Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (27 page)

Autumn brushed the flour from her shirt. “W-what are you doing here? Raiding our pantry?”

Blake crossed his arms, his navy blue shirt stretching across his shoulders.

“I was not raiding your pantry. I brought my own flour, thank you very much.” Which he’d very obviously dropped when she’d very obviously surprised him.

“How Betty Crocker of you. But why?”

He stepped aside, arm gesturing to the counter behind him. She stepped over the powdery puddle at their feet to survey his spread. Skillet. Eggs. Butter. Sugar.

“Crepes, Red. I was going to make you crepes.”

“Crepes.”

Blake sighed, ruffling the flour out of his hair. “The other day you said it’s one of the things you couldn’t wait for . . . for France.”

Her eyes flitted to the creased paper on the counter—a recipe, one he must’ve printed from the Internet. She spun around to face Blake, badminton racket still dangling from her hand.

“I felt bad about abandoning you at the rink.”

“If this is how you do apologies, you should ditch me more often.” And after the day she’d had, his gesture felt all the weightier. She almost hugged him—even let herself picture it for an undisciplined moment: arms around his neck, chin against those ridiculously broad shoulders and forehead brushing against his scruffy cheek. Warmth trickled up her neck and into her face.

Suddenly the phrase “be still my heart” made all kinds of sense. “I, um, I . . . thank you,” she finally forced out, then lifted her racket. “Guess I don’t need this.”

“Impressive choice of weapon, though.”

“I thought you were a burglar.”

“And you were going to attack me with that? Gutsy, but maybe consider a tennis racket next time.”

She thwacked him—lightly, laughing—then abandoned the racket to the flour-covered floor.

“So how clean is the floor? We’ve missed our five-second-rule window.”

Even after her ruining his surprise, he still wanted to make the crepes? She should back out, use her need for sleep as an excuse. Because every hour spent with the man was one more challenge to her ability to think logically—
I’m leaving, he’s staying, it wouldn’t work
.

But the words wouldn’t budge from her throat. Not with his slightly crooked smile flashing her way and a streak of flour across his cheek. Instead, her feet carried her toward the pantry. “No worries. We’ve got all-purpose flour, bleached, non-bleached, whole wheat.”

“Not whole wheat,” Blake called after her. “I’m all for healthy eating, but
not
defiling crepes.”

Autumn returned with an unopened bag. “How’d you know I’d still be here?”

“Your car’s in the lot.

Blake cracked two eggs into the bowl. While Autumn watched, he added flour, milk, water, a pinch of sugar and salt, then whisked the mixture. “You’d make Betsy proud.”

“I like to cook. I can make lasagna that’ll have you feeling like you’re in Rome sitting across the table from . . . um, some famous Italian. I can’t think of any. Mussolini?”

Autumn leaned over the counter. “He was a ruthless Fascist. And he was executed.”

He dropped a dab of butter into the skillet. “Please don’t tell me your book collection includes a biography on him.”

“Mussolini’s favorite drink was a strawberry sherbet frappe. Doesn’t sound very dictatorial, right? And near the end of World War II, someone was supposedly lynched by
an anti-Mussolini mob just because he ordered the man’s favorite drink.”

Blake pointed a spatula at her. “Okay, you seriously need to get out more.”

“What? I like reading biographies. I like learning about other people’s lives, what makes them tick. I picture myself in their shoes.” She leaned her chin on her fist. “I’d like to live a life worthy of a biography.”

Blake stirred the batter. “You don’t think you already do?”

She chuckled. “Um, no. Not a biography. Not even a . . .” She stopped.

“What?” He used a measuring cup to pour the thin, whitish-yellow batter into the skillet.

She slid onto a stool. “Well, my dad took thousands of pictures in all his travels. He had shoeboxes full. And I remember when I was kid, sitting by him while he sorted through all the photos, organized them into piles and years, filed them into photo albums.” The albums still lined one of the hallway shelves in Mom’s house. “Some evenings he’d pore over those pictures for hours, entertain Ava and me with all his stories.”

Blake looked up from the skillet, his eyes like dark chocolate, sweet and serious at once. “And you don’t think you’ve lived a life worthy of a photo album.”

He’d seen right through her. Did he have that ability with everyone . . . or just her? In the skillet, the batter crackled, tiny bubbles popping to the surface. “Let’s just say I’ve never gone to scrapbooking night at the church.”

She tried to infuse her voice with lightness, but it didn’t blot out the intensity of Blake’s study. She moved from the counter, looking for a broom to clean up the floor. And before he could carry the conversation further, “Want to tell me what happened at the rink today? Why you left?”

“Nope.”

“Blake.” She swatted the broom at the white powder covering the floor.

He ignored her, slid a spatula underneath a paper-thin crepe, and flipped it. It landed with a slap, and he gave a self-satisfied smile. “Hey, if my city job doesn’t pan out and Betsy ever quits, you should hire me.”

She stilled her broom and leaned against it. “You’re not going to answer me, are you.”

“The reporter bugged me. That’s all.” He reached for a banana.

Had to have been more than that. But as she watched him peel the banana, slice it into perfect rounds, she got the sense all the pushing in the world wouldn’t make a difference. And maybe this, tonight, was as much about Blake distracting himself as apologizing to her.

The thought pulled at her heart. Blake carried more hurt inside him than he wanted anyone to see. If he wanted to ignore it, she’d pretend she couldn’t hear the pulsing of his pain. Autumn finished sweeping while he flipped another crepe.

Then they worked together to slather Nutella over the thin pastries and dot them with sliced bananas before rolling them up. Blake plopped hers on a plate. “You first. Take a bite and tell me it’s a masterpiece.”

She bit into it—sugary bursts of perfection. Swallowed. “Whoa. Uh, yeah, masterpiece.”

Blake nodded. “Good.”

“No, like, for real—masterpiece.” She pointed to the plate. “This is what you should be famous for, Hunziker. Not a silly fake marriage or town festival. I’m going to call that reporter and tell her about your crepe-making skills. Headline worthy.”

She offered up the playful compliments through another sweet bite. But why wasn’t Blake smiling? She was on her third bite when he spoke.

“She asked about Ryan.” Blake’s eyes were fixed on the counter top, but clearly it wasn’t speckled granite he saw. “She asked about Ryan, and just like that . . . I was there.”

Autumn swallowed, the crepe’s sweetness melting away under the heat of Blake’s honesty. Understanding swept in, and she set the pastry on her plate, debated less than a second before placing her palm on his arm. She felt the tick of his muscle at her touch.

“I thought it was what Ryan needed. Even though I did everything right—made him get a doctor’s okay before we went up. You know, his knee injury and all.” He raked his fingers through his hair, leaving a streak of white from flour. “What an idiot—worried about his knee when really . . .” He turned to her, downward gaze fastening on her. “He was such a mess. And I took him up in a plane and told him to jump.
I told him to jump.”

“Blake—”

He spun away from her. “The second he stepped out the airplane door, I knew. Don’t know how, but I did. And then Shawn . . .” He leaned over the counter, hands latching onto the edge and head down. A shudder rippled down his back.

And her heart split. She was at his side in a moment, one arm reaching behind him and her cheek finding his shoulder. She brought her other hand to his chest in a steadying side hug.

He took a shaky breath. “Oh, God, I wish I could take it back. He needed help, not a stupid, reckless—” He broke off suddenly, shifting into her embrace, arms crushing her to him. Autumn tasted the salt of her own tears as they stood there, Blake’s breathing heavy enough to tell her he was trying so very hard to hold on to the last of his defenses.

Just let go,
Blake.

She ran her palm up and down his back, wished for words
to take away the pain. How could she have ever blamed Blake for all that’d happened? What kind of fool pointed fingers at a man like this, tenderhearted and hurting and—

He lifted his head, breath warm on her face, but arms loosening around her.

And something in her dreaded the release. “Blake—”

“Please don’t say it wasn’t my fault.”

It came out a desperate whisper, halting her response and pulling her in until she did the only thing she could think of. Stood on her tiptoes, tilted her head . . . kissed him. Once . . . and then again, one hand finding his face, her thumb sliding over his cheek.

And then his hold tightened once more, and he kissed her back with a fervor that both scared and thrilled her.
Such a mistake. I’m
leaving.
But she couldn’t pull away. Her hands locked together behind his neck, and she melded to him.

Maybe
I don’t have to go.

The thought thumped through her at the same time as a cell phone blared into the silence. It was enough to thrust them apart, their shared surprise so tangible she could almost hear it along with the ringing of Blake’s phone.

He pulled it from his pocket and checked the display. He jerked it to his ear. “Hey, Mom. Aren’t you usually asleep by now?”

Autumn watched as the color drained from his face, his obvious alarm spreading to become her own.

“I’ll be right there.”

15

W
hy did her bedroom smell of bleach? A pang traveled through Autumn’s neck and down her shoulders, but she couldn’t make her eyes open.

You’re not in your bedroom. You
’re at Mom’s. . . .

But no, she wasn’t there either, was she. Something jabbed her arm, and she realized it was her own knee. Why was she all pretzeled up?

Autumn forced her eyes open. The bright lights of the hospital waiting room fuzzed into view. Vinyl-backed chairs and waxy plants peppered the room. And she’d somehow slept through the low drone of the television hanging in the corner.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Autumn untangled her limbs, straightening in her chair, the voice behind her not registering. She rubbed the back of her neck, then turned as the woman sat down next to her.

Francie Hunziker. Though her hair was pulled into a neat braid and her clothing unnaturally unwrinkled, the tiredness in her eyes spoke of the long night she’d spent in the hospital.

“Um, is it morning?”

Mrs. Hunziker pointed to the clock above the waiting room’s one window. “If you count four thirty a.m. as morn
ing, then yes, it is. I still consider it the middle of the night, but I’m strictly a night owl. Blake is our resident early bird.”

Autumn hadn’t talked to the woman in years, though she sometimes caught glimpses of her on Sundays. They attended churches located just across the street from one another. Every once in a while Autumn had pulled out of Christ Community’s lot just as the Hunziker SUV waited in First Church’s drive.

How many times over the years had she silently chastised the Hunziker family? Wondering how the same family who’d publicly humiliated her sister sat in church Sunday after Sunday.

Her conscience needled her now for her harsh judgments. “How is Mr. Hunziker?”

“He’s as stubborn as ever. Woke up an hour ago and insists he’s ready to go home. We’re so grateful—it was a very minor heart attack.”

Autumn felt her breath release. “Oh, I’m glad. I didn’t know if . . .” Her voice trailed as she thought back to last night. How long had she stayed awake waiting for Blake to reappear in the waiting room? The last time she remembered looking at the clock, it had been after one a.m.

“You mean no one gave you any kind of update?” Francie shook her head. “Blake came out here once, around two, and I assumed . . .”

She must have already been asleep. Though, come to think of it, she’d dreamt of someone holding her hand, breathing her name . . . kissing her forehead? Maybe it hadn’t been a dream.

“Well, good then. I was sticking around last night just to make sure everything would be okay. I guess I should be going.”

Autumn reached for the purse she’d been using as a pillow,
but Francie’s palm on her arm stopped her. “Let me go get Blake. I’m sure he’ll want to see you out.”

And suddenly the events preceding last night’s rush to the hospital came racing back in. Blake baring his heart. And that sizzling kiss.
Kisses.
Oh goodness, just the thought sent shoots of heat straight to her toes. Did Mrs. Hunziker notice the blush that surely had to be breaking over her cheeks?

And then he’d gotten the phone call. His face had gone white.

“I have to go,” he’d said, thrusting his phone in his pocket and yanking the skillet off the stove.

“What’s wrong?” She abandoned her broom.

“My dad. Heart attack.”

He lunged for his jacket, thrown over the back of a chair, and started for the back door. She’d followed, not bothering to ask if he wanted company for the drive.

They’d left the place a wreck of spilled flour and burnt crepes. She should get back to the inn and clean it up before Betsy arrived and sprained a muscle at the sight of her kitchen.

Autumn stood. “I really should get—”

“Frankly, I’m almost more worried about Blake than I am Linus.”

Autumn paused, purse pulled only halfway over her shoulder. Francie stared at the TV. Her eyes glazed, and biting her bottom lip, she suddenly looked less the put-together wife and all the concerned mother.

Autumn lowered back into her chair, and at the movement Francie shifted her focus from the TV to the window. “He looked exactly the same last night as he did the day we picked him up after Ryan’s accident. Pure shock and . . . shame. As if it were his fault. . . .”

Autumn’s emotions curled, past and present swirling into one. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the tears now pooling
in Francie Hunziker’s eyes, but suddenly all Autumn wanted was to find Blake. To make sure he was all right. To gather up all the hurt he’d ever felt and force it away.

Francie shifted in her seat, knees turned toward Autumn. “Why couldn’t we see then how much he hurt? Ryan was already gone. All our attention should’ve turned to the son we had left. Instead . . .” A sob gurgled up her throat. “We let him feel like he was to blame. Everyone, this whole town and his own family and . . .”

Ava. Her mother. Autumn.

The truth of it slammed through her. Oh, sure, unlike Mom and Ava, she’d gone to the funeral. But she’d given Blake the scorching looks. Even without words, she’d contributed to the weight he carried—the hurt he’d exposed last night.

“I’m certain he knows you don’t blame him. And he knows you love him, Mrs. Hunziker. He came back, didn’t he?”

Francie pulled a Kleenex from her purse and dabbed her eyes. “But he’s not the same person. He’s caged up his free spirit. He’s still taking on responsibilities that aren’t his own. And he has no idea how desperately he’s loved. No silly town festival or job or whatever misguided sense of the picket-fence life he thinks he needs could possibly add any more to that love.”

“So maybe you should tell him that. You’ve shown him your love by throwing him a party and giving him a plane and when Linus talked the city into considering him for a job. But maybe he needs to hear the words.”

Francie stilled then, smudged mascara raccooning her eyes until another swipe of her tissue cleared away the color. “From the mouths of babes.”

“Huh?”

“Wise words, dear.”

Oh. “Well, I’m twenty-eight, so I’m not sure I’d call myself a babe.”

“My son sure would.”

Autumn’s jaw dropped at Francie’s droll statement, especially on the heels of such emotion. But the woman’s lips spread into a slow smile, despite the left-behind trails of her tears.

“I, uh . . .” The exit sign over the waiting room doors flickered and buzzed. Words gummed in her throat. “I really should get going. I left the inn a mess. Would you tell Blake I’m praying for you guys?”

Francie nodded as she stood. Autumn rose, and when Francie opened her arms, they hugged.

“Mom? Autumn?”

Blake.

She saw him over his mother’s shoulder and pulled back. Disheveled hair, wrinkled clothes.

Francie glanced over her shoulder, then back to Autumn. “You know, dear, it may not be a bad idea to take a dose of your own advice.” And then she turned, footsteps tapping as she moved down the corridor to Blake. Their brief words carried.

Linus was awake. He was asking for her.

And then Blake moved to Autumn as his mother went back. “Sorry you were here all night. I should’ve taken you home or something.”

“I drove, remember?”

He looked to the floor, and she followed suit, her blurred reflection staring back at her from the waxed surface. There was last night between them. There was the oddity of her being here with his family. There was his mother’s statement.

“Take a dose of your
own advice.”

As in, use words? But to say what? Any words she might offer would be tangled in a knot of confusion and uncertain feelings.

Except not as uncertain
as you think.

Because Autumn could deny it all she wanted, but it didn’t change the truth embedded in the whispers in her heart. Last night had been about more than comforting a hurting man. It’d been about her own desire, too.

Blake raked a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe the festival starts tonight. There’s so much to—”

She stopped him with her hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it all.”

Because, Lord help her, she cared that much.

He should’ve seen the signs. Why hadn’t he seen the signs?

The monitor beside Dad’s hospital bed pulsed, its numbers and lines Blake wasn’t entirely sure how to interpret—and yet his anxious glance returned to them time and again in between staring at Dad.

Dad with the tubes in his nose and the IV in his arm.

Dad with the sallow skin and disheveled silver hair.

Dad who had been inching toward this heart attack for months, according to the doctor.

And Blake hadn’t seen it.

His legs ached, and he stood, stretching, forcing himself to look away from the monitor.

Earlier, Dr. Trainor had said, “He’s going to be fine as long as he slows down and modifies his diet. In fact, he should be able to go home tomorrow afternoon. Or, well . . .” He glanced at his watch. “Make that today.”

Mom had listened calmly, taking notes and probably already formulating a new dietary regimen for Dad. It wasn’t until the doctor left and he’d downed an entire cup of coffee—the first time he’d ever made it more than a few sips into the beverage—that he’d remembered Autumn.

He’d found her curled in a waiting-room chair and spent twenty minutes sitting at her side. He leaned over once to brush the hair from her forehead and press a kiss in its place.

She’d barely stirred.

“Francie?”

Dad’s voice, raspy and weak, now sounded from the bed.

Blake dropped back into his chair. “Mom went out for a couple minutes, Dad, but I’m here.” It was only the second time his father had awoken. “But I can go get her.”

“That’s okay.” Dad shifted, turning his head toward Blake. “So I’m still here.”

“And will be until this afternoon if Dr. Trainor has his way.”

“He forgets I serve on the hospital board. If he . . .” He paused, waiting for his breath to even. “If he wants funds for that second X-ray machine, he’ll release me when I say I’m ready.”

For the first time since Mom’s phone call, Blake smiled. “My father, playing dirty politics.”

“And I’m not even ashamed of it. Hand me that glass of water, will you?”

Blake reached for the water and waited as Dad took a drink, then replaced it on the stand next to his bed.

“So I’m going to be okay?”

The monitor continued its rhythmic tune. “You are. Mom may never let you eat bacon again, but you’re going to be okay.”

The tease filtered from Dad’s face. “I need you to do something for me, Blake. I was supposed to meet with Dominic Laurent this afternoon.”

A groan rolled up from Blake’s stomach. He still hadn’t found a way to tell Autumn about Laurent.

No, instead he just lost it on her last night . . . then kissed her like a man starved. He didn’t even know what to feel about that. Awkward? Embarrassed?

Thrilled?

Dad shifted against his pillows. “I don’t want to put him off—not when we’re this close to closing the deal. I need you to take the meeting.”

His father was in a hospital bed. Of course Blake would do anything he asked. But why this? Why the one thing that was sure to disappoint Autumn?