Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (2 page)

After more than half a decade playing adventurous nomad, was it pathetic that coming home felt like the bravest thing Blake Hunziker had ever done?

Blake turned his car onto Cedar Lane. The years away might’ve reshaped him, but it hadn’t changed this street. It was the same as ever. Bony trees casting craggy shadows in the early evening dim. Brick houses rising from expansive lawns, manicured hedges walling each property. The ashy scent of someone burning leaves.

“All right, Kevin. This is it. Last house on the right.”

The mutt in the passenger seat only tipped his head, his straggly brown-and-white hair flopping over his eyes.

“Dude, you need a haircut more than I do.” It’d be a miracle if his mother allowed the dog in the house. But Blake hadn’t been able to leave the mangy animal where he’d found him, stranded along the highway a good fifty miles from Whisper Shore—skinny and limping. He’d stopped by a couple vet’s offices along the way, leaving his contact information in case the owners turned up.

Which had been a pretty good procrastination effort if he did say so himself.

Blake parked in his parents’ driveway, exited, and rounded
the vehicle. He jabbed one arm into the open trunk of his inherited cherry red Firebird—would it never stop feeling like Ryan’s car?—and pulled out his duffel bag, the one that had seen more airports than he could count. He slung it over his shoulder, closed the trunk, and moved to the passenger door.

“Okay, Kev, you get to hang out here for a little while. Just until I see how this is going to go down.” He unrolled the window a bit to provide Kevin some air and turned, hesitant resolution thudding through him as he covered the distance to his parents’ front door, behind which he’d probably find his father’s steely eyes and his mother’s disappointed frown.

Because surely they’d seen the interviews when they returned from their international vacation. The tabloid covers. Headlines.
TV Host’s Husband Exposed
As a Fraud.

Yep, he may only have been back in the States himself for a few months, but it had been . . . an eventful few months.

A restless wind whooshed over his skin as he reached the door. The hair curling out from under his stocking cap tickled the back of his neck. Was it just him, or was the lion’s head doorknocker glaring at him? Like it, too, was angry at Blake for skipping town and taking so long to make his “triumphant” return.

Well, I’m here
now, Aslan.

No roar in reply, only the sound of Blake’s knock puncturing the quiet. And his heart performing a Riverdance routine. He shifted as he waited, his duffel bag jostling against his thigh. Another knock. Another impatient shuffle of his sandal-clad feet.

Note to self: November.
Cold. Shoes.
Finally he shrugged, grasped the doorknob, and pushed his way in.

And then stopped two steps into the house, greeted only by the dark marble-floored entryway. What little sun lingered
outside the front door did him no good. Someone had drawn the curtains.

Okay, pause. He
had
called to tell them he was arriving today, right? His mother had answered. Said they were home from their African safari. He hadn’t hallucinated that whole conversation, had he? Did they really care so little that he was finally coming home?

“Hello?” He croaked the word, and his bag thudded to the floor. “Helloooo.” Singsong this time, sounding like the kid he used to be and not the almost-thirty-year-old playing reluctant prodigal.

A creak. A whisper. And before Blake could make a move, the lights came to life and people, so many people, erupted into cheers, spilling into the entryway from the dining room to the right. His gaze hooked on the
Welcome Home
banner hanging from the base of the second-floor balcony.

And Mom and Dad, standing in the center of the room. Smiling like . . .

Like he hadn’t once destroyed their world and then from it, disappeared.

“Whoa.” It came out an awed whisper as someone hit the stereo—smooth Miles Davis, his father’s favorite. Hands patted his back, chatter sprinkling the room as the party fanned out.

“Son.”

Linus Hunziker stepped forward. His linebacker frame had slimmed since Blake saw him last. The silver that once streaked his temples now covered his head. And when had his father traded in his classic leather shoes for something out of an orthopedic catalogue?

Blake met his father’s eyes.

The lines etched around Dad’s mouth deepened as he grinned and grasped Blake’s hand. “Don’t ask. Someday
you, too, will fall prey to a bossy podiatrist.” The handshake turned into a full-blown hug.

Blake stepped back, numb disbelief finally wearing off. “I can’t believe . . .”

Mom squeezed in then, nudging Dad out of the way and throwing her arms around Blake’s neck. Almost laughably diminutive compared to Linus, Francie Hunziker barely came up to her son’s shoulder. Though small, his mother had a fierce side to her. One flash of her brown-almost-black eyes and she’d been able to silence her sons at their wildest. “Hey, Mom,” he said over her head.

Dad wound his arm around Mom’s shoulders when she moved to his side. Blake pulled the hat from his head, raked his fingers through his shaggy hair—a self-conscious move. He’d expected anger. Maybe tears from his mother. If not because of his disappearance after his brother’s funeral, then at least because of his latest stunt. The one that landed him on TV and made his name a household laughingstock.

This . . . happiness? So not in his crystal ball.

Miles faded into a hush, replaced by the brass of Sinatra’s “Come Fly With Me.” Someone, maybe one of his father’s employees, clapped his palm on Blake’s shoulder as he scooted past, aiming for the buffet table edged against the base of the open staircase. “Welcome home, Blaze.”

His father chuckled at the use of Blake’s nickname—the result of one too many accidental fires over the years. The sparklers. The metal travel mug in the microwave.

“I don’t get it,” he finally sputtered. “I thought—”

“Whatever you thought, let it go. Your mother and I couldn’t be happier you’re home. Lose the duffel and enjoy your party.”

So many questions somersaulted through his brain. Didn’t they wonder where he’d been all this time? Why he’d finally
come home? What had possessed him to agree to last month’s celebrity charade? Emotions—too many to name—pressed in as this place, so familiar and forgotten all at once, blurred Blake’s mental vision.

Home. Ryan. And Frank Sinatra telling him to fly.

“Want something to eat?” Mom’s voice cut in.

His stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He glanced down at his holey jeans. “I should run upstairs and change first.”

Linus reached for the duffel and placed it over Blake’s shoulder. “Hurry down.”

Blake nodded, then wove through the crowd, returning greetings and smiles. He took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, his sandals flopping against each step.

Music and voices faded as he walked past the doorways to the room he’d called his own for the first eighteen years of his life. Twenty-two if he included the summers he’d spent at home between college semesters.

On a different night he might’ve trailed to a stop outside Ryan’s door, let a rush of memories whisper over him—maybe even wished for a ghost of the older brother he still missed.

But something had changed the moment the lights flickered on downstairs, when he’d heard pride instead of punishment in his father’s voice. Reluctance morphed into pulsing determination.

In his old room, posters and basketball trophies had been replaced with generic prints and whatever knickknacks Mom must’ve tired of seeing elsewhere. He pulled a pair of wrinkled khakis from his bag. A white collared shirt, too. Closest he had to dressy.

Maybe this whole not
-
living-out-of-a-duffel thing would stick.

Maybe he could finally be the son his parents had lost.
The man Ryan would’ve been. Work at Dad’s hotel, settle down. Meet the right girl—as in, not a celebrity, not a fake relationship.

Not that pretending to be a DIY celebrity’s husband hadn’t had its fun moments. He’d agreed to the crazy scheme solely to help Randi Woodruff attempt to save her television show,
From the Ground
Up
. And honestly, it’d been pretty cool watching her pick up the pieces when the lie of a life she’d built for herself came crashing down.

She’d changed. Found love, the real thing. And faith. Most of that didn’t make it into the tabloids, though. And now, almost a month after moving out of Randi’s home, the whole thing felt a little like a dream. Well, except for the lingering swirl of media interest—which he’d mostly managed to dodge during the past couple weeks.

But what if he could find the same things Randi had—new life, freedom from the past, the kind of identity he could be proud of rather than a reputation shadowed in shame? It was that hope that’d prodded him home even when worry about his family’s—the whole town’s—reception crept in.

Blake traded in his sandals for a pair of leather shoes he found in the closet and soon after descended the staircase. The chandelier overhead cast a whitish yellow glow over the heads of his parents’ guests. What were the chances they’d invited anyone under fifty-five?

The clink of silverware against glass stopped him at the bottom of the stairs. Dad lifted his arms to quiet the attendees. “All right, as everyone can see, my son has rejoined the party.” His father motioned to him. “Come over here, Blake.”

But Kevin was still in the car. He’d hoped to slip out and free the dog. Blake rubbed one hand over his stubble-covered chin, catching the look of anticipation in Dad’s
eyes. Kevin could wait a few more minutes. He moved to his father’s eyes.

“Most of you know Blake has spent a fair amount of time traveling. For a while he led excursions in the Rockies. Then for the past five years he’s globe-trotted so much,
Lonely Planet
should hire him. You’ve probably also heard about his more recent, um, exploits.”

Dad paused to allow a sprinkle of polite laughter.

“Blake’s an adventurer. And while Francie and I might have appreciated a few more postcards over the years”—Dad gave Blake a pointed look—“we’re overjoyed at his return. So I’d like to present him with a gift. Delaney?”

As in Ike Delaney, Blake’s old flight instructor?

Dread wormed its way under Blake’s skin as Ike moved to the center of the room, something jingling in his hands. The pilot’s smile—friendly, exuberant—jarred Blake’s confidence.
No,
Dad didn’t . . .

“The keys to your Cessna 206. A six-seater with a custom paint job. Took the liberty of naming it
: The Blaze.”

Chuckles spread through the room as Ike pressed the keys into Blake’s hand.

“Now, this isn’t a toy. It comes complete with a job offer—private pilot for the hotel, providing air shuttle for our high-end guests.”

His father continued his speech, all gusto, no notice of Blake’s heavy breaths. His fingers curled around the keys, metal digging into his palms.

He couldn’t make out Dad’s words, heard only the roar of wind from an open airplane door. The hum and growl of the engine. Panicked words from his brother’s best friend. And his own silent prayers as he scanned the skies from the cockpit, knuckles white on the controls, begging God to let him be wrong. . . .

Nothing.

A slap on his back yanked him back to his parents’ home. His father’s voice. “Well, Blake, what do you have to say?”

She’d shrug it off. Dylan’s cancellation. Blake’s return. Just shrug it all off.

From the inn’s front porch, Autumn watched Dylan’s Lexus motor down the lane toward the road that would lead him south to town and out of sight. So they wouldn’t be hosting their wedding reception here. So what.

She turned, jiggling the front door’s finicky handle and hefting open the massive door. “So we won’t be getting a new storm door anytime soon—that’s what.” Or new siding. Or fixing the cracks in the dining room ceiling.

From the check-in desk, Harry waved her over as soon as she tripped into the lobby. He’d zipped back inside earlier when they’d heard the phone ringing, leaving Autumn to say her awkward good-bye to Dylan.

A wash of orange sunset spilled through long windows, painting mint-green walls bold and glinting over the waist-high wood wainscoting. The lobby was flanked by a fireside sitting room on one side and the dining room on the other. A wide, open staircase divided the lobby.

Harry gestured again, phone propped against his ear.
Right.
He’d said something about a reservation.

“No, we don’t have an indoor pool, but—” Harry offered her a helpless shrug as the person on the other end of the line started talking again.

See, this is why they kept losing guests to the Hunziker Hotel. Because apparently a spectacular view of Lake Michigan couldn’t compete with the downtown hotel’s spa and
indoor pool and oh-so-sturdy roof that probably wouldn’t leak if a monsoon hit town.

“Unfortunately, no, it hasn’t snowed just yet, but I can certainly try to put in a good word with Mother Nature.” Poor Harry was definitely not winning this phone call. Which meant her inn was definitely not snagging this guest. She breathed her dozenth prayer for snow, for guests, then plucked a bottle of Old English and a rag from behind the desk.