Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (22 page)

She should be dancing inside with the thrill of this evening—a chance to wear a pretty dress, play host to friends, show off her inn looking better than it had in years. Thanks to Blake.

And that would be the reason for the emotional undertow keeping her from floating joyfully on the surface of the night’s fun.

“Ell . . .” She turned from the window. “Do you think I’m going to like France?”

Ellie pulled out her ruby earrings. “Like it? Honey, you’ve been talking my ear off about it ever since Sabine e-mailed you the job description. I’m still a little ticked at her for pulling you away from me. And yet, what kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t want you to chase your dream? You’re not rethinking the move, are you?”

“Oh no, it’s just . . .” With each day she checked off on the calendar, subtle concern joined the swirls of excitement about her upcoming move. There were things she’d miss. People. The pillowy comfort of familiarity. The way temperamental Lake Michigan greeted her every morning. “Just reality setting in.”

“You’ll probably have a little homesickness when you get there. You might have moments of wondering what you got yourself into. But then you’ll go up the Eiffel Tower. You’ll take a bus out to Versailles. You’ll catch a train some weekend to Spain. And the doubt will fade away.

“’Course, all the rest of us back at home will miss you like crazy.” Ellie reached for Autumn’s hand and dropped in her earrings. “Here, these will pull your whole outfit together.”

“But they’re yours.”

“Believe me, I won’t miss them.” She slipped off her matching bracelet. “This too. There, perfect. You are going to be the belle of the ball.”

Autumn smoothed her angled bangs over her forehead. “You do realize I’m technically working tonight, right?”

Ellie stepped back, surveying Autumn’s ensemble. “Just out of curiosity, which of the guys do you most want to impress? The foreign one with the cute accent and the investment dollars or the handsome hometown prodigal?”

Autumn stepped out of one shoe and rubbed her foot. “Ellie Jakes, Dominic Laurent is a guest. I never fraternize with guests. Especially not ones I hope to form a business relationship with.” Although, it was odd that after several days, Dominic still hadn’t said a word about the inn. He’d simply greeted her before heading out each day. Complimented Betsy’s meals and the view from his suite.

But nothing of a professional nature. Oh well, maybe he preferred to experience their amenities extensively before talking business.

“I just thought perhaps you’d noticed that he’s got that suave and mysterious thing going for him.” Ellie sat on the bed. “Blake, of course, is about as mysterious as an apple, but still—”

“Ellie.” She didn’t even know if Blake still planned to come tonight. Not after the way he’d looked at her when she told him about France.

“There’s something different about Blake these days, though.” Ellie continued, apparently oblivious to Autumn’s pinched reaction. “He’s focused and determined—still a little quirky, yes, but with a good heart. And when he’s not working on the festival or beating my husband at basketball—or whisking you away to Illinois, for that matter—he’s here at the inn. Almost as if he’s getting a little . . . attached?”

Autumn squeezed back into her shoe. “He does like this place. He keeps giving me ideas for improvements. Yesterday
on our drive he was telling me about this reservation software the hotel uses.”

“I wasn’t talking about the inn, and you know it.”

So maybe she did. So maybe she knew exactly what Ellie hinted at.

But what Ellie obviously overlooked was the teensy little existence of the ocean that would soon separate Autumn from Blake.

They’d connected, sure. Found a surprising friendship while working, yes. But as soon as she’d dropped that bombshell last night about her upcoming move, everything had changed.

And that . . . was that. No need to dwell on it.

“Come on, Tzeitel, let’s go join the party.”

Ellie stood. “Reference?”

“
Fiddler on
the Roof.
Let’s go before I start singing ‘Matchmaker, Matchmaker.’”

When they emerged from the room, Autumn balanced herself with a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. Even from the second floor, the smell of the chocolate fondue bar wafted, sweet and enticing. The brassy jazz of Benny Goodman’s “Santa Claus Came in the Spring” provided the backdrop for chatter below.

Autumn leaned close to Ellie. “If I fall down these steps and break my neck, promise me you’ll name your baby after me.”

Ellie’s laughter stopped her at the top of the staircase. “If I can make it down the steps with a stomach the size of a watermelon, you can walk in those pumps. Sway your hips and you’ll be fine.”

Autumn stepped down one stair, ankles folding, and grabbed on to the railing. “The hips are not helping. The hips are not helping.”

“On second thought, take off the shoes until you make it down the steps.”

“Good call.” Autumn stepped out of the shoes and sighed in relief. When they reached the bottom of the staircase, she dropped Ellie’s shoes to the ground, eyes searching the crowd for any sign of her mother and sister.

“And here I thought maybe you were going barefoot.”

Her focus lurched to the right.

Blake. The bruise still shadowed his eye, but the way his shoulders filled his black shirt, together with light gray pants and a striped tie . . . Well, she could admit it. The man looked good.

And he’d come. Despite the way they’d left things . . . he’d come.

She blinked, grasped for nonchalance. “You try walking down stairs in heels like these and see if you don’t give up, too.” In place of Benny Goodman’s jazz, Ella Fitzgerald and Ray Charles now bantered to the tune of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” Not all that fitting, considering the summerlike warmth in Autumn’s cheeks.

Blake’s gaze traveled from her shoes to her face. “Did you know seventy-five percent of spinal injuries are due to high heels?”

“I’m a little disturbed you know that,” Ellie said. “I’m going to go find my hubby. And a chair. My five minutes of standing are almost up.”

“He’s over at the fondue bar,” Blake called after her, then turned back to Autumn. “Totally made that stat up, by the way.”

He would. “Sorry I didn’t make it to the meeting with Frankie and Benj this morning. But after being gone all day yesterday, there was so much to do here.” She lowered her voice. “Although the one thing I wanted to do, catch Laurent for a conversation about the inn, didn’t happen. He was gone all day.”

Blake’s already dark eyes dimmed. Was he thinking of last night, too?

“Listen, Blake, about last night . . .”

He held up his hand. “Let’s not rehash it. I’m glad you told me.” He hesitated. “And . . . as your friend, I’m happy for you.”

Friend
. The word shouldn’t taste so dry.

“Besides, tonight’s your night, Red. Let’s just focus on now.”

But see, when she started focusing on now, that’s when she let herself get attached. That’s when
friend
didn’t feel good enough. “Well, um, I guess I should mingle some.” She took a step back, wobbled, and his arm shot out to catch her.

“Whoa, careful. What’s bothering you? Nerves?” He looked down with a rakish grin. “Or the shoes?”

He still held on to one arm. “Both.” Her answer came out a squeak and his eyes returned to her face. And why was her stomach going all knotty on her?
Friend.

“Don’t worry, Red. Your party is going to be a smashing success. As for the shoes . . . Here.” He held out his elbow. “Just hold on. I won’t let you fall.”

He’d kept his promise.

Through twenty minutes of fluttering through her crowd of guests—a few moments chatting with Petey from the Snack Shack and his wife, small talk with the ladies from the Chamber of Commerce, catching up with people she hadn’t run into for weeks—Blake stayed at her side. Sometimes balancing her by the elbow, sometimes simply moving in sync with her, as if they were partners in a waltz.

“Pshaw, we’re not charging you for our services.”

They stood with Larry Hinkle from the local radio station
now, talking about the AV he’d agreed to provide during the run of the festival. Blake stood close enough she could smell the musky fragrance of his aftershave.

“Now, Mr. Hinkle, we have a budget. We’re definitely going to make sure you’re compensated.”

“Nothing doing, Blaze. Displaying our station banner at the AV table is compensation enough. That and the work you’ve done on this thing. It’s about time someone stepped up and shook this town out of its slump.”

By the time the man walked away, he’d offered to run PSAs every day leading up to the festival

Autumn tipped her head up. “Blake Hunziker, you are incredibly good at charming whoever you talk to. Any longer chatting with Larry and he’d have asked you to be the new station manager.”

“What’s this? A compliment from a Kingsley? Almost don’t know what to do with myself.” He turned to face her.

“Seriously, you could make a career out of schmoozing people.”

“So I should go into politics?” The lights of the dining-room chandelier danced in his eyes. “It’d be a short-lived career if I didn’t have my right-hand Red with me.”

“A compliment from a Hunziker? Almost don’t know what to do with myself.” She hugged one arm over her torso, feet rooted to the floor. Without her arm hooked through Blake’s, she didn’t feel nearly as stable.

“As long as we’re at it, you look stunning tonight. Should’ve said that earlier.” Blake cleared his throat. Oh, and a tint of pink found its way to his cheeks. If that wasn’t the best thing she’d seen all night . . .

He cleared his throat again and pushed out a funny-sounding chuckle. “If you think I’m a good schmoozer here, you should’ve seen me as Mr. Randi Woodruff. We had to do
these interviews, talk shows and stuff. I practically had people eating out of my hand. I make a good fake husband if I do say so myself.”

She grinned up at him. “You’re so humble, too.”

“Indeed. But anyway, this all just goes to show, we make good partners.”

“Who would’ve thought?” She tried to inject a teasing tone into her words, but instead they came out tinny and timid. “Uh, listen, I need to duck into the kitchen and see if Betsy’s about ready to serve dinner.”

“Gotcha. I’ll be around.”

As she moved toward the kitchen, she caught sight of Dominic Laurent over by the fondue table. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to him yet, but he wore a look of satisfaction. That was something, right?

She pushed her way into the kitchen. “Hey, how’s it going in here?”

A cloud of warmth enveloped her, tantalizing aromas lifting from the oven.

“I’ll be ready in five.” Betsy wore a black sequined dress under her white apron, matching headband holding her short hair back. “Taste test?” She held out a frosting-coated spatula.

“Don’t mind if I do.” The taste of chocolate added an extra layer to the sweetness of the night. One of Betsy’s two waiters brushed past as Autumn perched on a stool. “If I could live in a house made from this frosting, Bets, I would. ’Course, then I’d earn a reputation as a woman who licks her walls, which would be weird, but also cool in a Willy Wonka kind of way.”

Betsy giggled, arranging plates of layered cake garnished with strawberries and drizzles of white-chocolate sauce on a platter. “You’re in a mood.”

“The party’s perfect. Everything’s perfect.”

Almost perfect. Still no Mom. No Ava.

“I’m glad. Oh, Lucy’s going to help serve, if that’s all right with you. Lem went home sick.”

“Awesome. About Lucy, not Lem.”

“And I decided to serve beets instead of zucchini.”

“Check it.” She licked off the last of the chocolate. “And gross, by the way.”

“Just seeing if anything would phase you. I know how much you love beets.”

“You could’ve said you were replacing the tomato-basil chicken with fish eggs and I’d have been happy. Because like I said, everything’s going—”

The back door swung open.

“If that’s Lem, I told him not to come back if he’s still sneez . . .” Betsy’s voice trailed as the figure stepped into the kitchen.

Ava. Wearing a floor-length skirt and ruffled shirt and a tentative expression.

Autumn hopped off her stool, at once happy yet hesitant at the sight of Ava in an outfit that was as dressy as her sporty sister got. She’d always had the model looks of the family but, much to Mom’s constant chagrin, tended to hide her lithe figure under athletic clothes and her whitish-blond hair under baseball caps.

“Ava, you came. You could’ve come in the front door, though.”

Ava wore her hair in her usual ponytail, but strands escaped on both sides, framing her face. “We weren’t sure . . .”

We?

And then Mom appeared behind Ava, wariness etched across her face. But . . .

“Wow, Mom, you’re here.”

Mom brushed past Ava, burgundy dress swishing around her legs. “Of course, I’m here. Wouldn’t look right not to be.”

Mom’s tone didn’t signal any delight at what the rest of the night held, but her presence, for the time being, was enough. Ava’s too. There was hope for their little trio of a family yet.