From the Start (10 page)

“So what’re you going to tell Colton?”

“Hmm?”

“About the book. I know he asked you. He told me yesterday after church he was going to. You’re going to do it, aren’t you?”

So his request hadn’t been impulsive. He’d put thought into this. “Me? Write a book about football? A sport that interests me about as much as the periodic table.”

Raegan nudged her with her elbow. “Not about football. About him. I’ve heard you say a thousand times you wish you could write something real. Gritty and real life—those were your words. Can’t get much more real life than a memoir.”

She
had
said that. Over and over until she sounded whiny even to her own ears.

“Plus, think about the money.”

“The money?”

“Kate, he’s Colton Greene, not Joe Schmo peddling a life
story no one will ever buy because no one has ever heard of him. This would be a guaranteed bestseller.”

“He’s . . . he’s really that well-known?”

Raegan’s laugh was half chuckle, half snort. “Yes, he’s really that well-known. And from what I read on Google, he’s got the kind of life-turnaround story people love to read. Trust me.”

“You Googled him?”

“You didn’t?”

Life turnaround.

Money.

“Thing is, last time I wrote a book, it got panned. And all those rejections . . .” She turned to face Raegan. “Besides, writing a sports memoir is as far away from the kind of writing I’d like to do as what I’m already doing.”

But it wasn’t just that. It was . . .

It was Colton. Something about him—he unnerved her. He . . . she . . .

Fine, she was attracted to him, okay? Possibly for the first time since Gil, a man—one she didn’t even know, had only met three days ago—had captured and held hostage her attention. The way he interacted with Charlie, spent an entire day helping Seth, drove that ridiculous float, pulled her to him the other night at the depot . . .

The heat of the fire warmed over her cheeks.

There was an edge to him, too. An intriguing broodiness under the surface she’d sensed from that very first night in her bedroom. Without even trying, Colton Greene had done a number on her curiosity and her common sense.

And it scared her.

“Kate, how many times have we had this conversation? You talking about how dissatisfied you are with your writing. Wishing you could do something different, write something different?
But you never do anything about it.” Raegan folded her arms. “You’re the one who’s chosen to keep writing movies. And for the record, whatever you say, they’ve been great movies. Dad and I have watched every one. I’d bet money Logan and Beckett have, too.”

“They’re sappy love stories.”

“They’re heartwarming and fun. But that’s not the point. You could’ve switched gears at any time. You could’ve finished another book or gone and gotten a job writing for a nonprofit, or . . . or I don’t know. Now you’ve got an opportunity that could make your dream possible and you’re thinking of walking away?”

Raegan had never talked to her like this—never scolded her in such blunt terms.

“If you’re going to dream, Kate, commit to it. Don’t just talk about it.”

“Easy for you to say. You don’t even have—” She clamped down on the harsh words she never should’ve let escape.

Too late.

The bonfire crackled and together with the boney old oak tree overhead cast shadows over her sister’s face.

“Just because I’m not off in a big city with a big career like you and Logan and Beckett doesn’t mean I don’t have dreams.”

She tried to reach out for Raegan’s arm, but her sister stepped back. “I know, Rae, I shouldn’t have—”

“And even if I didn’t, I’d rather not have a dream at all than be too scared to pursue the one I’ve got.” And with that, Raegan turned and walked away.

Colton marched into Logan’s room. “I asked her to write my book.”

Logan dropped a pile of folded clothes in the middle of the floor. “Man, announce yourself, will you?”

Colton plopped onto Logan’s perfectly made bed—the corner of the top quilt folded over to make room for his pillow. Very Logan-esque. A suitcase lay sprawled open at the end of the bed.
Wait . .
 . “You’re packing?”

Logan picked up the clothes he’d dropped and set them in the suitcase. “Candidate got a last-minute fundraising gig and they need a speech on energy policy drafted by Friday.”

Hints of Logan’s childhood flavored the room—two walls painted bright red, a framed Iowa Hawkeyes poster hanging on the back of his closet door, a bulletin board over his desk barely visible behind ribbons and awards, photos and newspaper clippings. And on the desk, a photo of all four Walker siblings, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, and goofy faces pointed at the camera.

What would it have been like to grow up in such a close-knit clan?

“You work too much, Walker. You ever think of taking a real vacation?”

“Not sure that word’s in my vocab.”

The wry humor in Logan’s voice didn’t match the fatigue in his eyes. A better friend would’ve noticed Logan’s exhaustion before now—wouldn’t have spent so many months wrapped up in his own miseries, miseries that probably seemed more like luxuries to someone who’d lost a wife and never got a break for more than a couple days at a time.

Logan added a pile of socks to the suitcase. “So what about your book?”

But instead of answering Logan’s question, Colton flipped the suitcase closed. “How are you and Charlie doing? Really?”

His friend paused, shrugged, surprise registering in his
expression. Maybe, too, discomfort. Uncharted territory, this. Too often in the past, their friendship had been about Logan bailing Colton out of trouble. Had Colton ever taken the time to turn the tables?

“We’re fine.”

“You do realize
fine
is generally code for
horrible
?”

“Who says?”

“Everyone who’s ever said ‘I’m fine’ while feeling anything but.”

Logan rubbed one hand over the opposite arm, breeze fanning into the room from the open window, and then crossed the room to pull the chair from his desk. He sat backward in it, arms drooping over its back. “We are fine most of the time. Work is busy, but good. Charlie’s healthy and happy, has a great nanny. And her pediatrician said the not-talking thing can be normal sometimes for kids who don’t have older siblings to mimic.”

“But?”

“I’m burnt out,” Logan admitted in a low tone. “I barely see my daughter. I still have days when some random, stupid piece of my brain convinces me, just for a second, that Emma’s going to walk through the door. That she’s not really gone.”

He said it all without taking a breath. No pauses.

But Colton could feel the sharpness of his friend’s hurt all the same. If only he could find words to meet the moment.
Like Norah used to.

He sucked in a breath. Where had that come from? He hadn’t thought of his old social worker in a long time—her closet of an office, the easy way she’d had of rounding her desk, draping one ebony arm over his shoulder, and landing on just the right words.

“It’s going to get better. I have to believe that,” Logan said now. “Because I’ve got a daughter, and she’s going to have a good life, no matter what.”

“Of course she is. You both are.” The assurance seemed trite, lacking.

Seconds passed and Logan straightened. “Hey, you really asked Kate? What’d she say?”

“That she had to think about it. Probably means
no
, right?”

Logan swiveled in his chair for a few hesitance-filled seconds. “Kate could use a career break. Maybe this is the perfect thing for both of you. But . . . she’s my sister, Colt.”

His mouth went dry. “I know.”

“She’s got hurt in her past, and none of us want to see it repeated.”

Logan couldn’t seriously be implying what he thought he might be. “Dude, I asked her to co-write a book with me. That’s it. Besides, after Lilah . . .” He’d had enough with women for the moment. Too distracting. Case in point, that last game, the injuries he still iced every night. “You can trust me, Walker. Strictly business.”

Logan stood. “Yeah?”

Footsteps pattering through the hall sounded from outside Logan’s room. “Will you believe me if we shake on it? Spit in our palms and all that?”

“Unnecessary. And also gross.”

The footsteps stopped, and both men looked to the open doorway. Kate. Out of breath. “Hey. Hi.”

“Where’ve you been, sis? You smell like a fire.”

She ignored Logan’s question, gaze on Colton. “I’ll write your book.”

He stood. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “You’ll write my book.”

“I’ll write your book.”

“You’ll write my book.”

“I’ll write—”

“Sheesh, broken record, anyone?” Logan flipped open his suitcase. “This just in: Kate’s gonna write Colton’s book.”

“And it better work out well, because I just called and quit my job at the Willis Tower.”

Colton only grinned.

And was still grinning seconds later when Kate left just as abruptly as she’d arrived. When he finally turned, it was to see Logan drilling him with raised eyebrows.

“Like I said, strictly business.”

5

T
here was something soothing about painting a building. Sorta like watching the mowing of a football field. Rhythmic. Peaceful.

Five days in Maple Valley and Colton had started to get used to the slower pace. Especially in the past couple days of helping Case Walker at the depot in the mornings. Yesterday he’d spent almost the entire day working with the older man to strip peeling paint away and prime the walls for fresh color.

“Probably dumb to paint first, considering all the other repairs,” Case had said yesterday. “But sometimes getting something presentable on the outside makes braving the inside easier.”

Colton dipped his roller into the paint tray at his feet, then checked his watch. Two hours until he was supposed to meet Kate downtown. Their initial meeting to talk about the book. For the first time since he’d signed the contract with the publisher, honest to goodness interest in the project sparked through him. If he worked fast, he could get this wall done before heading out.

“Whoa, it really is Colton Greene, right here in Maple Valley.”

He froze, paint roller lifted midair, heard the tap of paint drops hitting his old running shoes as he turned. And then the snap of a camera.

So much for peaceful. A disgruntled cough rumbled up his
throat, and his displeasure must’ve shown on his face, because the woman with the camera took a step back and lowered her arms, expression stopping somewhere between awed and apologetic.

“Don’t worry, I only took the photo to prove to our sports reporter I actually met you. He didn’t think I’d have the nerve to track you down.”

Sports reporter? So she
was
media. And he’d thought he could escape all that hype tucked away in Iowa.

“You’re quiet.” The woman pushed brown bangs out of her eyes and dropped her camera into the bag slung over her shoulder.

“Actually I’m busy.” He turned, dipped his roller into the pan at his feet. Early afternoon sunlight glistened in the blue paint and reflected off the silver of the plastic pan.

“And curt.”

He didn’t miss the hint of surprise mixed with annoyance in her tone. And for a sliver of a second, guilt needled him. His mom may have died two decades ago, but time hadn’t dulled the memory of her voice drilling manners into him until “please” and “thank you” became second nature.

Even as a rambunctious kid, he’d been able to pull off polite when he needed to. Like during endless interviews with potential adoptive families—more often than not the look on his social worker’s face letting him know, good manners or not, it wasn’t happening this time either.

Poor Norah
. He hadn’t realized it back then, but he now had no doubt those going-nowhere interviews had been as hard for her as they were for him.

Weird, second time in a week Norah had come to mind.

Colton slicked blue paint over the rough wood of the depot. When the roller ran dry, he turned once more.