Here to Stay (Where Love Begins Book #2) (5 page)

Couldn’t they all. A lingering smattering of withered leaves scraped across the sidewalk. “That bad?”

He rubbed his chin, ruddy cheeks evidence of how many years the snack shop proprietor had spent at this window—taking orders and drawing laughs. A town fixture if ever there was one. “Truth is, I’m thinking I might need to close up come winter.”

“Aww, Petey.”

“Don’t look so sad, kid. The supermarket does carry ice cream, you know.”

“It’s not the ice cream I’d miss most.” She’d grown fond of her Saturday night chats with the man. In many ways, he reminded her of her dad—always a story to tell, always the life of a party.

Except not always. Not in the end.

Like her breath fogging in a cloud of white, the image of Dad’s face rose. Not the way she liked to remember him, but the way he’d been in those last couple years, especially the last few weeks before he died. Laugh lines dipping into frequent frowns, sapphire blue eyes—same color he’d passed on to her—more and more often darting and distant.

Time—almost fourteen years—had dulled the sting of Dad’s death, but not the effect of what she’d seen and overheard in those last days before the aneurysm that stole his life.

“
The last thing I want to do is hurt our
family, but I have to do this.”

“Nobody
has
to abandon his family.”

Silence.

Then, “
Fine, go get the
divorce papers drawn up. But don’t expect me to
step into your shoes here when you leave. I won
’t run this inn alone.”

Autumn blinked, shucking away the conversation she’d tried so many times to forget. If she could just pretend she’d never overheard, in her memories Dad could still be . . .
Dad
.

Instead of the man who’d once planned to walk away from his family. And Mom, the one who’d barely even fought him on it.

“Take the change, Autumn Kingsley.” Pete’s voice and the dollar bills he waved in front of her eyes crowded out the unpleasant memory.

“Okay, but only because I intend to come back next week with friends, just like you asked.”

“If I’m still open, I’ll be appreciative.”

Pete waved her off and slid his window closed, leaving her to her cone and a nearly deserted downtown. Her Jetta rested at the curb, but instead of slipping into the car, she opted for the gazebo. Might do to clear her head a bit. Enjoy the ice cream and the peace of a sleepy Whisper Shore. Maybe read a chapter or two from one of the books weighing down her purse.

After all, fall never held on this long into November. Tonight might be cool, but there was no snowy blizzard or sheets of ice forcing her inside. She should enjoy it while she could.

The crackle of wind through bare branches and the beat of a jogger’s footsteps through fallen leaves sounding from somewhere nearby were the only soundtracks to her walk through the square. Intent on reaching the gazebo, she angled around the evergreen that served as the town Christmas tree every year and—

“Whoa, lady!”

The smack came hard and fast. And . . . hard. Her cheek hit into a wall of a chest, and the impact flung her backward, sending her cone plopping to the grass, along with her purse. Her feet tangled beneath her, caught in . . . something. A dog’s leash?

The only thing that stopped her from going down was
the grip that shot out to catch her. Hands latched onto her arms, fingers warm and tight through the sleeve of her coat.

“Gotcha,” the jogger said as he caught his breath. A pair of paws bounded at her side. It
was
a dog. “Down, Kevin. Leave her alone.”

Blood, she could taste it. “My nose.” She lifted her hands to cover her face.

“Dude, you’re bleeding.”

“Dude, that’s very Sherlock Holmes of you.” Finally she looked up. Swallowed a gasp as her eyes met his. Though the evening’s dim light veiled his features, she’d have known him anywhere. The pang traveled from her nose to her heart.

Blake Hunziker . . . looking so much like his brother, it was uncanny—from the dark hair tamed by a rolled-up handkerchief to his height and broad shoulders.

If he weren’t a Hunziker, she’d have called him handsome, even in his track pants and running shoes, with a day’s stubble shadowing his face. Ridiculously long lashes rimmed his dark eyes.

He dropped his hands from her arms. While she stared, he swiped the handkerchief from his head, shook it, and held it out. “Here. For your nose.”

Her gaze passed from his offering to his forehead back to the handkerchief. “But you’re, uh . . . sweaty.”

“You really think my sweat is grosser than your blood?”

Good point. She accepted the handkerchief and held it to her nose. Hands on his hips, Blake only watched.

“I think you broke it,” she said, voice muffled by the cloth, which, amazingly, smelled less like perspiration and more like shampoo. The dog—skinny but looking freshly groomed—sat obediently by his side now.

“Here, let me see. I’m sure it’s not broken.” He bent his legs and tipped his head down until she could feel the warmth
of his breath on her face. He lifted his hand. “We didn’t hit that hard.”

“Wanna bet?” Autumn inched away, but his hand still connected with her face, fingers tracing from one side of her nose to the other. “I feel like I slammed into a brick wall.” But the man had a soft touch. She’d give him that.

“Then I guess my workouts are paying off.” He smirked. “Kidding.”

She’d have laughed if she weren’t so irritated. If he didn’t look so “I’ve just run across town and I’m barely winded.” If she didn’t have blood on her face and ice cream on her favorite coat.

With two fingers he gently prodded the bridge of her nose once more. “Not broken.” He tapped the tip of her nose and stepped back, a telltale crunch signaling the demise of her cone.

“Oh man. My cone, too.” And now his dog was licking the thing up. So much for a peaceful walk.

So much for avoiding Blake Hunziker.

“So. Autumn Kingsley.”

She lifted his handkerchief back to her nose. “I take back the Sherlock reference. You’re too slow on the draw.”

“Call me Watson, then.” His smile, flanked by annoying dimples, probably should’ve prompted her own. But how could he be so laid-back after all that had happened between their families? If the longtime business rivalry wasn’t enough, then there was the blame, the blowup before his brother’s funeral. Their own angry words the day she’d confronted him about Ryan.

“He has a problem, Blake. Ava is convinced—”

“You want to talk about problems? Ava’s the problem
.”

“I recognized you the second we hit, Kingsley,” he said
now. All casual, no hint of the past heckling him like it did her. “We did go to school together for twelve years, after all.”

“Ten. You were two grades ahead of me.”

“Fine.” His expression turned quizzical. “Why were you eating ice cream when it’s forty degrees out?”

She blinked. “Why are you wearing a T-shirt?” One that stretched taut over threaded muscles she wished she didn’t notice. No wonder that TV star had picked him for her fake husband.

“Because if I’m cold, I’ll run faster,” he said wryly, then reached down to pick up her bag. “Man, what do you have in here? Cement?”

“Books, if you must know.” Because while he might have the luxury of traveling the world on his family’s dime, some people had to live their adventures in the pages of a novel.
Not anymore, though.
It was so, so almost her turn.

“Well, what’s the haps? How are things at the inn?”

He really wanted to do this now, play catch-up while her nose bruised and his dog slurped up
her
ice cream? “Things are fine.” She reached for her bag and slung it over her shoulder, refusing to wince at the weight of it.

“Nice job on the ambiguity.”

“Wow, the man knows big words.”

Blake’s half-grin floated between amusement and curiosity. “Since I’m sure you’re about to ask, I’m fine, too. Just peachy. Running . . . clears my head.”

Something, maybe his slight pause or the flicker of uncertainty he probably thought he hid under a teasing exterior, pointed her to the realization then: He remembered just as much as she did.

But he was trying to look past the past, wasn’t he?
Six years doesn’t
erase what happened, Blake.
And yet . . .

She grasped for a softer tone. “
Ice cream
clears my head. And books.”

He glanced down to where his dog was finishing off the last of her cone. “Can I buy you another?”

“No, thanks.” She lowered the handkerchief once more and tested her nose with a wrinkle. “So . . .”

“So.”

“Welcome home. I heard there was a party.” See, she could do friendly, too.

“Oh yeah, it was a wild one.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Though I think half the people in attendance actually thought it was a party to welcome home my parents from their vacation, not me.”

“Can’t believe I wasn’t invited.” As soon as she said the joking words, her lips pressed. She’d meant the comment lightly.

But the sudden swell of tension, the tick in Blake’s jaw, her own hard swallow told her they’d both had the same thought.

Of course she wasn’t invited.

Because Kingsleys and Hunzikers didn’t mix. The one time they’d tried—her sister, his brother—it’d ended in hurt and a shock deep enough to impact the whole town.

Blake’s dog jerked on his leash, paving the way for his sudden and stilted, “Well, have a good night.”

Her forced nod.

His retreat.

And
that’s that.

Autumn let out a deep exhale as she watched Blake’s walk turn into a run, his dog keeping pace as he crossed the square. She looked down to his handkerchief still in her hand, stuffed it in her coat pocket, and sidestepped the remainder of the sticky mess on the grass.

3

T
he beat of the basketball against the gym floor matched the drumming of Blake’s heart.

And here he’d expected to easily school Tim Jakes in their half-court one-on-one match. But the small-town cop, his old best friend, had kept up his game in the years since they played last. Blake had run into Tim last week, the same day Hilary had waltzed him into the city offices and offered him up as Whisper Shore’s saving grace.

What a joke.

With one hand, Blake swiped at the sweat across his forehead, while the other dribbled the ball.

“I’m going to call shot clock if you don’t move soon, Hunziker.”

Tim’s razzing drew a smirk. “What, scared?” With the kind of footwork their old coach would’ve loved, he swept past Tim and landed a jump shot. “46–43.” Fifty ended the game. A couple layups and he would claim victory, then guzzle a gallon of water while his calves screamed at him.

Along with his brain. Because sooner or later he’d have to give Hilary, not to mention Dad and the rest of the city council, an answer as to whether he’d take on the Christmas festival in Georgie Snyder’s stead.

Right. The guy who’d broken his arm after falling out of a tree and earned a nickname by setting accidental fires. And, oh yeah, who was still the butt of late-night-talk-show jokes. That’s who Hilary wanted fronting the town’s biggest event of the winter season.

What had he been thinking even staying in the room when she pitched the idea to Dad?

Okay, so he knew what he’d been thinking: Pull this off and the good people of Whisper Shore might finally have something nice to say about him. After all, if things were really that bad in town . . .

Focus on the game.
He could figure out his future—and that of his hometown—later.

Tim moved in, Blake guarding him, arms outstretched. But in a flash, Tim backed up behind the three-point line and released the ball. It swished through the net to tie the score.

“Nice.”

Gulping in breaths, Tim followed him to the line. “So Hilary and your dad asked the city council to name you the new festival coordinator. Never would’ve imagined my thrill-seeking friend as an event organizer.”

Blake kicked the kinks out of his legs. He might seriously regret this game later. “They all but laughed in Dad’s face.”

Blake had attended the meeting with his father Monday night, dressed in his best, even though he’d never actually agreed to Hilary’s plan. He’d even shaved for the occasion. But he might as well have shown up in jeans and a hoodie for all the serious consideration they gave him.

At first.

But then Hilary had jumped in, cut right to the kicker—a little tidbit she’d failed to spring on him earlier. “He’s a media draw, folks. Practically a celebrity.”

And just like that, while he sputtered on his water, the
tables turned. Suddenly they wanted him—lock, stock and tabloid-weathered barrel.

“So you’re doing it?” Tim asked now, knees bent in guard position as he waited for Blake to make his move.

Ball balanced in the crook of his arm, Blake eyed the hoop. “Not sure.” Instead of finishing the explanation, he dribbled and drove into the paint.

Two baskets later he closed the deal. Tim shook his head as they lugged themselves to the side-court bleacher. Blake covered his head with a towel, shaking the perspiration from his hair. Dude, he needed a cut. Definitely a shower. “Good game, man.”

“Yep.” Tim flicked his towel against Blake’s leg. “Okay, finish the story. What happened at the meeting?”

Blake cleared his throat. “Well, by the end of it, they offered me a full-time job—Georgie’s job at the Chamber—if I can pull off the festival.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I know. Seemed crazy to me, too. And I have a high tolerance for crazy.” But that’s exactly what they’d done. Hilary had mentioned his business degree, his work ethic, his availability. But the magazines she plopped on the table—all of which had his name in a headline—were what sealed the deal.

He’d wanted to crawl under the table or pull a “Beam me up, Scotty.”

“Wow, they must really be desperate,” Tim said now.

He smirked. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Timmy.”

“Gonna do it?”

“Dunno.” It would’ve been one thing if they’d asked him to consider the decision based on his experience. After all, he’d led tours through the Amazon, taught ski classes in the Alps. He knew a thing or two about recreation, working with people, even tourism. He’d handled budgets in past jobs,
too. And the year he’d spent working for that mega lodge in the Rockies had included obtaining corporate sponsorships for some of their bigger hikes and events. He actually
was
qualified for the job.

But no, the city wanted him for his face. His recent history.

And yet, his misgivings couldn’t entirely wipe out the thoughts urging him to at least consider it. Because what if he could finally do something right? Earn back the respect of a town he’d never stopped thinking of as home?

“Truth is, I actually feel like I could do a good job at this festival thing
if
I had a few months to pull it off. But how am I supposed to organize it in three and a half weeks?” Blake lifted his water bottle.

Tim rapped his knuckles on the metal bench. “I’ve got it. Get Autumn Kingsley to help you.”

He sputtered. “Good one.” He’d told Tim earlier about running into Autumn over the weekend. How he and Kevin had practically run her down. He’d left out the part about the tension razoring through their brief encounter.

“I’m serious. She’s been Georgie’s volunteer right-hand person at the past few festivals.”

“Our families are like Whisper Shore’s own Hatfields and McCoys. My dad was just spouting off about her mom the other day—something about a state tourism grant request she tabled. Name one good reason I should ask Autumn.” Well, besides the fact that he’d forgotten how pretty the younger Kingsley girl was. Even in the dark, he hadn’t missed that. A sideways grin slipped out at the memory of her feisty blue eyes lit up by the light of the streetlamp.

“She knows how to coordinate events, for one. This town loves her, for two.”

But she’d croak before agreeing to work with a Hunziker, wouldn’t she?

“Just ask her. You never know.” Tim said.

Except that he kinda sorta did. Especially considering the way she’d looked at him Saturday, like it was just yesterday she’d come to him and told him about Ryan’s prescription-drug addiction.

“
Ava
doesn’t think you’ll listen to her. She asked
me to tell you. You’re his brother. Do something.”

Eventually, finally, he had. The wrong something.

“You know, one of these days, you’ve got to let it go, Hunziker.”

He blinked, Tim’s voice yanking him back to the present, to the gym where Ryan had once been crowned homecoming king. Was he so see-through?

“Not that easy.” So far from easy, it made planning the Christmas festival look like a cinch. “Tim, do you, uh . . . you keep in touch with Shawn at all?”

Shawn Baylor had been Ryan’s best friend. And the only other person in the plane the day Ryan died.

Tim loosened the laces of his Nikes and straightened. “Not much. He . . . keeps to himself. And I hear he and Hilary are going through a rough patch.”

Blake sucked in a breath.
Shawn
was the AWOL husband Hilary had been talking about? His two friends had married—and separated—in his time away . . . and he hadn’t even known it. He closed his eyes, feeling the guilt as keenly as if he’d been the one to pull them apart. And maybe he was. Maybe that’s why Hilary had bristled when she first saw him.

Maybe Shawn had never gotten over what he’d seen that day.

Just like Blake.

“Do
something.”

The memory of Autumn’s plea all those years ago mixed with the image of Hilary’s just the other day.

He stood, chucking off the weight of memories like a practiced shot putter. “You really think Kingsley would help?”

Tim glanced up and shrugged. “Maybe if you ask nice. And call her by her first name.”

Why could she never manage a staff meeting as well as Mom used to?

“People, please!” Autumn waved her clipboard to quell the excitement spreading through the inn’s dining room like lava, burning up what was supposed to have been a productive after-dinner meeting. So maybe making the bold pronouncement that they were going to be hosting the most important guest the inn had ever had wasn’t her most brilliant idea ever. Should’ve eased into the news.

“Do something,” Harry hissed from the chair next to her. “It’s like someone spiked our coffee with catnip.”

This must be what preschool teachers felt like.

They were a small but unruly crew—some of the ten staff sitting at the largest dining room table, others perched higher on the stools around a couple tall cocktail tables. The faint tones of Michael Bublé filtered in from the kitchen. Oh, for the calm in his smooth-as-glass voice to infect her staff.

Autumn nudged up the sleeves of her unbuttoned green sweater and forced her voice a notch higher. “Our guest is
not
a movie star. He’s
not
on television. And, for goodness sake, he’s
not
Pat Sajak.” She cast a faux stern glance at Uri, their part-time swing-shift deskman.

“Hey, it was a valid guess.” He shrugged from where he leaned against the cherry-hued wall. The man’s creased face gave away his distance past retirement age. Autumn had a feeling that since his wife’s death last year Uri continued working more out of loneliness than anything else.

One more reason her plan to woo Dominic Laurent had to work. She loved Uri, this whole crew, and each one needed the job. The pressure of the responsibility heated through her, and she tugged off her sweater, wrinkled white shirt underneath, with its wrap belt tied at the side.

“Autumn?” Harry snapped again.

“Okay, I know we’re all antsy to call it a day, but we’ve got more to talk about.” She spent the next twenty minutes explaining who Dominic Laurent was, why his visit was so important, what they needed to accomplish in the next two and a half weeks in order to impress the man. Amazingly, something resembling calm and attention settled over the staff as she spoke.

“So the more we can all pitch in, the better. If you’ve got downtime, find me or Harry and we’ll give you a project.”

Despite her earlier warmth, a twinge of cold tingled over Autumn’s bare feet. She curled her purple-painted toes inside her flats. It might still look like fall outside, but with December moving in by week’s end, it was time to tweak the thermostat. And probably reacquaint herself with her sock drawer.

Behind her staff, the dining room’s bay windows ushered in the grays and blues of the evening’s moody weather. “Does anybody have any questions?”

The sole member of the inn’s housekeeping staff raised her hand.

“Yes, Charlotte?”

“If we need Mr. Laurent’s investment this badly, I can’t help wondering . . .” Charlotte pushed her silver braid over her shoulder. “What happens if he doesn’t invest? We’ve all noticed business hasn’t exactly been booming.”