Like Never Before (5 page)

Alena used the edge of her shirt to dust off his laptop. “Whatever you say, boss. Though I think it'd be funny if you pared the whole thing down to, oh, fifteen minutes. Just for shock value. Let the event organizers scramble to fill the extra ten minutes.” She stopped cleaning his desk and stood in front of him, playful smirk in place.

He nudged up the glasses he wore today instead of bothering with contacts. “Better yet, we give them their bullet points—
ninety
minutes worth. Then take bets on how long it'll take for the foundation director to call.”

Laughter bubbled from Alena—and then Charlie, who obviously had no idea what she was laughing about. But she giggled all the same, leaving the play mat he'd set up for her and walking to him. She stretched her arms, and he stooped to pick her up. Two nights in a hotel while the apartment aerated obviously hadn't bothered her. “What do you think, kid? Make the foundation squirm just for the fun of it?”

Alena reached forward to straighten the barrette Logan had attempted to fasten in Charlie's hair this morning. “You should bring her to the office more often.”

“I'd never get another page written.”

Alena kissed Charlie's cheek, then picked up a stack of papers from his printer. “I'll proof these for you by this afternoon.”

She retreated from the office, leaving Logan to face the disapproval written all over Theo's face. “What?”

“She likes you.”

“Of course she does. I keep her stocked in punch cards for the coffee cart. It's the least I can do since she's not getting paid.”

“You know that's not what I meant.” Theo walked to the mini fridge against one wall. He plucked a water bottle from inside. “She's got a crush on you.”

“You should start a stand-up act. You're funny.”

“Wasn't joking.”

“I bet she's, what? Ten years younger than me? Probably has a boyfriend.”

“She's so into you she might as well embroider
I Love Walker
onto a shirt and wear it to work.” He took a swig from his water bottle. “Tattoo your name on her arm.”

“You're seeing things.”

“Whatever.” Theo capped his bottle. “Not here to talk about your love life anyway.”

Logan let Charlie down and returned to his desk, picking up the files Alena had delivered. “Then what are you here for?”

As if he didn't know. He'd figured the second he pressed
Send
on that office-wide memo, he'd have Theo in his office.

“You're taking a personal leave of absence? So nice of you to tell me first. You didn't even say how long you're going to be gone.”

“Two weeks, tops.”
I hope.
His gaze fastened on the slit of a window carved into the wall, which let in just enough sunlight to keep alive the one plant on the corner of the desk. His focus flitted to the plant, now wilted and brown. Well,
almost
alive.

“Is this because of your apartment? I told you Jill and I would be happy to put you up in our guestroom.”

“It's not that.” Although the apartment did smell like a forest post-wildfire. And the unit next door was going to be under construction for weeks.

But it wasn't their living space that'd kept him awake the past two nights. It was the fact that Freddie had gone and left him a business—and with it, employees, obligations. It should be good news, a sign of the man's fondness and respect. But it felt . . . weighty. Another responsibility when Logan could barely keep up with the ones he already had.

But maybe this is a good thing.

The same whisper wandered in now that had last night, when he'd finally made the decision to go back to Iowa.
Maybe this is exactly what you and Charlie need.

A break. A chance to spend real time together. Vacation. The word tasted foreign.

Theo took another swig of his water. “You couldn't have worse timing.”

“I could, actually. We could be mid-campaign. We could be dealing with a PR crisis. It's political off-season right now.”

“There's no such thing as off-season and you know it. We're drowning in work. Your home and nanny situation are up in the air.” Theo pointed to the plant. “You can't even keep a plant alive. No way do you have time for this.”

Logan dropped his files onto the desk with a thud, his last grip on restraint slackening. “You want to talk about time? I have poured myself into this business, Theo. I haven't taken more than a handful of days off in two years. I forgot what a weekend feels like forever ago.” He could hear his voice notching, forced it down. “I barely see my daughter.”

“Log—”

“And if there's anything I really don't have time for, it's an argument about how I don't have time. You heard Alena. I have a dozen things to finish before tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. You're leaving tomorrow.” Statement, not a question. Theo abandoned his water bottle on the windowsill and stepped closer to Logan, blocking his view of Charlie. Voice low, deliberate. “We have a flippin' presidential candidate vetting us for her campaign team. And you're just going to leave?”

“A man
I
hugely respected died.” He'd already told Theo about Freddie yesterday. Not just about inheriting the paper, but about Freddie himself. How he'd offered Logan an internship at the paper when Logan was still in high school. Taken him under his wing when Mom first got sick and Dad had been so consumed with caring for her.

Why couldn't Theo muster some understanding?

“I'm sorry about that editor. I am. But this is everything we've worked for.”

“Yeah, well, I won't be any good to Hadley if I'm burnt out. You're the one who just said I can't even take care of a plant. That speech Alena had mentioned? I've been trying for days to
get it right. Usually I'd whip it out in a few hours. This is what I need. What Charlie needs.” His voice was a strained whisper now. “That stuff her nanny said—”

Theo shook his head. “She was frightened and blowing off steam.”

“She was
right
. I've been pretending things are fine for way too long.”

He brushed past Theo. Charlie held a book toward him, green eyes so much like Emma's most people never would've guessed she was adopted. The resemblance to Emma made sense—Charlotte's birth mother was Emma's little sister, after all.

“So this is for sure.”

He looked back. Resignation marred Theo's expression. “Yes.”

The Logan from a few years ago would've thought longer. Would've prayed about it.

But he didn't have the luxury of time or the comfort of faith this time around. No, what remnants of belief loitered in his spirit these days were immobile, passive.

He had to figure things out on his own.

“And Hadley?”

“I'll do whatever I need to. I'll fly back here—or over to D.C. if that's where she wants to meet. This is just temporary.” He walked to Charlie, sat down beside her, and accepted the book. “Two weeks, tops.”

Dear Mary,

If you were my daughter, I'd tell you about how I ended up in Maple Valley, Iowa—a little town west of Ames, tucked into a rolling landscape of quilted fields and patches of trees and prairie grass. We like to call ourselves a tourist spot with our heritage railroad and more antique stores than any one town needs.

I came here on a whim, looking for a man I'd never met—his name was Kendall Wilkins. I was two years too late.

I didn't find Kendall. But what I found instead was home.

Y
ou have a potentially career-altering decision to make by tomorrow, but instead of hashing it out or making a pro/con list or even just flipping a coin, you're making cookies for a woman who doesn't like you.”

Amelia couldn't help but smirk at the exaggerated disbelief in Raegan Walker's tone. As if her friend was one to talk—she and the revolving door that was her employment status.

Amelia opened the stainless-steel door of the oven in the Walkers' kitchen, heat billowing over her cheeks as the impatient rhythm of Raegan's nails tapped behind her. She could've made the cookies in her own kitchen. But there was something enchanting about the Walker family home—nestled into a clearing between a cornfield and a twisting, tree-packed ravine. The spacious kitchen, with its cherry cupboards and coppery-beige tiled floor, the collage of photos stuck to the fridge, the window above the sink overlooking a frosty backyard dappled with pale moonlight and evening shadows—all of it tingled with peace and calm and family.

And on nights like tonight—when indecision buzzed like a plague of mosquitos, it was just what she needed. Yes, she
owed C.J. Cranford an answer tomorrow. Accept the job at the
Communicator
and move? Or stay in Maple Valley, holding out hope that the
News
somehow survived its change in ownership?

She was no closer to a decision tonight than she'd been nearly a week ago, when she'd stood in Coffee Coffee, listened to C.J.'s out-of-the-blue offer, and for the first time in three years, considered leaving the town that'd become home. But the Walker house and Raegan's company made up for a world of confusion.

Amelia used one oven-mitted hand to pull out the metal sheet, chocolate chip cookies goldened to perfection. “Mae may not like me, but she loves my cookies.”

“She doesn't even know they're from you.” Raegan twirled in a half-circle atop a barstool edged up to the counter in the middle of the room, her feet bumping against its base.

True. Amelia had taken to dropping off baskets of cookies at the
News
receptionist's house late at night or early in the morning. Sometimes she left a plateful in Mae's little Honda.
Thank you, small-town Iowa people, for not locking your car doors.
As far as she knew, Mae didn't suspect a thing.

“She doesn't need to know they're from me. I'm convinced she's simply lonely. That's why she's so grouchy all the time. The cookies let her know someone cares.”

Raegan stilled on her stool. “You're kind, Amelia Bentley, you know that? A little weird, way too into grunge rock—”

“Long live the nineties.”

“—and obsessive about winter—but kind.” Raegan slipped a shock of blue-streaked blond hair behind her ear. She was one of the first people Amelia had met when she'd moved to town—and easily the most buoyant. Amelia might have a few years on her, but they'd become fast friends.

Amelia used a spatula to pry a cookie off the tray. “Speaking of things I'm obsessive about . . .”

Raegan's laugh rang through the kitchen, and she shifted
to pull a wad of rolled-up papers from the back pocket of her faded jeans, then held the papers in the air. “I'll trade you for a cookie.” She snatched one and took a bite. “Make that two cookies.”

Hands still encased in oven mitts, Amelia nabbed the papers from Raegan, focus immediately landing on the words in the upper right corner:

Logan Walker, speechwriter

Tompkins & Walker
Consulting

“One of these days I'm going to start charging you money for transcripts of my brother's speeches.” Raegan stood. “I need milk. And don't get me wrong. Your cookies are de-lish, but the way you gobble up Logan's writing, I have a feeling I could make some serious moola.”

“Just as long as you never tell him I'm the one who reads them.” Amelia scanned the first few lines, the same awe as always settling in her stomach. Raegan's brother could
write
. Oh, he could write. And every time she read one of his speeches, it was a reminder of why she'd taken up writing herself.

Words could impact. They could shape opinions and perspectives. They could move a person to action.

Maybe, given enough time, they could even heal.

Raegan poured milk into two glasses, offered one to Amelia. “Don't worry, I won't tell him. Logan still thinks his little sister is all fascinated with his career. Probably hopes it'll influence me to find one of my own.”

Amelia glanced at her friend as she accepted the glass of milk. Rae often seemed younger than her twenty-six years—the hair that always changed colors, the graphic tees, the fact that she still slept in the daybed in her childhood bedroom. Was it hard to be the youngest in a line of such successful siblings? Beckett, the lawyer in Boston. Kate, the movie scriptwriter and novelist who'd just moved home from Chicago.

And Logan. The guy who could weave emotion with words.

There'd been a time when Jeremy had been the one to woo Amelia with his speeches, back before his fame and her failure curdled her dreams for the future.

She sluiced the thought with a shake of her head. “Does it bother you, Rae?”

“You mean the fact that I have a hodge-podge of part-time jobs instead of a
career
-career?” Raegan shrugged, took another bite. “Not usually. Just every once in a while, I'll get this feeling that everyone's waiting for me to figure out what I'm going to do with my life. And I just want to say, what's wrong with being content right where I am?”

That was exactly what Amelia had wanted to say to C.J. Cranford last week. The woman had offered her the job of Features Editor for the
Communicator.
Reminded her the paper was one of the state's leading weeklies.

“We own publications in three states. You
know that, right? I've read your stuff, Bentley. You
should be writing for something with an actual readership. It
's a guaranteed step up.”

Amelia hadn't been able to find a reply behind her surprise. C.J. had kept talking while she'd stared across the crowded coffee shop, watching Megan rub her belly.

Problem was, she'd stopped believing in guarantees long ago.

The sound of the front door banging open drifted through the house, pulling Amelia to the present. Probably Case Walker, Raegan's dad. Or Seth, the cousin who lived in the basement. Whoever it was bypassed the kitchen, footsteps sounding on the stairs that led to the row of bedrooms on the second floor.

She settled on a stool beside Raegan, bit into a perfectly chewy cookie. How many evenings had Amelia spent in this house, pretending she was part of this close-knit and supportive family? They were one of Maple Valley's staple families—
the kind everyone loved and not-so-secretly wanted to be a part of.

The kind of family she used to think she and Jeremy might have before . . .

“So, are we ever going to talk about this?” Raegan's voice cut in.

“My job offer? The possibility of the
News
going under?”

“No, the fact that you're in love with my brother.”

“What?”
Amelia choked on a cookie, crumbs spewing to the counter.

“At least admit you've got a crush on him.”

She downed half a glass of milk in one swallow. “You're delusional.”

“I'm right.”

“I love his writing, Raegan. There's a big difference between admiring someone's talent and whatever you're thinking.” She shuffled the speech papers into a pile and dropped an oven mitt on top. “I've only met him one time.”

He'd been in town for Colton Greene's press conference announcing his new nonprofit. A former NFL player, Colton was an old friend of Logan's. He'd come to Maple Valley last fall for a temporary stop that'd turned permanent once he'd fallen for Kate Walker.

“I know, I was there. I saw you turn about a dozen shades brighter than these.” Raegan wriggled her fingers in the air, hot pink polish coloring her nails.

“I did not.”

Except that she had. She could still feel the way the warmth had practically scrambled over her cheeks. It was that mellow, baritone voice that did it, the dancing laugh. Logan had seemed observant, a little quiet. Which made her think there probably wasn't much he and those inky-dark eyes missed.

And then there'd been the disheveled hair and crooked tie.

And, fine, maybe for a few ridiculous minutes there, Logan Walker had made her think it really was possible to finally forget Jeremy.

But that was only in-the-moment silliness. The man had unknowingly become her writing hero—three years of reading his past articles, listening to her old editor talk about him, and following his speechwriting career could do that to a person. She'd simply had a fan girl moment, that's all.

“Look at you, you're blushing right now.” Raegan's smirk dared her to argue.

“Am not.”

“I could roast a marshmallow from the heat on your face. Don't feel bad. Most girls who meet my brother who aren't related to him fall for him. And some who are related to him. I have this third cousin who, I swear—”

Amelia fumbled off her bar stool, sweeping up her empty milk glass and plate. “I'm regretting coming over here.”

“I could set you guys up.”

“Rae—”

“Besides, you haven't gone on a single date since I met you. So—”

“Shouldn't you be at one of your forty jobs?” Her voice came out harsher than she'd intended, punctuated by the clatter of her dishes in the sink.

And Raegan's silence.

She whipped around. “Rae, I didn't . . . didn't mean . . .”

But Rae was standing, wiping crumbs from her fingertips, refusing to meet Amelia's eyes.

Why had she said that? Obviously Raegan's lack of career direction bothered her more than she let on—and Amelia had gone and trampled on what was already a sore spot.

“Your next batch is burning.” Raegan thumbed toward the stove, then left the room.

With a sigh that was as much frustration as regret, Amelia flicked off the oven and pulled out the tray of overly brown cookies. She transferred them to a cooling rack, plated up the leftovers from her previous batch, and covered them with Saran wrap, then went looking for Raegan. Up the stairway leading to the second floor. Down the dim hallway.

She stopped at the soft lilt of a voice. A low whisper, singing a gentle melody she didn't recognize, coming from one of the bedrooms she'd never been inside.

And she couldn't help it. She slipped closer to the open door, allowed herself to peek inside. Her heart turned to liquid at the sight. Someone leaning over a bed, pulling the covers over a curled bundle, hushed song melting to an end.

Logan?

She peered in.
Can't be him. He
's in LA.

Whoever it was, she shouldn't be intruding on this moment.

So why was she standing in the doorway? Watching the man arrange the covers? Holding her breath . . .

He leaned over to kiss the child in the bed, then stood. “Goodnight, Ladybug.”

And then Logan—yes, definitely Logan—turned. He started only for a moment when he saw her there. And before she realized what was happening, he'd crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her to a solid chest. Her face landed in the crook between his shoulder and a stubble-covered chin that brushed over her forehead. And oh, he smelled good—woodsy, masculine.

Did he think she was Raegan or Kate?

She could feel the muscles in his arms as they tightened around her.

Men don't hug their sisters like this.

What was she thinking, leaning into the hug as if she belonged there? Words not fully formed climbed up her throat,
but a stubborn, indulgent piece of her swallowed them down until—

“Emma.”

He rasped the name.

And icy realization darted through her.

Emma, his dead wife.