Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (4 page)

Less than twenty-four hours home and he’d already found a way to annoy his father.

At least, Blake assumed that was annoyance written in Dad’s creased brow and wordless response. The airplane keys, brick-heavy in Blake’s thoughts since Dad presented them last night, now splayed on the glass-top desk between them alongside a silence that expanded like the years since their last real conversation.

Then, finally, “Too much, too fast?”

At least the regret in Dad’s voice assured Blake his parents had meant the gift as just that. A gift. Not a purposely torturous reminder.

Blake leaned forward in the leather chair facing his father, palms on the knees of his jeans. “It was a generous gesture, Dad.” Which might be the understatement of the decade. “But I don’t fly anymore.”

The heady aroma of espresso from the machine in the corner of Dad’s office niggled Blake’s stomach. Shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, but he hadn’t wanted to put this off.

After six years, he’d lost his taste for avoidance.

Dad pushed aside a folder bearing the Hunziker Hotel logo on the front and fingered the ring of keys. “All you ever used to talk about was having your own plane.”

“Used to. Not anymore.”

Dad abandoned the keys and pushed his chair back from his desk, sighing with the movement. “You did all that training to get your commercial license. Went to work with that skydiving crew right after college.” His pause stretched, strained and uncertain. “If this is about Ryan—”

“Of course it’s about Ryan!” Blake’s words toppled out before he could control them, hands sliding off his knees and exasperation wheezing through him. Did Dad really have to ask?

Dad stood then and, with the same slump in his shoulders Blake remembered from Ryan’s funeral, shuffled to the
espresso machine. Linus Hunziker looked nothing like a mayor or successful business owner as he refilled his mug—only a still-grieving father with no idea how to respond to his leftover son.

A flurry of wind rattled against the window behind Dad’s desk. The gray and cold that’d had Blake ducking into the high collar of his windbreaker as he walked to the hotel earlier seemed to seep inside now. It matched the office’s sharp, angled furniture and chrome accents—a contrast from the building’s charming brick exterior that blended in with the rest of the downtown.

Dad turned. “Then what’s the plan? If you won’t fly for the hotel, then . . . what?”

Over the years Dad had insisted there was always a place for his sons at the hotel. While Blake had never fully committed to the idea, he knew Ryan had planned to eventually move home and help with the family business.

After his football career, of course. The one tragically cut short. All because of Blake’s thirst for fun and adventure. Which is why it made sense to leave all that behind, settle down.

“Well, I do have that business degree. Thought maybe I could put it to use here at the hotel.” He paused, tracing the stitching along the edge of his chair. “I want a normal life.”

He’d never put the desire into words before. Possibly because he’d never had the desire before. Before his brother’s death, all he’d ever craved was a good thrill. After, all he’d wanted was to forget.

Now he simply wanted . . . to belong. To have a purpose. Something to convince him there was a reason he was still alive when Ryan wasn’t.

“A normal life, huh.” Dad’s expression hovered somewhere between irked and amused. “Is that why the first thing you
did when you came back to the States was play house with a celebrity? Do you have any idea how many media calls we’ve fielded since returning home?”

Really? He was still that much of a public curiosity? “Dad, I—”

“Never mind. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” Dad gulped down his espresso and set down the cup with a thud. “Next to our dying tourism trade, your short-lived stint as a celebrity is the most popular conversation piece in Whisper Shore, and frankly, I’m tired of my son being the talk of the town.”

Whether Dad intended or not, the verbal punch landed right where it counted—the wound still smarting from the stares and hushed murmurs at Ryan’s funeral.
He was the one flying the plane.
Suddenly coming here this morning—coming home at all—felt all kinds of ridiculous.

But he’d been so sure the whisper urging him home had been a divine nudge. God directing his path or something. Then again, maybe he was just as bad at this faith thing as he was the living-a-normal-life thing.

“And,” Dad went on, still standing, glancing at his watch, “I’m supposed to meet a council member at the city offices in ten.”

In other words, he was dismissed.

Dad straightened his metallic gray tie and reached for his faded leather briefcase, the one he’d carried for as long as Blake could remember.

“Son.”

The word was enough to pull Blake to his feet.

“Walk with me.”

The invitation seemed a peace offering for an argument they hadn’t even had. Which was one more reminder of how long he’d been away. Dad had changed, mellowed. And Blake had missed the transformation.

He followed his father from the office, reminding himself of Kevin just then—a little worse for the wear but eager to please in his own limping way.

Which reminded him, the wayward dog needed a bath. And real dog food instead of table scraps. He still couldn’t get over the fact that Mom had let the mutt in the house last night.

“You mentioned an interest in working at the hotel.” Dad spoke with a sidelong glance as they trekked toward the lobby. “Truth is, I don’t really see you behind a desk.”

“Oh.” Shouldn’t surprise him. He’d suffered through grade school about as well as a grounded bird. But that was then. He’d changed, right?

“I could probably put you at the front desk a few days a week, though, if that’s what you want,” Dad finished.

Blake’s gaze circled the lobby as they passed through. It shined with contemporary fixtures and an upscale aura—slate-colored walls a match for the slew of suits that passed through the hotel on a daily basis. May not have the lakeside view of the Kingsley Inn, but it made up for it in modern appeal.

And when the revolving doors spit them outside, it was like stepping into another century. The cobblestone Main Street echoed old-world, with corner flowerpots and old-fashioned lampposts. The downtown made up of colorful buildings wrapped in perfect right angles around a faded-green town square dotted with trees.

Whisper Shore had quaint in the bag.

Except, in the light of day it all seemed a little . . . tired. And what had Dad said about the dying tourist trade?

“You coming?” Dad was several steps ahead, the short walk to the city offices barely a two-block span. Blake tugged up the zipper of his jacket and picked up his pace to match his father’s, sandals he still hadn’t traded for shoes slapping against concrete.

“So do you want me to stick you on the front-desk rotation?”

“Not if it means cutting someone else’s hours.”

Dad shrugged. “Actually, we’ve been a man short ever since Casey’s wife had a baby. He’s going to be a stay-at-home dad, and—”

Dad broke off as they neared the teal blue historic building that housed the city offices, its brass sign swinging in the wind from a horizontal post overhead. A voice Blake recognized rose with each beat of the sign’s movement.

“Georgie, you can’t do it to us. We’re barely a month from the festival.” Blake would have known his on-again, off-again high-school girlfriend anywhere, even without her telltale Kawasaki parked at the curb. Hilary Gray—arms folded, lips pursed, and hair as black as the leather jacket zipped to her neck. “You can’t just leave us in the lurch like this.”

She faced off with another familiar face—Georgie Snyder, longtime director of the Chamber of Commerce. Known as much for her penchant for lawn decorations as her militant-like leadership of every community event since, like, the dawn of time.

What was Hils doing arguing with the Flamingo Lady?

“I have given this town my undivided attention for years.” Georgie shoved a stack of folders toward Hilary. “I’m not calling off my plans just so I can coordinate a festival nobody’s going to show up for anyway.”

Dad exhaled an “Uh-oh” before stepping up to the ladies. “What’s the trouble?”

Hilary turned to Blake’s father. “Oh good, you’re here. Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

“You won’t change my mind.” Georgie pulled on the belt of her coat. “I’m eloping on Sunday and leaving town Monday. That’s all there is to it.” She spun on her heels and disappeared around a corner before Dad could say a word.

Blake let out a whistle. “The Flamingo Lady’s getting hitched?”

Hilary saw him then, eyebrows lifting and arms tightening around the folders Georgie had thrust at her. “So the rumors are true. Blaze Hunziker’s back.”

Her voice held little welcome. Even less pleasure.
Ooo-kay.

Dad still stared down the sidewalk. “No wonder you called me to meet with you, Hilary.”

Wait,
Hilary
was the city council member Dad had come to meet? The girl who’d worn the label of
rebel
like a badge of honor in high school was now in local government?

“We’re out a festival coordinator, which basically means we’re out a festival, which absolutely means we can say good-bye to our final tourist boost of the year.” Hilary’s dark hair swung as she shook her head.

Blake chanced a comment. “Couldn’t you just . . . get someone else?”

Hilary drilled him with a glance. “The festival is less than a month away.”

Dad’s sigh matched the rustling wind. “And this on top of Victoria Kingsley once again . . . ” He took a breath and, at Blake’s questioning glance, shook his head. “Nope, she’s not my biggest problem now. The festival is. Hilary, I’ll make some calls. Son, we’ll talk later.”

Blake nodded, and Dad slipped into the city offices, leaving Blake to face Hilary’s stony silence . . . and wonder what the Kingsley family had done now. At least one thing hadn’t changed.

The overhead city office sign continued its rhythmic creaking as Hilary glared at him, stack of folders still pressed against her.

“C’mon, Hils. I just got home. At least throw me a
welcome back.”

“Fine. Welcome back, Blaze.”

An old truck rumbled by, tires bumping over cobblestone and motor grumbling. “Sorta trying to shake the nickname.”

“Not gonna happen. Not here. So, why’d you come back? Couldn’t find another celebrity to take up with? What were you thinking, anyway?”

“Long story.” One he was starting to believe he’d never hear the end of.

“Not really. You faked a marriage with a TV star. Then she outted you when she fell in love with someone else.”

“Thanks for the recap. So you’re on the city council?” Gnarled leaves skittered over the sidewalk and between their feet.

She nodded. “Second year of my first term.”

“Which means worrying about things like town festivals?”

“Not just me worrying—it’s the whole town. Have you seen how many storefronts are empty? The festival was supposed to give us an end-of-the-year income boost. Instead we’ve lost the coordinator and now we’re literally going to have to cancel Christmas. Meanwhile, I’ve got an AWOL husband and two boys at home who can’t figure out why Mom’s such a mess.”

“You’re married?” And a mom? Sheesh, everywhere he looked he was finding evidence of what he’d missed.

“Separated.”

“I’m . . . sorry.” So Blake wasn’t the only one whose life had veered off course. Whatever the shade of loss, the stain was just as permanent. “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

Quiet rippled through the square, through its empty gazebo and massive centerpiece of an evergreen. A frosty late-autumn chill still blanketed the morning, the sidewalk under his feet shiny.

Hilary faced him then, looking from Blake to the stack of
folders in her hands back to Blake. Her slow grin took on an impish flair—finally a hint of the Hilary he remembered. “Maybe there is.”

Cold crawled up the sleeves of Autumn’s navy blue coat as she dropped a five-dollar bill on the high window counter of Pete’s Snack Shack. Only the twinkle of stringed bulbs around the little building and the glow of streetlamps lit the town square.

“Keep the change.”

Grinning down at her from his perch, Pete held out her ice cream cone. “Not a chance, kid.”

“Come on, Petey. You deserve it. You’d already turned over the
Closed
sign when I got here, and I
know
I’m the only one who orders ice cream in November. You keep a supply just for me.”

Autumn clutched the waffle cone with gloved hands. She fully intended to call Mom tonight. The news of her departure might be better delivered in person, but since Mom spent half her time traveling around the state these days, it was easier to catch her on her cell.

But Autumn needed reinforcement in the form of sugar to fuel her willpower. Something told her it wasn’t going to be a fun conversation.

She nudged the five across the counter. “The least I can do is tip you.”

“The least you can do is bring a few friends next time.” Pete winked, but she didn’t miss the hint of sincerity in his suggestion. Wind flickered through his gray-and-white mustache as the man spoke. “I could use the business.”