thought of his ex-girlfriend made his blood boil and he forced himself to take a deep breath. She was moving to L.A. and wanted to take their daughter with her. He refused to let that happen.
The loud hammering resumed, and he dropped his pen as he stood. That’s it. Grabbing his fleece jacket from the back of the antique rocking chair, he dashed out of the room, leaving the creaking old door to creep closed behind him. It would lock automatically, a lesson he’d learned the hard way the evening before. It had been two hours before the B & B owners returned from dinner at a friend’s.
Taking the stairs two at a time toward the entryway, he collided with a petite blonde whose arms were full of shopping bags. The Brookhollow Inn’s co-owner, Victoria Mason. She’d checked him in the day before.
“Good morning, Mr. Walters,” she said, readjusting her load. “Something wrong?”
“Sorry, excuse me,” he mumbled. Stopping in the entryway, he listened for the sound. Next door, to the right.
“Is everything okay?” Victoria called after him as he pushed the front door open.
“It will be once I get my hands on that hammer,” Logan said as he stepped outside.
Several feet away he saw the source.
“What are you doing?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the glare of the early October sun. The woman next door, standing on a ladder in front of the house, wasn’t the workman he’d been expecting, dressed as she was in a pair of tight black leggings and an oversize tan sweater. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. “Hey!” he yelled when she didn’t respond.
She turned abruptly at that, almost losing her footing on the ladder. “Whoa,” she said, steadying herself. “Huh?”
“I said, what are you doing? Other than making a ton of noise.” Logan studied the rickety ladder. Rusty and unstable, missing a rung in the center, the thing was a hazard.
“Hanging a sign,” she answered, without looking at him.
“At this hour?”
“You’re staying next door, right?” She paused, holding the sign against the house with one arm and gripping the roof for stability as she turned slightly to face him. Her long dark hair blew across her eyes, and she tucked it behind an ear.
“Yeah,” he grumbled.
“Well, I have an agreement with the owners that I won’t make any noise until after eight. It’s almost nine and I’m almost done.” She waved a hand, dismissing him.
“It’s upside down.”
“Seriously?” The woman sighed as she leaned back on the ladder to study her handy work. The ladder pulled away from the awning and she quickly leaned forward again. “Shoot.” Turning the hammer around, she removed the last nail she’d driven in.
Logan scanned the sign, reading the upside-down words. “You’re operating a day care next door to a bed-and-breakfast?” he asked through narrowed eyes. Just his luck. Not exactly ideal town planning in his opinion.
“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”
“I just think the bed-and-breakfast might lose business....” He paused, his hands on his hips. “Although I guess what’s the difference when there’s already ten kids living in the house?”
This was no longer the place he remembered and definitely not the place for him to write. He’d get nothing done with children around, reminding him of how much he missed Amelia. Working from his home office, he’d been her primary caregiver—getting her ready for school in the morning, seeing her off to the bus and being there for after-school snacks while she did her homework before dinner. He loved every minute of being a father.
He needed to check out of here right away. Returning to his apartment, seeing Amelia’s toys and her empty bedroom wouldn’t be much better, but he couldn’t stay.
“At the B-and-B? There are five children.” The woman stretched to remove the nails on the other end of the sign. One foot left the ladder completely and Logan had to look away.
“There shouldn’t be any. It’s a business,” he muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets and hunching deeper into his sweater. He shuffled his feet in the crunchy yellow and orange leaves on the sidewalk in front of her small bungalow.
“It’s also a home.” She flipped the sign around and lost her footing again on the ladder. She clutched the roof, struggling to regain her balance and reposition her stocking feet.
Stocking feet on an already unstable ladder? “Okay, that’s it. Get down.” Logan opened the gate of the white picket fence and moved toward her, motioning for her to descend the ladder.
“What?”
“Get...down!” he growled. “Give me the sign.”
She hesitated.
He rattled the ladder.
“Fine, stop.” She climbed down, stretching to reach the next rung below the missing one, then hesitated before handing over the sign. “You’re not going to break it, are you?”
Logan grabbed the sign. The faster he could get this hung, the faster he could get back to work. Or at least back to staring at a blank page. Frowning, he climbed the wobbly ladder. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“No one asked you.” The woman folded her arms across her chest.
So much for gratitude, Logan thought as he paused halfway up the ladder. “Hey, is there supposed to be smoke inside your house?” Bending to peer through the window in the front of the house, he could see thick, dark clouds spiraling out of the oven toward the ceiling and, a second later, the smoke detector screeched.
“Smoke? No...” Her eyes widened. “My cookies.” She lunged toward the door, threw it open and raced inside, oblivious that she’d just hit the ladder.
Oh no. Logan’s arms flailed as the ladder fell away from the house, taking him with it, and crashed down on top of him on the cold ground. His arm hit the side of a rock-walled flower bed, and he cringed as pain seared his right wrist. His cheeks flamed hot, as he pushed the ladder off and sat up, rubbing the throbbing wrist. Damn it.
The woman came back outside, a frown wrinkling her forehead. “Well, the cookies are ruined,” she said, tossing her hands up in the air and then shooting him a quizzical look as she took in the picture before her. “Did you fall?” She rushed to pick up the sign.
“No. You knocked me off.”
Her mouth dropped open.
Logan grimaced as he tried to move his right hand. This was just great. The quickly swelling wrist ached with the slightest movement.
She knelt on the ground next to him. “Let me see your hand,” she said, reaching for it.
At her touch he yanked his arm away. “Ow!”
“Ow? I hardly touched you.”
“Well, don’t.” Logan levered himself up with his good hand and stood. He wanted to get as far away from her as possible.
When she scrambled to her feet, her eyes came level to his chest. “Fine.” She took a step back and shoved several stray strands of hair away from her face to study his injury. “But you should get it looked at. It could be broken.”
Broken? He groaned. A deep purple bruise had already begun to spread across his hand. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
“I really don’t think so. There’s a medical clinic in town.... I have the children arriving soon, but if you want to wait until they all get here, I could drive you in the day-care van?”
That was a guilt offer if he’d ever heard one. Without even considering it, he shook his head. The medical clinic wasn’t that far—he’d walk.
The woman pointed to the left. “Six blocks that way, take a right onto Main Street—”
“I know where it is.”
“Oh...okay. You sure you don’t want a ride? It’s no trouble.”
She was not a good liar.
“I’m sure.”
She bent to get her sign. “Okay.” Then picking up the ladder, she set it against the house.
“What are you doing?” Logan held his sore wrist with one hand.
“Hanging my sign,” she said, stepping onto the first rung.
“Are you crazy? That ladder is a million years old.”
A dark red minivan pulled up in front of the house, and she stepped down and waved, smiling warmly. The effect transformed her face as her dark eyes lit up and her features softened.
Logan’s eyes followed hers to see two children climb out of the back of the van.
“Okay,” he muttered, “well, thanks for the injury.”
Holding up his purple, swollen hand, he went through the gate past the children and then the bed-and-breakfast, heading in the direction of the clinic.
* * *
“I DIDN’T REALIZE I was making so much noise over there with that sign, but he was pretty irate.” Leigh took a sip of her chamomile tea from the oversize mug and curled a leg under her on the wicker chair, as she settled in the dining room of the bed-and-breakfast that evening. All day she’d been worried she might have caused trouble for her cousin Rachel and her partner, Victoria Mason...and she’d felt guilty about his injury. That swelling and bruising hadn’t looked good. But she hadn’t asked for his help. In fact, she never asked anyone for help. She’d learned the hard way that depending on someone else led to disappointment.
Rachel couldn’t conceal her worry even as she said, “Ah, I didn’t hear anything. He’s just a grumpy guy.... Though he has been gone a long time,” she added before biting into a raspberry muffin. “And yesterday, my kids drove him crazy running in the halls. It was raining so hard, I couldn’t send them outside. Poor guy’s not getting much peace and quiet with all the noise around here.”
Leigh shook her head. “Kids playing is not noise, it’s called fun.”
“I don’t know. My crew can be loud sometimes.” She nodded toward the side of the yard where her older children used garden rakes to gather the leaves that had fallen from the oaks and maples in the spacious yard and piled them high.
“Looks like they’re being helpful to me, cleaning up.”
“Just wait.”
A second later the three kids ran screaming, diving into the pile, rescattering leaves all over the yard.
“See?”
She couldn’t help envying her cousin and her five children. After years of trying to have kids, she’d been unsuccessful. The problem wasn’t conceiving. Three miscarriages, fertility treatments and countless tests had yet to determine the reason for her inability to carry a baby to term, and at thirty-eight, she was forced to face facts: having a child of her own wasn’t a possibility.
Especially now that she found herself single again after ten years of marriage.
Neil had filed for divorce four years before, claiming that the stress of trying to have a family had taken its toll on their relationship and created a wedge between them that he couldn’t get past.
Though she’d been devastated, she hadn’t been able to argue with the obvious: their relationship had changed. She couldn’t fault him for leaving. He wanted children and that wasn’t something she could give him.
Rachel touched her hand, bringing her back to the present. She lowered her voice as she asked, “Have you heard from the adoption agency yet?”
The cousins were close, yet it still amazed Leigh how easily Rachel could read her thoughts. “They called last month to say they’d received the first portion of my deposit.”
She toyed with the rim of the oversize mug. Deciding to adopt had been a major decision, and not one that she’d made lightly. She’d saved every cent of her divorce settlement from Neil for four years, waiting until she was certain she was ready to take this step, and now she was. She was fully prepared to raise a child on her own.
“It was enough to open my file and start the paperwork, but they said it could take months before I hear anything else.” Her shoulders sagged. She knew this process wouldn’t happen overnight, especially when she was hoping to adopt a newborn, but she was painfully aware that she wasn’t getting any younger. She wanted to start a family before she turned forty.
“Don’t worry, it will happen. You’re terrific with the kids in your day care. Anyone can see you will make a wonderful mom someday.” Rachel gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as Victoria joined them in the dining room, carrying a cup of black coffee.
“Sorry, I got caught up on the phone with Mrs. Dawson. She’s planning a Halloween murder-mystery dinner at the recreation center and she wants to advertise the event in the Brookhollow View. I was helping her with the wording. What did I miss?”
Leigh shot her cousin a look. The only people she’d confided in about her adoption plans were Rachel and Grandmother Norris, and she wanted to keep the information between the three of them. Until she had a child of her own, she didn’t want anyone to know she was going through the process. Disappointment was harder to bear when it had an audience, and if things didn’t work out...
Victoria glanced between the two women and took a sip of her steaming coffee.
Rachel cleared her throat. “We were just discussing our mysterious, brooding guest in the Blue Room.”
“Mr. Walters?” Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “He checked in yesterday morning. Said he planned to stay two or three weeks for sure, maybe longer. I checked out his website from the email address he left on file—he’s some famous mystery novelist.” She took another sip of coffee. “He almost knocked me off my feet when I came in today. What did he do now?”
“He was harassing Leigh about hanging her new day-care sign. Too loud.” Rachel reached for the antique teapot on the table and refilled her cup.
“In fairness, he did try to help me with the sign.” Leigh sighed. A writer? This was even worse than she’d thought. Was it too much to hope that he was left-handed? Though he probably required both hands to type.
“Then he fell off the ladder,” Rachel struggled to say, her mouth full of raspberry muffin.
“Actually I opened my front door and knocked him off the ladder.” Leigh hid sheepishly behind her tea mug, waiting for the reaction.
Victoria’s eyes widened. “Is he okay?”
Leigh shrugged.
“Don’t know,” Rachel said. “I hope so. I haven’t seen him since he rushed out of here this morning.”
Victoria stared at Leigh. “I can’t believe you.”
Leigh ran her index finger around the mug. “I didn’t mean to. I had cookies in the oven that were burning—”
Victoria waved that away. “I meant for using that old ladder. I told you not to use that rickety thing. It could have been you who fell. Please borrow ours anytime. Or better yet, just ask Luke to do it. He’d be happy to help,” Victoria said, volunteering her husband’s services.
The two had just gotten married in their second attempt at a wedding, after Victoria had called off the first one twelve years before when she moved to New York to follow her dream of a high-powered career. Luckily, fate had brought her home the previous Christmas and the two had realized their love had never faded, despite time and distance.
She bit a thumbnail. “Do you think he’s okay? I’d hate to think one of our guests may have gotten hurt.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Rachel said, but she didn’t sound convinced.
The front door opened and a cool October breeze rustled the end of the tablecloth and paper napkins as Logan Walters entered his right hand in a plaster cast from wrist to elbow. His hard eyes zeroed in on Leigh.
She swallowed hard.
“Okay, maybe not.” Rachel stood quickly and busied herself gathering their empty cups. She headed toward the kitchen.
“You.” Scowling, he pointed a finger of his uninjured hand at Leigh.
“Me?” Leigh’s eyes widened as she untucked her leg from beneath her on the chair and stood.
“Excuse me. I hear the phone ringing.” Victoria dashed toward the front desk, leaving them alone.
Great, thanks, friends.
Logan stopped inches from her. His height towered over her five-foot-two frame by almost a foot, but Leigh met his gaze.
“Look what you did.” He held his cast close to her face.
So it was broken. No surprise there. “I said I was sorry, but no one asked you to climb that ladder.” She sucked in her bottom lip. That hadn’t come out right. She should have stopped at sorry.
He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. “This is what I get for helping,” he muttered under his breath.
“I’m sorry. I’ll pay your medical costs.” The money in her emergency fund was dwindling and this would make a further dent in it, but it would be better than him suing her for getting hurt on her property. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her before now. She wondered if her homeowners’ insurance covered something like this. Her day-care insurance covered the children in case of injury in her care, but another adult?
“I don’t need your money. I have insurance,” he grumbled, raking his casted hand through his hair. The sticky medical gauze got caught and he winced, pulling it free, taking with it several strands of dark brown hair. “Man, I can’t do anything with this thing on my hand.” Turning, he took quick, long strides out of the room.
She followed him into the hallway. “Mr. Walters, wait.”
He paused on the staircase, clearly exhausted.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, crossing her fingers behind her back. Please say no.
He hesitated, and she held her breath.
Shaking his head, he continued up the stairs. “No.”
* * *
LOGAN STRUGGLED TO position his hand on the desk, straining the fingers on his right hand to reach the keys on the laptop keyboard. The edge of the cast hit the space bar and he raised his arm, flinching in pain, and backspaced to where he’d left off typing. Flipping the page of his handwritten work, he tried to focus on something other than the pain in his arm. He could do this. He hit a few keystrokes and grimaced. With each letter, his wrist spasmed and pain rippled through his arm. The extra weight of the plaster cast made the muscles in his right shoulder ache.
Tossing the papers aside, he stood. How was he supposed to meet his editor’s deadline like this? The writer’s block had been bad enough; now he was physically incapable of getting the work done on time. Picking up his cell phone, he punched in his agent’s number. The man had called him three times already today, and now there would be no more avoiding him.
“Clive Romanis,” the man answered in his strong New York accent after the second ring.
“Clive, it’s Logan.”
“Hey, man, where are you? I’ve been calling you. You were supposed to email me those sample chapters two days ago.”
Logan cringed. The promised chapters hadn’t been written yet. Another reason he’d had to leave the city. It was easier to avoid his agent when he wasn’t living two blocks from his office. “Yeah, sorry, I left the city for a while to clear my head, get this book finished.”
“What do you mean you left the city? Where did you go?” The man’s voice barely contained his disbelief. Clive wasn’t truly convinced that there was anything beyond the New York City limits.
“Just a small town in New Jersey. I wrote part of the first book out here. It’s quiet and peaceful,” he lied.
It used to be.
“New Jersey?”
“Yes.”
Clive released a deep breath. “Tell me this isn’t you running away from your commitments.”
“No, of course not.” Running away and needing to get away for a while were two different things, weren’t they?
“So you’re writing? You’re getting it done?”
“Yeah.... Look, I’ve run into a bit of a problem meeting the deadline.” His best bet would be to pack up, head back to New York and hire a typist. The thought made him uneasy. He never let anyone read his work before it was done, especially a stranger. Other than his agent and his editor, he never discussed plotlines with anyone. And with the comeback he was making, he couldn’t chance that the resolution of years of work would be leaked before the book even hit the shelves.
“Logan, we’ve pushed the deadline back twice now. If I ask for another extension from the publisher, they may postpone the release dates.”
Logan pushed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s ridiculous.” So he’d had a few years of a dry spell after the fourth book. He’d delivered book five to them on time. Book six was almost done. Sort of. If he could just figure out a conclusion.
“They’re nervous that you’re going to flake on them again. Truthfully, I’m not sure you won’t, either. I’ve pulled all the strings I can, Logan. If you don’t have the book on my desk in three weeks, they won’t release book five next month. You’re lucky your readers haven’t given up hope on you yet.”
“I broke my right hand,” Logan said with a sigh as he stood and paced the room again.
“Nice try, Logan.” His agent sounded discouraged. “Now I’ve heard it all from you. If you call me next week and say your dog ate the final draft, I’m walking.”
“Seriously, I broke it. It’s in a plaster cast and it’s useless.” Logan sat in the wooden rocking chair near the window, the painkillers they’d given him at the clinic, making him drowsy but not doing much for the pain. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair.
“How far along are you?” Panic had crept into the older man’s voice.
Logan hesitated. If he told the truth, that he no longer had any idea where the plot was heading or how to end the entire series, the man might drop him as a client. “Far enough from the end that I can’t possibly type it all with only one good hand in three weeks.”
Clive let out a deep, slow breath. “Okay. This sucks, but we can still meet the deadline. Why don’t you check out that voice-recognition software? Some of my other clients use it and love it.”
“Uh-uh, forget it. The thoughts just don’t seem to flow that way. Besides, I doubt there’s a store nearby that would carry it, and ordering it could take a few days.”
“Well, get your butt back to the city and I’ll call a typing service. I’m sure they can have someone available within twenty-four hours.”
“I’m really not comfortable with that idea.”
“Now is not the time for your paranoia. Those people don’t even read, they just type.” Clive’s voice rose. “For that matter, Logan, I’ll come type it for you myself.”
The last thing he needed was the one person in his life who still believed in his talent to give up on him. He had to get this book finished. “No. I’ll think of something. I’ll get it done.” Logan rubbed his aching forehead with his good hand and stood.
“I need the finished manuscript on my desk by November fifth.”
“You’ll have it.” Logan disconnected the call and tossed his cell phone onto the bed. Walking to the window, he drew back the thick lace curtains for the first time. Through the fall leaves of the maple in the yard, he could see the day care lady next door, removing the children’s blankets from the clothesline.
He watched as she folded the blankets and laid them neatly in the basket.
She didn’t seem like someone who would rush to the media with the book’s ending. She probably hadn’t even heard of him.
As she put the plastic cover on the outdoor sandbox, he couldn’t help wondering about her. In the few days he’d been there, today had been the first he’d even noticed anyone next door. Years ago, he remembered the place being vacant. Now that the day care kids were gone, he didn’t see anyone else around—no husband? No kids?
His phone chimed and reaching for it, he read the text message from Clive. I need you to get this done.
Going back to the window, he scanned the yard next door, but she’d already gone back inside.
He hesitated. If he went back to the city now, Clive would be riding him for the next three weeks. The media and reviewers were already starting to hound him for interviews since the press release announcing the new book was sent out the month before. And being in his apartment without his daughter and worrying about her in California would be torture. He’d left the city for those reasons and they would be waiting for him when he went back.
He didn’t like any of his options, but asking the strange woman next door for help was probably the one he hated the least.
I’ve figured out a way, he texted back.
* * *
POURING A CUP of steaming apple cider into her favorite mug and grabbing a new romance novel from the counter, Leigh did a final scan of the kitchen. The high chairs were sanitized and set up for breakfast in the morning. Plastic plates and sippy cups sat drying in the rack on the counter, and the painting easel was set up with new finger paints and paper. Turning off the kitchen light, she carried her cider and book to the sitting area in the front of her house. The glass sunroom with the comfy rocking chair and ottoman and the bookshelf lining one wall was her favorite spot, especially in winter when she lit the fireplace. Fluffing a pillow behind her, she sat and opened her book to the bookmark. She scanned the page, rereading several pages. Ah...right...the scene where the hero and heroine finally acknowledge their feelings. Always her favorite part in a romance. Romances were supposed to make impossible situations work, and this one didn’t fail to deliver. If only real life were that way. She took a sip of her cider and snuggled deeper into her cardigan.
A few minutes later, a loud thud on the front door made her jump, spilling the hot liquid. She wiped at the wet spots on her dark leggings and oversize sweater, and set the book aside.
Another loud knock on her door made her rush to the entranceway. One of the kids’ parents? She didn’t recall finding any items left behind.
She stood on tiptoe and glanced through the peephole on the door as she unlocked the dead bolt, which seemed like overkill in Brookhollow but served to keep the children from getting out into the front yard.
Mr. Walters paced the front porch, his head down against the wind. What was he doing here? Come to yell at her some more? Serve her with a lawsuit for getting injured on her property? She opened the door with a sigh and placed a hand on her hip. “Look, I’ve already apologized—”
“I need your help,” he mumbled.
“Huh?” She hid her body behind the door, the cool air making her shiver. “With what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Typing.” He held up his broken hand.
She stared at him, trying to process his request. Finally she said, “I know I offered to help you, but the truth is...I can’t type.”
It was his turn to stare at her.
She shrugged helplessly. She’d never bothered to learn. She rarely used a computer. Had no real need for it, except to email or chat with her parents who were on one of their mission trips. All of her friends were within a stone’s throw of her house, so she didn’t need social media to reach them. Other than those weekly sessions with her parents, her computer sat untouched in the den. Surely, Logan needed someone more computer literate.
After several beats he said, “You have two operational hands. Anything you do will be better than what I’m capable of.”
“Don’t they have services that provide that kind of help for writers?” she asked, biting her lip. She’d been hoping to avoid him for the duration of his stay. She’d assumed he wouldn’t be in a rush to see her anytime soon, either.
“I wouldn’t need help if I hadn’t broken my wrist...helping you.”
“Well, I...” Leigh shifted from one leg to the other. Crap, crap, double crap. She knew she had to help—she had offered after all, but...
“I’ll pay you.” She heard his cool, distant desperation. The sound of a man hating the words coming out of his own mouth.
She hesitated, searching for a way out of this. Sure, she felt guilty, but since her divorce...she just didn’t want to spend time with a man this good-looking. Or any man, really. Didn’t want any possibility of romantic entanglements in her near future. “I don’t know when I’ll have time. I have the kids every day, during the day—well, Monday to Friday at least.”
Logan grimaced.
“Yes, I know how you feel about children,” Leigh said, rolling her eyes. Heartless man. Who didn’t love children? Most men her age were looking to settle down, have a family. Which was why she found herself single at thirty-eight.
Everyone in town knew about her inability to have a child.
The fact that everybody knew her personal failure—the one loss in her life she still grieved almost every minute of every day—was the only aspect of living in Brookhollow she didn’t like.
She didn’t blame the men for keeping their distance, though. Her own husband hadn’t been able to deal with her infertility.
“What about evenings?” he said.
Evenings. Her alone time...her books...her bubble baths...
“Please, Leigh.”
Exhaling slowly, she said, “Okay.” She would regret this. She just knew it.
“Thank you.” The words were choked out. Clearly, he didn’t use them often.
Opening the door a little wider, she said, “The kids are usually gone by five-thirty, so if you want to come over around six.”
Logan shook his head. “I was hoping we could work at the bed-and-breakfast. My stuff is scattered all over the place.” He paused when he registered her reluctance. “What?”
“You’re not from a small town, are you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t come over to your room at the bed-and-breakfast every night. Rumors would spread through town so fast.” Rumors kept Brookhollow alive with excitement.
Logan frowned. “Who cares what people think?”
“I do. You get to leave once your book is done.” She lowered her voice, “But I—” she pointed to herself “—live here.” Folding her arms, she said, “No way. In fact, my place isn’t really an option, either.” A handsome stranger entering her house every night...she could only imagine what her grandmother Norris would have to say if she found out.
For too long her life had been the topic of conversation in the local diner, beauty salon and just about anywhere people congregated in town.
“Well, where?”
Leigh considered the options. If he was trying to keep a low profile around town, there weren’t many. Finally she said, “How about the gazebo in the backyard of the bed-and-breakfast? It’s heated, with a picnic table and lighting, and it’s secluded enough in the back corner of the yard near all the big trees that no one will notice.”
“Outside?”
“Yes.”
“It’s October. It’s absolutely freezing once the sun sets.” Logan shivered to prove his point. “Isn’t there a library or something?”
“Just about everything closes around here at six. Besides, if you want to keep your presence quiet—a public place isn’t really going to work, is it?” She waited. If he wanted her help, they did it her way or not at all. She didn’t need anything or anyone complicating her life.
Logan let out a deep breath. “Okay, fine.” He stared down at his offending wrist, weighted down as it must have been by the plaster, and turned to leave. “Tomorrow at six in the gazebo.”
Wonderful. She prayed his book was almost finished. “Can’t wait.”
“Lying really isn’t your thing,” he called over his shoulder.
