The Road to Rose Bend Page 11
“I’m glad I bumped into you,” he said, dragging his filthy mind kicking and screaming from the edge of the carnal abyss. “I wanted to apologize for being so abrupt in my office earlier this week. I...” I was an asshole who couldn’t handle my emotions and took it out on you. “I’m sorry about that,” he finished quietly.
“That’s fine.” She nodded, but didn’t meet his eyes, instead focusing on the cone. He jerked his gaze away when she went in for another lick. There was only so much a man could be expected to handle. “It was my fault for intruding on your time without an appointment. I should apologize.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” he replied. “Sydney, look at me.” He couldn’t explain what compelled him to issue that order. Something in her voice. In the choice of words. Whatever drove it, he waited until she complied, the thick fringe of her lashes lifting, her chocolate eyes locking onto his. “I don’t know if it’s a habit to accept the blame for other people’s bad behavior. If so, it’s one you need to break. It’s not your fault or your responsibility how others act. You need to start letting people own their shit.”
She didn’t say anything, but her gaze shifted, flicking to their right. He followed the direction of that glance, settling on the two women standing across the street in front of the Second Time Around consignment shop. The two women obviously pretending hard not to be studying them.
“Jenna Landon. She the reason for the ice cream binge?” Though she was a few years younger than him, he knew the woman. Hell, in a town the size of Rose Bend, he couldn’t help but be familiar with her. Not to mention, the statuesque, striking redhead was the ex-mayor’s daughter.
“It’s nothing.” He narrowed his eyes on Sydney and she chuckled, shaking her head. “No, really. She’s just...being herself.”
“You mean spoiled, catty and arrogant?” he asked, sliding his hands in the front pockets of his slacks. Either that or pinch one of those pretty corkscrew curls and rub it between his thumb and finger to determine for himself if that beautiful hair was soft as satin or if it possessed a coarser texture that would lightly abrade bare skin.
“Oh, so you’re familiar with her.” Sydney shrugged a shoulder. “It is what it is, though. Some things and people change. But most don’t.”
“That’s true, but for the most part, Rose Bend has progressed and grown. And so have the people. I hope you don’t allow one person to color how you see the whole town. Even Mayberry had its Nellie.”
She tilted her head to the side. Blinked. “Um, I think you’re mixing up your classic TV show metaphors.”
He shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah, I couldn’t think of a mean character on Andy Griffith.”
“There’s Ben Weaver.”
Cole considered it. “Nah. He was actually more crotchety than mean.”
She scrunched up her nose in an adorable moue. “Good point.”
They stared at each other, grinning.
“C’mon,” he said, jerking his chin up. “If you don’t have any plans, come with me. Let me show you how much we’ve changed.”
Without conscious thought, he stretched out his hand toward her, and as his hand hovered between them, his brain yelled, “What the hell are you doing?” Caution argued that he not touch her, that even the simplest and most innocent of touches was a slippery slope.
But he didn’t lower his arm.
Sydney studied his hand for several moments, and just when he thought she would reject him, turn away from him, she slowly slid her soft palm against his. Wrapped her fingers around his.
And Cole exhaled, his chest falling on a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Friends. Friends held hands. Friends shared affectionate, yet platonic touches. Friends controlled their baser, inappropriate desires to enjoy a real relationship without sex muddying the waters. All he had to do was convince his dick that she was off-limits.
Because she was.
She might not be married as he’d first thought, but she was still pregnant, fresh out of a divorce, starting over in a town she had to relearn. And there were shadows in her beautiful eyes. Shadows of old hurts and bruises that needed healing. With his own wounds that had barely scabbed over, he would only inflict more harm. Besides, even if none of those obstacles existed, he wasn’t free. Yes, his body might be awakening with a vengeance, but his heart... It’d shattered into so many pieces, he would never be whole again. The man who’d boldly, fearlessly dove headfirst into the euphoric bliss of love without care of risk, pain or uncertainty no longer existed.
“How’re you doing?” he belatedly asked, shooting a glance toward her stomach. He curled and straightened his fingers, still feeling that beautiful, terrifying flutter over his palm even days later. “Everything okay with the baby?”
Miraculous how he could ask that without flinching, without his throat tightening up.
“We’re good.” She smiled. “I’m feeling more movement, too. And I’m still knocked on my ass by each one.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “So, are we just meandering along or are we headed someplace special so you can regale me with the power of hearth and home?” she asked, giving their joined hands a small swing.
“Regale? Hearth and home?” He smirked. “You certainly have a way with words. What are you, a writer?”
He’d been teasing and had expected a smile or laugh. Mission half accomplished. She emitted a short, muted chuckle that fell flat. “Sort of. I’m a grant writer.”
“What do you mean, ‘sort of’?” He nudged her arm with his. “I’ve worked with a couple while on the town council, and it requires discipline, communication and writing skills, a talent for research and an exacting eye for detail. You should be proud of that.”
“I am,” she said with a nod. “Especially since when I first went to college, I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I changed my mind about my major so many times, I confused myself.” This time her burst of laughter emanated warmth, if not a little self-deprecation. “But about junior year, I ended up taking a class in grant writing, and part of the curriculum included writing one for an actual company. They told us their mission, and we had to come up with the purpose for the grant, research and identify funding sources, contact organizations for partnerships and endorsements, create the budget... At first, I was like, what the hell are you doing? But the challenge was kind of exhilarating. And I was helping people. Well, helping an organization help people but still—I was making a change in my small way.”
“Felt good, didn’t it?” he murmured.
“Yeah, it did.” She studied him with an insightfulness that both stirred and unsettled him. “Is that why you ran for mayor?” she asked. “To help bring about change?”
Oh God, wasn’t that a loaded question. “One of the reasons,” he hedged. “I’m not allowing you to change the subject, though. What happened? Did you get the grant?”
She laughed. “Hell no. Even the most seasoned grant writers receive rejects, and I was nowhere near seasoned. But I discovered what I wanted to do. And in taking that class, I changed my major from communications to English and added another one in marketing. It meant another semester in college, but I didn’t care. And all that time, I continued to take grant writing classes. Unlike a good many of my fellow graduates, I walked out with my degree, self-employed, working in my field.”
“That’s amazing, Sydney,” he said, gently squeezing her fingers. “I’m happy for you. And I’m proud of you.”
She shook her head, smiling wryly as she offered him her halfway demolished ice cream cone. He accepted it and sampled it, heat eddying low in his gut. Of course, it was just his imagination that he could taste the sweetness of the salted caramel and her own chocolate and citrus flavor. But the knowledge that his tongue followed the same path as hers had a twisting need prowling through him.
He’d just grazed that boundary line he’d mentally drawn for
himself. As long as he didn’t cross it... No matter how hard he tried—and failed—to keep his gaze from tracing the elegant slope of her cheekbones, the sinful bow of her mouth, the lush curves of her breasts, he couldn’t cross that line.
“Proud of me? Why?” she scoffed, waving a hand. “Because I did what I was supposed to do? Granted, probably not many people here expected even that much out of me.”
“Stop.” He gently tugged on her hand, drawing her to a halt. “Look around you. What do you see?”
She tossed him a look that he clearly interpreted as what the hell, but she still glanced around the busy downtown area, packed a little more than usual with shoppers, tourists and traffic because of summer and the upcoming motorcycle rally. But the places that marked Rose Bend as a small, close-knit community still stood, impressive in age yet humble in simplicity.
“What am I supposed to see?” she retorted. “I feel like this is a trick question.”
“Do they teach suspicion in the South along with genteel manners?” He surrendered to his desire and allowed himself a gentle tug on a brown curl.
“Yes. It’s free, along with the master class on the War of Northern Aggression.”
“Smart-ass.”
“Not the worst thing that I’ve been called.”
Delicious. Perfect. Worship-worthy. All things he would—and had—said himself. Goddamn, stop. “Not touching your ass,” he said, then pinched the bridge of his nose, inwardly groaning at his words.
Sydney grinned. “You don’t sound at all happy about that fact,” she drawled.
“Focus,” he grunted.
“I was.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug, a wicked smile tugging at the corner of her mouth that completely ruined the innocence she was obviously striving for. “Then you started in about manners and asses, and it all went left quick.”
He couldn’t help it; he threw back his head, laughing. Long and hard. And damn if it didn’t feel good. Warm and...cleansing. He brought her hand, still clasped in his, to his mouth and pressed a quick kiss to her knuckles in gratitude.
Her soft gasp reached his ears. Without his permission, his gaze dropped to her mouth. How would that puff of breath feel across his lips if he bent his head over hers?
“What do you see, Sydney?” he asked again, choosing not to acknowledge the question in those liquid brown eyes.
She jerked her head away, obeying his request. For several moments, she studied their surroundings, and when she returned her attention to him, she shook her head. “The same place I left eight years ago.”
“No,” he objected. He held the ice cream cone out to her, and when she shook her head, he tossed it into a nearby garbage can. Then, stepping behind her, he settled his hands on her slim shoulders. “You’re looking out the eyes of that hurt, misunderstood teenage girl. What does the mature, successful woman see now?” When she remained quiet, he offered, “Let me help. See the pharmacy?” He slightly turned her to the left where the store had stood since his parents had been born. “Mr. Price used to run it with an iron fist and pretty much bark at every kid who came in there. Talk about crotchety.” The corner of his mouth quirked at her “hell yeah.” “But now, he has grandkids, twin girls, and you wouldn’t recognize the old man. He actually—wait for it—smiles. And his daughter helps run the pharmacy. She’s enlarged the cosmetics and toy sections, and even added audiobooks.”
With slight pressure, he pivoted her in the opposite direction, so she faced across Main Street.
“Remember Sunnyside Grille?” he continued, referring to the diner that, while not the only one, was the most popular. “About five years ago, Ron and Grace decided to renovate. Got rid of that old Formica floor, the ’50s decor that had probably been dated even back then and that ancient jukebox that played nothing from the last six decades. Even got a new jukebox that plays everything from the Andrews Sisters to Lizzo and switched up their menu to add gluten-free options as well as organic and farm-to-table food. At first, some people complained. They liked the old design with the old music and familiar meals. Definitely didn’t want marble counters, wooden booths or fancy food. But after a while, they adapted. They changed, and Sunnyside Grille still remains the most popular diner in Rose Bend.”
Again, he turned her, so they both surveyed the sprawl of the town and the breathtaking view of Monument Mountain and Mount Everett soaring above it.
“We have a new nondenominational church and a synagogue. The resource center hosts several advocacy programs for our LGBTQ community, to provide support for their mental and physical health, and help them lead successful lives in an often intolerant world. We have a Puerto Rican mayor.” He nodded. “What I want you to see, Sydney, is that yes, we’re still the same in the way that you’re still the same person who left here. But just like you’ve grown and changed, so have we. Just give us a chance to show you. To welcome you.”
Several beats of silence passed between them, and he was about to release her and continue on their walk when her quiet voice halted him.
“What if the woman is still hurt?”
He barely caught that low whisper. It throbbed with old wounds. But he did catch it. And he lowered his head, bracing his jaw against the side of her head, her curls tickling his chin, mouth and cheek. Vanilla filled his nose, and he subtly inhaled the scent.
“That’s okay. Because she’s not too old to be healed. And she’ll find healing right here in the very place she ran from.”
Like you did.
But he ignored that taunting voice. Her situation and his were different. There was no redemption or miracle cure for him. The best part of him was buried in the cemetery behind St. John’s.
He shifted from behind her, taking her hand again. This time she didn’t hesitate to enfold her fingers around his. That tiny show of trust shouldn’t have struck him in the chest like a fist. Shouldn’t have had him battling the need to tunnel his fingers through those thick, sexy curls to tip her head back and brush her lips with a kiss of thankfulness.
He shoved those feelings deep. Like he did lately with most things he didn’t want to dwell on. Pretended they didn’t exist.
They walked in companionable silence for the few minutes it took to reach the edge of downtown. At the last stoplight, the businesses fell away to a vast open field that the long-ago founders of Rose Bend had agreed wouldn’t be spoiled by construction. The Glen. In the spring and winter, the town’s annual festivals were held there. And in the summer, The Glen’s rich green grass became the grounds for one of the Northeast’s largest motorcycle rides and rallies. Men, women and families traveled from all over the country to this part of the Berkshires to celebrate the freedom of the road with concerts, games and special events all centered around Rose Bend’s very special guests.
Since the town’s businesses benefited from the flood of visitors and proceeds from the event went to the This Is Home foster care youth home, Rose Bend went all out to welcome them. From special prices at the hotels to the Sunnyside Grille temporarily changing their menu to include the Hog and Cog breakfast and the On Any Sunday dinner plate.
But The Glen was the heart of it all.
As mayor, Cole had made the rally a focal point of his platform. And standing here with Sydney by his side as they surveyed the transformation of the wide field, pride slid through him like sun-warmed molasses.
“Damn,” Sydney breathed, dropping his hand and stepping farther onto the carpet of fragrant green. “This is nothing like how I remembered.” She shook her head, spreading her arms wide. “When did it get so...more? No, wait.” She whirled around, pinning him with a narrowed stare. “You. You’re the more. All of this...” She swept her arm out, indicating the rows of vendor booths, the huge stage with state-of-the-art equipment, the large barrel grills ready to be manned, the play area complete with slides, rides, bouncy houses and toys to entertain children of all ages.
“It’s because of you.”
“Not just me,” he corrected, sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “It was most definitely a team implementing the ideas and a town that got behind it. But yes—” he nodded “—I challenged all of us to think bigger, be more inclusive. I researched what Daytona, Myrtle Beach and Sturgis offer and how we could do the same but also provide some things they don’t. Not that Rose Bend is trying to compete with those rides, but there’s something special about this town, so we should offer the people who travel here that ‘special.’ Family. A home away from home. A diverse and inclusive community. Show them that even though they’re here for two weeks out of the year, for that time Rose Bend is theirs as much as it is ours. So yes, we have the daily rides and the concerts with both famous and local acts, but now they can also bring themselves to us by selling their art, jewelry, clothes. We have a place for their children to safely play. We enlarged the camping ground, provided the best facilities and security. And I think we’ve accomplished it.”
When she didn’t reply, he ducked his chin and met her intense scrutiny, which didn’t match the almost sweet smile curving one half of her mouth. Again, he forced himself to focus on her eyes.
“What?” he asked.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice how you skated around my question earlier. The one about why you ran for mayor,” she continued before he could ask what part of their conversation she was referring to. “I see right through you, Coltrane Dennison. This,” she said, twirling a hand in the direction of the booths, the stage, “is why you did it.”
He glanced away from her, strolling over to the empty booths, standing ready. He didn’t have to hear her follow behind him to know she did. He could sense her. In the visceral awareness that skated over his skin like dancing fingertips.
I see right through you, Coltrane Dennison.
The words reverberated through him, humming deep in his chest, echoing in his head. They both terrified and...liberated him. Terrified, because he’d become so used to hiding in plain sight. Pretending to be fine, to be on the mend. Giving people answers that made them comfortable, happy, relieved, when all along he was lying. The words scared him, threatened that wall he’d erected around himself. He worried she might be able to peer past it into the real him. Into the darkness that hadn’t abated since his family’s deaths. While the pain, the grief and anger were ugly, they were his. Not to be spied on, not to be shared. In a completely toxic and illogical way, they connected him to his wife and son.