Книга - Nights Under the Tennessee Stars

Nights Under the Tennessee Stars
Joanne Rock


HEARTACHE—THE BEST PLACE TO HEALErin Finley heads home to Heartache, Tennesee, after the perfect guy turns out to be anything but. She throws herself into running a vintage store with her sister and surrounding herself with the comforts of her small town. Then one rainy night, TV producer Remy Weldon shows up and almost sweeps her off her feet!Remy sees more in Erin than she sees in herself. Quirky, beautiful and capable, he needs her for his antiques show—and for himself. Because Erin is the first star Remy’s found in the very dark night that has become his life. And she might just be able to lead him into the dawn…







Heartache—the best place to heal

Erin Finley heads home to Heartache, Tennesee, after the perfect guy turns out to be anything but. She throws herself into running a vintage store with her sister and surrounding herself with the comforts of her small town. Then one rainy night, TV producer Remy Weldon shows up and almost sweeps her off her feet!

Remy sees more in Erin than she sees in herself. Quirky, beautiful and capable, he needs her for his antiques show—and for himself. Because Erin is the first star Remy’s found in the very dark night that has become his life. And she might just be able to lead him into the dawn…


Erin’s hand paused on the Open sign.

Her attention was thoroughly captured by the sight of Remy unfolding his long, lean frame from the vehicle.

He’d held plenty of appeal the night before with his dress shirt plastered to his chest and shoulders from the rain. Today, clean and pressed in a gray suit with a pale blue shirt open at the neck, he was a whole different kind of handsome.

Remy lifted a hand in acknowledgment when he spotted her. Her heart rate jumped a little at his smile, a fact that irritated her more than she would have liked.

Opening the door, she concentrated on the fact he was just a client like any other. And he’d be on his way back to Miami before she knew it…


Dear Reader (#ulink_942dc113-626e-5ff0-a05c-94db804f69a0),

I fell in love with Heartache, Tennessee, in my last Mills & Boon Superromance novel, Promises Under the Peach Tree (September 2014). So much so that I just couldn’t seem to leave! I hope you’ll indulge me for a return trip to this fictional town south of Nashville where I’ve got another story to tell about one of the Finleys, Heartache’s most prominent family. Things aren’t going so well for Erin Finley when we meet her. But then Remy Weldon, the hero I sent her way, is having a hard time, as well.

Remy and his teenage daughter are both drawn in by small-town life in Heartache. I hope you are, too! Sit for a spell and enjoy the warm spring nights of Tennessee with me. The kids are all tucked in. The katydids are singing and the fireflies are just beginning to come out to light the evening with their magical glow. Best of all, two people are about to fall in love…

Happy reading,

Joanne Rock

PS—Follow me online at facebook.com/JoanneRockAuthor (https://www.facebook.com/JoanneRockAuthor), or on Twitter, @JoanneRock6 (https://twitter.com/joannerock6). I always love to hear from readers!


Nights Under the

Tennessee Stars

Joanne Rock






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


While working on her master’s degree in English literature, JOANNE ROCK took a break to write a romance novel and quickly realized a good book requires as much time as a master’s program itself. She became obsessed with writing the best romance possible, and sixty-some novels later, she hopes readers have enjoyed all the “almost there” attempts. Today, Joanne is a frequent workshop speaker and writing instructor at regional and national writer conferences. She credits much of her success to the generosity of her fellow writers, who are always willing to share insights on the process. More important, she credits her readers with their kind notes and warm encouragement over the years for her joy in the writing journey.


To all you romance-loving readers,

thank you for spending long hours

in front of the romance shelves at the bookstore

or on your ereaders!

I’m so grateful to you for thinking, like me, that “happy-ever-after” is a story worth believing in and worth reimagining again and again in the pages of a book, in our hearts and in our real lives.

This book is for you, for daring to be romantic. Thank you for your optimistic view of the world and your belief that love conquers all. I hope this story lifts you up, makes you smile, and reminds you of the awesome power of love in our lives.


Contents

Cover (#u19e862c0-b8dc-55b8-bceb-5bae998c4540)

Back Cover Text (#uea92753e-d9fd-5b84-9cbb-601afa3b2fe5)

Introduction (#u959e2953-bae3-5e69-9d97-6229cf48de7c)

Dear Reader (#ulink_8654073c-dd44-5ba0-8708-7780f44a26fa)

Title Page (#u946710be-3b31-56ac-9290-2cf8f5a4ae92)

About the Author (#ua57310e2-41e8-5fbe-81a7-1275a7d3ff02)

Dedication (#u31fcfb45-e477-599f-9ba4-41a8140e70bc)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_2f1b5c26-607a-572f-bce7-1103919f7b7f)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_c0def20a-c010-5954-a235-1b574abad862)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f464fa4f-cfd6-5c5f-ae5f-f84a38bc6e7f)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_2b0ce2c8-e853-5054-9d88-d2867d69cdb3)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_bc6c3039-582f-5e79-aa4c-293ce318b264)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE (#ulink_0635cbe5-f325-52f4-98e6-1abbbc04b641)

ERIN FINLEY HAD plane tickets, ID and her carry-on suitcase set for a romantic long weekend. Too bad the “romantic” part was decidedly absent, since Patrick was not at the airport as promised.

“Flight 8402 to Nashville, now boarding all rows,” the airline’s desk agent announced over a tinny PA system at the gate.

Damn it. Erin checked her phone—still no messages even though she’d texted him. Nervously, she toyed with the handle on her sticker-covered 1940s-era vintage suitcase, wishing Patrick’s black leather duffel sat beside it. Her financial consultant boyfriend loved to tease her about her quirky fashion sense, which was inspired by her work as an antiques dealer and part-time boutique manager. Despite the teasing, he’d developed an artistic side since they’d met. He had taken up painting, a growing passion that he’d credited her with during a really awesome talk they’d recently had about their future. A future finally looking up for Erin. When they’d been in the shopping mall last weekend, she’d caught Patrick having a hushed conversation with a jeweler. She had every reason to think a ring might be in the works.

She checked her watch. They had traveled often in the past few months to make their long-distance relationship work, and he’d never been late for a date before. If anything, this trip should be easier than previous ones as she had stayed in Louisville, Kentucky, for a few weeks to work and he was based in Cincinnati, so, for the first time, they would be flying out of the same airport.

He’d been excited about their visit to Heartache, Tennessee, where he would meet her family for the first time. Staid, sweet Patrick didn’t seem the type to get cold feet, even though he knew all about the strained relationships among the Finley clan, which was why she purposely didn’t spend much time back home. She loved that Patrick shared her values, and she wondered if he might wait to pop the question until they were back in Heartache so she could enjoy the moment with her family—dysfunctional though they might be.

Her phone vibrated, and relief mingled with annoyance when she saw his number appear on the small screen. She thumbed the on button and tucked her cell to her ear.

“They’re boarding now,” she blurted. “Please say you’re already in the airport and past Security.” She stood on her toes to see farther down the concourse, hoping to spot his neat sandy hair and his quick, efficient steps.

“Who is this?” a woman’s voice demanded on the other end of the call.

Confused, Erin sank down to her heels.

“Excuse me?” She held the phone away from her ear to double-check the number.

Patrick’s digits were still on the screen.

“Who. Is. This.” The speaker on the other end sounded tense. Angry.

The tone did nothing to improve Erin’s mood when she was already stressed and nervous.

“I might ask you the same question,” she shot back, raising her voice as the desk agent announced the final boarding call for her flight. “Where is Patrick and why do you have his phone?”

Had he left it behind at Security? Maybe some crazy woman had picked it up.

“You home-wrecking bitch.”

The snarled accusation ripped into Erin’s ear at full volume.

Thoughts of the airport, the flight and the romantic weekend scattered. Her focus narrowed to the call.

“Ex-excuse me?” An icy tingling started in her fingers and spread like a cold frost through her veins.

“Why are there twenty calls to you in my husband’s phone in the last three days?” The woman had shouted the questions.

Husband?

Erin’s heart stopped. Her gut plunged worse than any coaster she’d ever ridden. She walked away from her suitcase to stand at the window overlooking the tarmac. She needed a quieter place. Needed a second to make sense of what was happening.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her voice failing her along with her brain cells.

Through the phone, she could hear a man’s voice speaking quietly. Muffled arguing.

Erin tipped her forehead to the cold pane of glass and concentrated on the voices. It couldn’t be Patrick. She knew everything about him. They’d spent almost every weekend together for months, ever since meeting in a remote Vermont town where they’d both been traveling for business. Since then, she’d coordinated several of her trips to coincide with his, never thinking twice about the fact she hadn’t been to his home. He was never there, after all—one of the many ways she’d thought they were alike. They were in love. He was meeting her family for the first time because they’d waited until they were really sure about each other. Erin was a traditional-values kind of girl.

Maybe Patrick had a crazy stalker who had a crush on him or something. A woman who wanted to get rid of the competition.

“Excuse me.” Erin straightened, hoping she could resolve this mess before she had to listen to any more lunacy from whoever had intercepted Patrick’s phone. “Are you still there?”

More muffled voices on the other end.

“Am I here? Hell yes, I’m here,” the woman said. “I will always be here. You, on the other hand, are the intruding—” the string of expletives blistered Erin’s ears “—who had better get out of my husband’s life before I hunt you down and take care of you myself.”

Erin shut out the threats and bad names. She’d grown up with a mom who suffered from severe mood swings, so Erin had plenty of experience withstanding tirades. The trick was to stay level, reasonable and get out of the conversation as fast as possible. Except what if this woman wasn’t a stalker at all? She did have Patrick’s phone.

Her stomach dropped to her toes as she grappled to make sense of this.

“Look, you may have picked up the wrong phone somewhere. My boyfriend is single—”

“Single?” A harsh laugh punctuated the word. “Is that what Pat told you? He has kids—two sons, eight and six years old—you slut. I’m hauling them to baseball games and birthday parties on my own every weekend so he can jet around the country as if he never made vows to me? As if a fancy diamond necklace would make me forget he’s a cheating bastard who can’t stay home with his family?”

The jewelry store.

He hadn’t been buying Erin a ring. He’d been buying a gift for his wife. Something shifted inside her. Her knees wobbled and she slapped one hand on the window for support.

This woman did not have the wrong phone. They were not talking about different men.

The arguing in the background of the call became more heated. Still muffled, but there was a noticeable increase in fervency and volume. Every now and then, she could hear the man’s voice more clearly. Patrick’s voice.

Erin noted it in a marginal way, her main focus on the fact that her whole sense of self had just shattered into a million pieces. The fragments lay at her feet on the industrial gray carpet of the Northern Kentucky airport.

So much for traditional values.

“You want me to put the kids on the phone so you’ll believe me?” the furious woman demanded suddenly. “Would you like to hear what Pat’s children think of the woman destroying our lives—”

Erin’s hands shook as she stabbed the disconnect button and missed. She pressed two more times before her finger made contact with the button and ended the call.

The sudden quiet hum of normal conversations around her felt jarring. Her ears still rang from the accusations and anger. When her phone rang again, her fingers were steadier as she turned the device off. She would never use that phone or that number again.

“Miss?” an older gentleman approached her, a kindly smile on his weathered face, a newspaper tucked under one arm of his corduroy jacket. “Don’t forget your bag.”

He pointed to her suitcase in the waiting area and she vaguely recalled he’d been seated near her earlier. They’d talked about the weather and the local baseball team. It seemed like a million years ago.

“Thank you.” She nodded. Swallowed. Forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, her whole body numb with shock. “I’ll go get it.”

Patrick was married. The man she thought she loved had children.

Grabbing the smooth tortoiseshell handle of the suitcase—a suitcase she’d packed so carefully and hopefully—Erin strode up the concourse and away from the flight that would have taken her home. Away from the Finley family, who expected her to show up with Mr. Right just in time for dinner.

She should be embarrassed about being so stupid and blind that she hadn’t known the love of her life had been lying to her every second they’d been together. He’d lied in the worst and most clichéd manner possible. He was married. She should feel ashamed to be an unknowing “other woman” in an era where most of her friends performed Google searches on any guy they dated.

But Erin wasn’t ready to acknowledge any of those things just yet because most of all, she felt deeply sorry that she’d wounded an unsuspecting woman—a mother, no less—whose world must be falling apart faster and harder than Erin’s today.

Focusing on the pain she’d inflicted helped keep some of her own fury at bay—at least until she arrived at her car. She dropped her bag in the trunk, then slid into the driver’s seat. Once the doors were safely locked and the windows rolled up, she succumbed to the urge to pound her fist on the steering wheel and scream. She was done with Patrick. Done with men who had complicated lives and too many secrets. Life at high speed didn’t suit her. Time to slow down. Regroup. And hope the day would come when she didn’t feel the need to scrub her skin with disinfectant to get rid of the memory of Patrick’s touch.

She needed to pack her rental place and get far away from the adulterous ass who’d done nothing but lie to her. Any other day it might have made her smile to think that what she really needed was to get back to Heartache.


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ab220dfd-7320-588f-a8f3-cfec56861be4)

Six months later

ERIN HANDED HER sister an airline ticket, her phone charger and her suitcase.

“I’ve got this, Heather. Go have fun.” She nodded toward the door of their jointly owned boutique, Last Chance Vintage, figuring her organized younger sister would never get under way without a hard shove and possibly a crowbar. “You’ve been babysitting me too long. Time to let me do my own thing.”

Erin and Heather were expanding the tiny shop on Heartache’s main thoroughfare, taking over an ancient cobbler’s storefront to make way for the new design. They’d done a lot of the labor themselves to save money, their DIY skills reasonably strong since their father had owned a construction business and their older brother still ran the family’s building-supply store. Erin had finished sanding the hardwood floors in the new space two days ago. Even now, the pungent scent of a fresh coat of stain permeated the heavy plastic divider that sectioned off the workspace behind the front counter. Heather had tried to mask the scent with lavender chips in an electric warmer, but so far, the wood stain was winning out.

“Babysitting?” Heather dropped the bright teal suitcase on the rag rug, beside a display of necklaces artfully draped on the spokes of an old bicycle wheel. “As if. Last Chance is my store, too, you know. I can’t help it if I want to oversee the redesign.”

The freckles across Heather’s nose aligned when she scrunched her face into a mad expression, a quirky characteristic no one but a sibling would notice. Heather and Erin had looked a lot alike growing up, so the freckle pattern was familiar from Erin’s own reflection in the mirror. Her hair had been as red as Heather’s once upon a time, too, but Erin had been dying it different colors since she was old enough to buy Clairol at the local drugstore without Mrs. Bartlett threatening to tell her mother.

Erin was almost done with the Goth-girl black on her lopped-off curls, knowing she looked way too much like a caricature of a pissed-off woman. But the inky shade sure did suit her mood lately. The store expansion had been her brainchild, prompted by a sudden desire to wield a sledgehammer.

She put her hands on her hips. “I’ve got the redesign well in hand, and you know it. The expansion is no excuse for you sticking to me like glue these days.” Erin kept her voice low even though there was no one else in the store, and probably wouldn’t be, since closing time was five minutes away. After her mother’s legendary tirades, Erin tended to keep a tight rein on how she displayed her emotions. “You have to admit you’ve been hanging out at my house every day after closing time. And we never talk about the store.”

Erin loved her hometown for a lot of reasons. But the shoulder-to-shoulder proximity of her brother’s, mother’s and sister’s homes was not really one of them. However, since the Finley land had been free for building and gifted in parcels to each of them, that was exactly how things had panned out. A couple of acres separated each house, and the farmland nearby was still mostly vacant.

“So sue me for preferring to share a bottle of wine.” Heather rearranged the silk daisies tucked inside the bicycle basket, her hot-pink manicure showing off metallic emerald stripes. Erin had painted her sister’s nails earlier in the week while sharing one of those bottles. “It’s been nice having both of us in town for a change. I get tired of doing the dutiful daughter thing here by myself.”

For years, they’d traded off time in Heartache to keep tabs on their mom’s health. It was no different now that they owned the store. They each traveled to scout new items for the store or to sell on their website. Last Chance Vintage had cornered a niche market on antique linens and silverware, catering to numerous independent decorators who liked doing business with smaller companies. Sometimes, in their flea market scouring, they found genuinely valuable antiques, as well, and they’d been in business long enough that they knew which of their clients would love them.

Still, Erin knew she’d done the lion’s share of the traveling in the past two years while Heather had been at home to weather more of their mother’s crises. Heather deserved to get out of Heartache more often. She’d stifled her own dreams as a musician for the sake of a job that kept her in town.

“I’m planning to stay closer to home in the future, so I’ll be here when you get back. And clearly, someone needs to do some buying if we’re going to fill the new floor space.” She gestured at the heavy plastic sheet hanging between the old store and the new expansion. “It’s definitely your turn to rack up the frequent-flier miles.”

It was stupid, but the thought of setting foot in an airport again practically made Erin hyperventilate. She hadn’t left town since returning six months ago. She’d methodically cut every reminder of Patrick out of her life, from giving away the landscape painting he’d done for her to dumping every card, memento and shared concert ticket in the trash. After chucking her cell phone and changing her number—overkill, but that was how she rolled these days—she’d also gotten rid of her landline in the Heartache house because Patrick had that number, too. She had planned an extended hiatus from dating and men since she didn’t trust her judgment anymore.

Sometimes, she woke up punching her pillow in a fury, and it had been half a year since she’d found out he was a lying cheat. If she hadn’t loved him—hadn’t thought for sure he’d been about to propose and seen for herself how gooey and blind that had made her—she might have been able to control the anger better. But knowing she’d been played for a fool, that she’d been in love with an illusion, rocked her.

“I know.” Heather sighed, removing one of the silk daisies to wrap around her wrist in an impromptu bracelet, an accessory that actually looked pretty cute with her sunshine-yellow blazer and jean capris. “But I’d gotten into a good groove with my students here and part of me worries you’re only sending me out to shop because you don’t want to end up on the same plane as Patrick or something weird like that.”

A gifted singer and musician, Heather had never pursued her love of music other than to give lessons to locals. Erin hoped that one day her sister would make the trip north to Nashville to live out her own dreams.

“That is very weird.” Although no stranger than hyperventilating near airports. “And totally untrue. Patrick’s wife probably has him on a choke chain these days. For all I know, he changed jobs or moved.” She shrugged, genuinely not caring about her former lover’s life. She cared more about his kids, whom she’d never met. The guilt sneaked up on her at odd times.

“Okay.” Biting her lip as she studied Erin, Heather turned back to the bicycle basket and plucked another daisy. “I’m going to go.” She wrapped it around Erin’s wrist. “And I’m not going to think about you spending 24/7 on the store expansion, which I know you’re going to do without me around to force you to go home. You love that sledgehammer too much.”

Erin smiled in spite of herself while Heather took a photo of their matching wrists with her phone. Her sister might be bossy, but she meant well. Heather was practical, organized and the business mind behind Last Chance Vintage. She also happened to be much better with their mother—a calming presence that soothed Diana Finley’s fractious nerves. Erin had always envied Heather’s ease with their mom.

“Awesome.” Erin gave her a quick hug. “If you leave now, you can still grab a coffee for the road. Plus, I hear there’s a storm coming in tonight. It would be good to stay ahead of it.”

Heather peered outside at weather that had gotten more overcast as the day had gone on.

“Right.” Heather frowned, tucking her phone back in her shoulder bag. “I just worry you won’t follow through on the promotions I’ve set up.”

Erin suppressed a groan, and instead recited the mental list. “Dress sale on the first Tuesday of the month, free champagne for shoppers during Friday lunch hours and thirty percent off anything spring-related next week.”

“Yes, fine.” Heather nodded absently, her heavy turquoise earrings rocking against her curtain of long red curls. “But I mean the press releases about the grand reopening for the updated store and the social media presence I’m trying to maintain. I’ve sent out a lot of feelers to try and attract some media attention. We need to bolster that stuff to support the expansion.”

Erin tried not to grind her teeth. She and her sister could not be more diametrically opposed on this issue. The last thing Erin wanted was to turn a kitschy small-town boutique into some regional shopping mecca. But retreading old ground now would not get Heather out the door.

“I will probably not do as good a job as you, but I will try.” She stretched her lips into what she hoped passed for a reassuring smile.

She held her breath.

“Fair enough,” Heather said finally, and surprised the hell out of Erin by picking up her suitcase. “Austin, Texas, here I come.”

When Heather swished out the door, the welcome bell ringing in her absence, Erin slumped against the front counter. She was too mentally exhausted to celebrate that she’d ousted her sister before Heather’s wise eyes had seen through the Goth-girl hair and the sledgehammer-wielding nights to the truth that Erin was still a broken mess and not really over a lying scumbag she should hate with a passion.

How long would it take for her brain to get the message Patrick’s wife had delivered so succinctly six months ago? He was the antithesis of everything Erin hoped for in a man. But some days, it was hard to reconcile that image of him with the guy she’d fallen for, possibly because she’d never confronted him about it, had purposely avoided any interaction with him ever again. She’d never gotten to see his expression as she called him on his lies, never gotten the chance to see the charming facade fall away.

Maybe that would have helped her to hate him more.

Okay, she actually hated him quite a bit.

And that was the whole problem. She wanted desperately not to care.

Until then, she would simply keep moving forward, building her new life here and hoping that by walling out the rest of the world, she’d finally find some peace.

* * *

REMY WELDON HAD never seen fog like this. It had come from out of nowhere in the past two hours, causing his visibility to shrink. It looked as though someone had dumped a few metric tons of wet cotton balls along the back roads of central Tennessee. In theory, he was scouting locations for one of his shows that was floundering in ratings—Interstate Antiquer. But since he couldn’t see what street he was on, he didn’t hold out hope he’d see much of the shop he’d been searching for, Last Chance Vintage.

In his six years as a TV producer, he’d never had a show plummet in viewership so fast, but then, he’d never had a successful show’s host walk away midseason to make a documentary on a turn-of-the-century American painter. As if that film project would lift the guy’s career more than Remy’s show? Either way, Remy was at his wit’s end trying to patch together the rest of the contracted shows with guest hosts while doing the heavy lifting himself on everything from location scouting to script development.

Everything sucked. Much like the thick gray fog that cloaked the headlights on his crappy rental car. Much like life since his wife had died two years ago and he’d relocated from Louisiana to Miami to escape the memories. There seemed to be no end to gray fog and suck-age.

“Arriving at destination,” his GPS informed him with obnoxious cheeriness, her electronic voice sounding smug at having landed him in a downpour thick with rain, fog and inky darkness.

If he was truly near Last Chance Vintage—one of ten businesses he planned to scout this trip—there was no sign of it outside the car window. Then again, he could barely see the road in front of him as he braked to a stop, the headlights picking up a drain in the street where water rushed from all sides. He must be near a curb.

Shutting off the engine, Remy sat for a minute, letting the stress of the drive slide off his shoulders. He’d been away from his home in Miami for three days already—long enough to be apart from his adopted daughter. Liv’s daughter. His first priority should be—and was—taking care of Sarah until she finished high school and started college. But since her mom had died, he’d struggled with being overprotective to the point of overbearing. He was trying to return to a more regular travel schedule even though being away from his daughter made him uneasy after what had happened to his wife.

In fact, if he thought about it too long—knowing full well Sarah was staying with extremely responsible friends of the family—he stood a very real chance of a panic attack while sitting on the side of the road.

She was safe. She was safe. She was safe...

The mantra didn’t work as fast as Remy needed it to, memories of his wife’s death—while home alone—returning too fast for him to block them out. Two years wasn’t too long to grieve. Not when Liv’s death had been Remy’s fault. He hadn’t been home when two drifters had shown up, targeting their home for easy-to-pawn goods and cash. They’d known about the house thanks to a shared jail cell with Sarah’s biological father, Brandon, who was doing time at a medium-security facility for some kind of hacking crime. The guy had bragged that his ex-girlfriend had struck it rich when she had married, spilling details about the new house Remy had built in Lafayette, Louisiana.

The weight on his chest increased, the air in his lungs leaving in a rush of breath and fear.

Feeling along the passenger seat in the darkened car interior, he found his cell phone and punched in the speed dial code for his daughter. He’d be all right once he heard her voice. God, let her be okay...

Dialing. The device showed it was dialing. And dialing.

Then the call screen disappeared and returned to his home page. Remy punched in her number again. Only to repeat the process.

How far away from civilization was he that he couldn’t grab a cell signal? The delay did zero for the onslaught of panic. He snatched up his phone and keys and shoved open the car door, heading out into the rain. A stupid idea. Except he needed to get in touch with Sarah. Now.

Torrents of water streamed from the sky, soaking him instantly. The street was a rushing river, filling his shoes and plastering the hem of his pants legs to his ankles.

He was a dumbass. This fear was irrational. And so real he didn’t give a shit. Maybe he’d get a better signal if he got out of the rain.

Crossing the street, he could make out the shape of buildings—red brick and clapboard side by side. A few awnings shielded him from some of the rain, but not enough that he trusted using his phone without ruining it. He cursed the rain, his luck and the growing fear in his chest. He picked up his pace and sloshed along the cobblestones, hoping to see a pay phone. Talk about an antique... What were the chances he’d find one?

Thwack! Thwack!

A series of sharp sounds cut through the rumble of the deluge. Thwack! Thwack!

He tracked the noise to his left and saw a dull glow from a glass storefront with a bicycle in the front window. Last Chance Vintage was painted in purple-and-red-striped letters. Relieved to finally find the place after hours of looking, he tried to remember what he’d read about it. His notes had said the business was owned by sisters, but he didn’t recall much more than that. Probably two old maids with blue hair and double-stranded pearls.

Thwack! Thwack!

The sound definitely came from inside, and judging by the light emanating behind an opaque sheet of plastic near the register, he guessed a construction crew was doing some work after hours. He lifted his fist to bang on the door with one hand while he pushed the brass doorbell with the other. Whoever was making that racket inside might not hear otherwise—

Shadows moved behind the plastic sheet, but Remy’s eye was already on the corded phone on the counter right near a cash register circa 1920. When the sheet moved, a woman emerged in overalls and safety goggles, carrying a bright orange nail gun. No doubt that accounted for the noise.

Remy lifted a hand in a sorry excuse for a wave. He hoped he didn’t scare her away. He probably looked like an intruder. His throat closed up tight as the young woman pulled off the safety goggles and strode toward the door. He half wished she wouldn’t let him in—what the hell was she thinking opening the door to a total stranger after hours?—but he needed to call Sarah. Some days were worse than others since Liv’s death and this was turning out to be one of the worst ones.

It was difficult traveling away from home.

The door opened and the woman stood back to admit him. The scent of wood shavings and stain was heavy in the warm interior air.

“Can I help you?” She fixed him with knockout blue eyes, the soft color a surprise feminine detail next to the baggy jean overalls and shapeless dark tee underneath. Her jet-black hair was purposefully shaded and cut in a razor-sharp line just above her shoulders.

Definitely not an old maid.

“I can’t get a cell signal out here.” Remy didn’t cross the threshold despite the open door.

His wife had been murdered during a home robbery while he was away from home for work. Seeing this total stranger, this vulnerable stranger, open the door to him was messing with his head.

“Come in!” The woman waved him forward impatiently. “You’re getting rain all over the floor.”

“I can give you the number,” he offered, his feet feeling as if they were stuck in concrete. “You could make the call for me, if you’d feel more comfortable having me wait outside—”

“I am most comfortable not having the hardwood ruined.” She stepped forward to grab the door and gestured emphatically for him to come inside.

He forced his feet to move, grateful to get out of the rain.

She shoved the door closed and toed the welcome mat closer to him. “Here. I’ll get you a towel and you can use the phone.” She rummaged in a basket beneath one of the display shelves and retrieved a couple of rumpled terry cloth rags. “I’m Erin Finley, by the way. One of the owners. You must be from out of town?”

“Remy Weldon, from Miami.” He mopped off his face and hands, knowing the rest of him was a lost cause. “Sorry to bother you—”

“It’s no bother.” She was already grabbing the phone and yanking free some extra cord so she could bring it to him while he stood on the mat. “I’m glad I could help. It’s a small-town thing, you know? Be nice to strangers and all that.”

She shrugged a shoulder as if it was no big deal, and something about the gesture hinted at the feminine curves beneath the overalls, catching him off guard. He hadn’t noticed women in anything but the most detached way in a long time.

Dropping the heavy, old-fashioned phone into his hands, Erin gave him a fleeting smile.

Remy swallowed hard, his thoughts all over the place. The anxiety in the car had spiraled into worries about a total stranger opening the door to him, and now this surprise awareness of her. He gripped the phone tighter.

“I didn’t mean to stand outside and let the rain in for so long,” he said finally, his brain clearly short-circuiting. “I—ah—didn’t think...”

And then no words freaking came. Remy Weldon, who’d built a career on his ability to get funding for any show and sweet-talk talent into any role, gaped like a fish out of water.

Not that Erin seemed to notice. She was too busy running a hand over the wooden molding on the front of the checkout counter. Pressing a thumb over one raised spot, she lifted her nail gun to the wood and—thwack!—put the trim back into place.

She looked at him. “I figure it’s safe enough to let a stranger inside when I’m the one carrying the air nail framer with enough compression power to staple your hands to the wall.” Her mouth stretched into a smile that he bet some guys would find intimidating. “That is, if I needed to.”

“Awesome. Good thinking.” He liked Erin immediately. Not only because she thought about a weapon to bring to the door, but also because she didn’t seem to notice the fits and starts of his speech that had plagued him the past two years. Bad enough to be caught thinking about his wife in the middle of a meeting and have everyone’s expression turn embarrassed, impatient or—worse—pitying. But then, to stumble over his own words or realize he’d lost his place in the conversation completely? He hated that.

Dialing his daughter’s phone number, Remy already felt his heart rate slowing. Some of the weight stopped crushing his chest.

“Daddy?” Sarah sounded surprised. “It’s late.”

He checked his watch and realized it was midnight. Crap.

“Sorry.” He lowered his voice even though Erin was halfway across the store, her fingers traveling over more molding around a set of bay windows. “I didn’t realize how late it was and I had trouble getting a call out in a storm. Everything okay there?”

His daughter’s exasperated sigh sounded more like a growl. With teens, the intonation of a sigh could be all you had to decode a mood sometimes.

“Fine. Everything is fine as always, and you can’t call in the middle of the night to check on me or you might wake up Mr. and Mrs. Stedder— Unless you’re calling to invite me on your scouting trip?”

She sounded so hopeful Remy hated to say no. She’d been asking that a lot lately. Why did his work travel suddenly interest her? She’d resented it mightily when he had stayed home for over a year after Liv’s death, needing to keep tabs on their daughter. Going back to work hadn’t been easy.

“Not this time, Sarah. And I thought you had a big field trip with some kids from school this week?” He wasn’t home as much as he’d like to be, but he tried to pay attention to her school activities.

“Right. Whatever. Dad, I’m tired of being at the Stedders all the time. I could help you—”

“Tomorrow, okay?” He didn’t want to get into a disagreement now, not after how worried he’d been. He just needed his life to feel normal again tonight.

“Tomorrow? While I’m on an overnight field trip?”

“When you get home.” He wished he could get on a flight home. Now. “I promise.”

Disconnecting the call, he hoped Sarah understood. She’d been through so much.

He’d love to surprise her and show up in Miami by the time she was back from the field trip. Except he hadn’t scouted jack squat for locations unless Erin Finley could be talked into a spot.

The nail-gun-wielding store proprietor would be a great guest. Everything about the store was perfect, too, except he didn’t see many antiques besides those used as decor.

He set the store’s phone on a shelf—a shelf that used a tarnished silver cake stand to display an assortment of brooches from cameos to cubic zirconia cartoon cats. The store seemed to be a hybrid consignment shop where used and new items rubbed elbows comfortably. On second glance, he realized the “shelf” was actually a repurposed plantation shutter.

He definitely wanted to discuss the show with Erin, but dripping wet on her floor at midnight didn’t seem like the best way to make a pitch.

“Thank you,” he called over to her.

“All done?” She finished driving a few more nails into a piece of trim around a window casing and then strode over.

“Yes. Guess I need to try and find a hotel.” He turned back toward the glass door and stared into the darkness. “Sounds as though it might be slowing down.”

“Wishful thinking. And you might have to head back to Franklin for a hotel. Heartache just has a bed-and-breakfast, but Tansy Whittaker might not answer the door at this hour if you don’t have a reservation.” Erin carefully switched the safety on her nail gun and set the tool on a peeling green apothecary cabinet. “She told me she runs a white-noise machine at night because it masks the sound of the most, er, enthusiastic newlyweds’ vacations.”

“Right.” He wondered vaguely if she was flirting with him. No. The risqué reference was just normal conversation. “That makes me all the more grateful you heard when I knocked.”

“I don’t like surprises anymore.” Her voice had an edge to it as she leaned down to reach for something alongside him, her sudden proximity bringing the scent of her perfume and freshly cut lumber. She had a tattoo of a bluebird at the top of her spine just below her hairline. “Here.”

He looked at what she had handed him. A plain black umbrella. His gaze moved to the wrought iron stand near the door where two other umbrellas remained.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to take yours—”

“You’re a tough man to help, you know that?” She rested a hand on one hip and surveyed him through narrowed eyes. “All of those umbrellas have been there for at least a year, so I assure you, no one will be back to claim it now.”

“Then...thank you.” He tucked it under his arm. He didn’t have trouble accepting help. Much. “I might try the local place first, but I appreciate the tip about Franklin. Would you have time to meet tomorrow? I actually might be in the market for some specialty antiques.”

He liked to play it safe when interviewing prospective guests for a show. That way, if something didn’t pan out or they didn’t have the right temperament for television, there were no hard feelings afterward. But damn...if he could firm things up with Erin’s place and two more dealers, he could justify the trip and head home.

“Sure. Stop by anytime. If you want to block out some uninterrupted time, though, we’ll have to meet after five. We close early tomorrow, but I’m the only one here until then.”

“Great. Five sounds good.” He had made business appointments hundreds of times in his line of work. But this one felt oddly personal. Partly because Erin didn’t know the real purpose of his visit and might assume he simply wanted an excuse to see her again. But maybe also because they were alone at midnight with the steady hum of rain drowning out the rest of the world.

“Until then, safe travels, Remy Weldon.” Erin stuck a hand out to save him from his stupid line of thinking.

Right. This was business and he was just overtired. He took her hand and shook it. A brief, warm contact that was there and then gone.

“Thanks for everything.” He really did owe her big-time. If there was any way that Interstate Antiquer could put her store on the map and improve her business, he planned to make that happen. He owed her that much for her kindness.

But as he turned to head out into the storm—a black umbrella now sheltering his head—he wasn’t thinking much about her business. Instead, he saw cornflower blue eyes and the wry smile of a sharp, self-possessed woman who didn’t play games.

It made him uneasy to think he wasn’t going to put her out of his mind anytime soon.


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_f5afced0-2a29-528e-96a4-04fbd4871c21)

THE STORE WAS surprisingly busy the next day, keeping Erin on her toes all morning and well into the afternoon. She hardly had time to think about her visitor from the previous night, which was just as well since Remy Weldon had occupied far too much mental real estate the night before.

Just when she thought she’d beaten her libido into permanent submission, a compelling stranger had to enter her store with a cleft in his chin and a trace of a sexy Cajun accent. She told herself he was just a test of her new powers of restraint—a six-foot-plus hazel-eyed handsome man dropped into her path just so she could prove to herself she’d learned her lesson about attraction to men from out of town. But it unsettled her that a shared smile could make her pulse flutter.

“Miss?” a woman called from behind one of the dressing room curtains shortly before closing time. “Could I get your opinion on an outfit?”

Erin was only too glad to shove thoughts of Remy to the farthest reaches of her mind.

“Be right there.” She excused herself from another customer—a thrifty local who came in mostly to barter and browse—and hurried over to the middle of three curtained dressing areas. “Should I come in or do you want to step out?”

“If you could come in.” The curtain was swept partially aside and Erin noted the woman’s thin hands and worn nail polish.

A tiny size two at most, the customer had been in the store for about twenty minutes and had spent a long time searching through the clearance rack. Erin saw now that she had five items on hangers while a too-big dress slouched on her trim frame. From her worn shoes and scuffed bag, Erin guessed maybe she was an overworked mom looking for a bargain outfit to spruce up her wardrobe, but Erin tried not to make too many assumptions about clients. Sometimes the ones who dressed the most humbly or spent their money the most carefully were the secret millionaires.

“Would you like me to look for some smaller sizes?” Erin offered.

“There aren’t any.” The woman bit her lip. “Not on the clearance rack, anyway.”

Something about the dark worry in her eyes made Erin wonder what the dress was for.

“We’re having a dress sale, though. Thirty percent off—”

“It’s not enough to make anything else affordable.” She shook her head and turned to face herself in the mirror. She pinched a handful of fabric at her waist to pull the blue cotton jersey tighter to her body. “But I sew well enough. I can take this in.”

“Oh.” Erin tried to picture the simple shirtwaist dress with a few adjustments. “If you can do that and maybe trim the bodice a little—”

“Do you think it’s right for a job interview?” Worry lines creased her forehead.

“For what kind of job?” Erin tried to keep one ear tuned to the sales floor in case anyone else needed her help. At least she didn’t have to worry about theft since Heartache was a safe small town where the local police spent more time directing traffic at church functions than they did solving crimes.

“Finleys’—the home building supply store— advertised for a bookkeeper.”

Erin smiled. “That’s my brother’s store. It will be Scott or his wife, Bethany, who interviews you.” Her smile faded as she remembered why they probably needed a bookkeeper. Their marriage had been teetering on the verge of divorce this year. Bethany normally handled the books. “I think this will be a great dress for an interview, although if you have a jacket—”

“I don’t have a jacket.” The woman’s voice was tight as she shook her head, a limp strand of pale blond hair sliding loose from the tight ponytail. “I can’t afford more than the dress. This is a lot to spend on a job I might not get.”

“You definitely don’t need a jacket,” Erin blurted, sensing she’d touched a nerve. “I think you could style this a lot of ways—”

Her customer slumped onto the small wooden stool in one corner of the dressing room. “I don’t even have shoes to go with this. Or a bag.” She covered her face with both hands and shook her head. “Don’t mind me. I didn’t mean to have a meltdown in your nice store.”

“It’s okay.” Erin’s heart went out to the woman, whatever her story. Erin had been blessed. She had never had those kinds of financial worries, and she hated to think she had neighbors who fought battles like that. “Can I get you a tissue or—”

“No!” Her head lifted, and although there were tears on her cheeks, her eyes blazed with a fresh determination. “God, no. I am not crying over my rat bastard ex-boyfriend who took everything when he ditched his son and me to screw his home-wrecking whore of a secretary.”

She swiped her face fiercely to get rid of all trace of moisture while Erin reeled from her words. Even six months after finding out she’d accidentally cheated with a married father of two, the accusation of “home-wrecking whore” jabbed her chest as sharply as if it had been meant for her. Kind of like this woman had peeked into Erin’s personal ghost closet.

“I—” Her voice faltered. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry to live it.” She stood abruptly, brushing over the skirt of the dress with her hands. “And I didn’t mean to make myself at home in the dress when I haven’t even bought it. It’s lovely, but maybe I’d better think it over before I buy anything.”

Erin wanted to help the woman even more than she’d wanted to assist Remy Weldon the night before. She’d given Remy a helping hand out of common courtesy. But the need to give something back to this woman went deeper than that—a personal need to soothe over some of the guilt in her heart.

“The store is actually hosting a big Dress for Success event later this month,” Erin lied, unsure about the name, but remembering an article describing an organization that provided professional attire to disadvantaged women. She’d thought about doing something similar in the past but had gotten busy with renovations. “I’ve been collecting clothes for it for weeks.”

That wasn’t true, either. But personal pride could be a hard-won commodity, and she didn’t want to injure this woman’s by making it sound as if she wanted to give her a handout.

The woman tilted her chin at Erin, her thin arms folded tight. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s an event that gives women who’ve had a hard time the chance to choose a nice outfit for a job interview. You know, help them get ahead?” She tried to gauge the woman’s expression. “It’s exactly for women who have rat bastard exes in their past.”

“Is that so?” Pushing at the sleeves of the too-big dress, the blonde smiled. “It would definitely save me a lot of time if I didn’t have to take in an outfit. Do you think you’ll have any smaller sizes?”

“I’m positive we do.” Erin’s brain worked fast to calculate how long it would take her to pull off something like this and make it a success. “I planned to unveil the project later this month, but since I’ve already got inventory for it, why don’t you come back and take a look at it—when is your interview?”

“Monday.”

Erin would have to shuffle aside everything else in her schedule to research this. She had off-season inventory at home, and she could raid friends’ closets.

“Why don’t you come by Friday after the shop closes and you can take a peek at what I’ve got in the storeroom?” The toughest part would be coming up with enough shoes, bags and accessories to make it look as though she’d been collecting for a while. “Er, what size shoe are you?”

“Seven and a half.” The woman extended her hand. “I’m Jamie Raybourn, by the way. This is really kind of you.”

“Erin Finley. And it’s no problem. You’ll do better at the interview if you feel happy about what you’re wearing, and the cool thing about this program is that women can come back for work clothes once they land a job.”

“Really?” Jamie’s one raised eyebrow suggested she was skeptical, and it made Erin sad to think the woman didn’t believe she’d ever get a break. She fiddled with the price tag on the dress she still wore.

“Yes. It’s a great program.” Or it would be when Erin got done with it. “I’d better get back to the front counter. But you’ll be here on Friday?”

Erin wanted to help. Needed to help. Even if she wasn’t desperate to somehow alleviate the guilt she felt about another mother with a bastard for a husband, Erin had been raised to be civic-minded and care for her community. Her father’s long stint as Heartache’s mayor had instilled that kind of community awareness in all the Finleys.

Jamie smiled and shrugged narrow shoulders out of the blue jersey dress. “I will. Thank you so much.”

Erin sidled out through the gap in the curtain on one side, careful not to flash her half-dressed customer. She worried a little about pulling off a small clothing drive in the next few days, let alone organizing the storage area enough to allow a client in there to browse some inventory. Expanding Last Chance Vintage meant a lot of furnishings and display items were tucked in storage to stay out of the way of drywall, sanding and painting projects.

Renovation work would have to wait a little longer because right now, Erin had a more important focus. Maybe helping Jamie—and other women like her—would put Erin on a more positive path to forgiving herself for being a blind idiot about Patrick.

And if not? At least she was doing something constructive with her time, unlike all the months she had wasted loving some guy who’d done nothing but lie to her.

Ducking behind the front counter, Erin grabbed her cell phone and sent out her first SOS text to start collecting clothes. If she acted fast, maybe she could coerce some friends into cleaning out their closets tonight and she could make the rounds in the morning to pick things up. Too bad her sister-in-law, Bethany, was one of the few “size two” women Erin knew. She couldn’t let Jamie walk into an interview with Bethany while wearing her sister-in-law’s former clothes.

Erin was just closing out the register and flipping the sign on the front door when Remy Weldon pulled up in a white sedan with out-of-state plates. Her hand paused on the Open sign, her attention thoroughly captured by the sight of him unfolding his long, lean frame from the vehicle.

He’d held plenty of appeal the night before with his dress shirt plastered to his chest and shoulders from the rain. Today, clean and pressed in a gray suit with a pale blue shirt open at the neck, he was a whole different kind of handsome. Something about the suit and the crisp shirt cuffs peeking out from the sleeves as he moved reminded her of Patrick and all the things she’d once admired about him. His sharp, professional appearance. His travel wardrobe that could fold down into the smallest possible roll-away bag.

Remy lifted a hand in acknowledgment when he spotted her. Her heart rate jumped a little at his smile, a fact that irritated her more than she would have liked. Opening the door, she concentrated on the fact he was just a client like any other. And he’d be on his way back to Miami before she knew it.

“I hardly recognize you when you’re not sopping wet,” she called by way of greeting. As soon as she said it, she had a schoolgirl moment where she panicked the words could be construed as having a sexual undertone.

But no. Just because her thoughts had sexual undertones didn’t mean her words did.

“That’s a coincidence.” He paused a few steps away from her and seemed to take her measure, his hazel eyes doing a slow tour. “Because I hardly recognize you without the overalls and safety goggles.”

He wasn’t flirting. Probably just being amusing. But his attractiveness skewed the conversation in a weird way, and it didn’t help that she didn’t have the goggles and overalls to hide behind. Suddenly self-conscious, she turned and headed inside.

“Come on in,” she called over her shoulder, hoping she was behaving normally and not like a junior high school girl. “I have a table in the back where we can discuss what you’re looking for.”

She heard the shop bell ring behind him as the door shut, sealing them inside the empty store. Alone again, just like the night before.

“I appreciate you making time for me today.” Remy’s tone had shifted to all business as he followed her past the open pie safe full of vintage linens. He gripped a dark leather folder in one hand. Was he going to take notes? Or maybe he had pictures to show her the kinds of items he collected.

“Antiques are my business.” She switched off her phone since it was already buzzing with incoming texts, no doubt replies from her friends about the last-minute clothing drive. “I’m happy to help.”

She gestured to an old kitchen chair repurposed with a leather seat that was pulled up to a high workstation with drawers full of swatches, samples and assorted cabinetry hardware. Occasionally, she refinished furniture here or re-covered old lamp shades with new material.

“You seem to be involved in a lot more than antiques,” he observed, gesturing to the racks of vintage clothing dotting the store just outside the alcove where they sat across from one another.

“I have a wide variety of interests.” A quality she’d inherited from her mother.

“Everything from construction to retail.” He winked at her, but the charm felt a little too practiced.

She knew she was a cynic, but she had an odd feeling about this meeting. Why the added charm if he wasn’t flirting with her?

“Can you tell me what you’re looking for?” She folded her hands on the scarred wooden surface of the worktable, trying to keep the meeting on track.

“I’m the producer for a television show called Interstate Antiquer.” He slid a business card across the table with the logo of a show she recognized from one of the home improvement cable channels. “I’m on a scouting trip this week in central Tennessee, hoping to line up some stops for our host.”

Did that mean a big sale for her store? She was even more curious now and also grateful for the new barrier to her attraction for him. She couldn’t act on the attraction if they were working together.

“You need antiques for the show?” She tried to recall the format of the program but wasn’t sure if she’d seen it.

“We need stores to feature. We would film at least a full day’s worth of footage in Last Chance Vintage to give our viewers a chance to see you work with the customers and what kinds of things you sell or trade—”

“Is that why you were in the rain outside my store last night? As part of your scouting trip?” It reminded her of the telemarketing calls where the sales rep launched into a friendly chat as though you were old friends before identifying himself. “You drove through here to find antiques shops?”

Any flirtation she’d imagined on his part had been an illusion. He was here only on business. She should be grateful she didn’t need to worry about any romantic distraction—he would not test her willpower regarding handsome men. But irritation niggled.

“Last Chance Vintage was on my list of places to see. Yes.”

“Yet you didn’t mention it.” Was it too much to ask for people to be forthright about who they were and what they wanted? Even knowing that she was overreacting didn’t stop her from feeling...deceived. “I thought you were here on business.”

“I am here on business.” He reached into his folder and pulled out a piece of paper.

“Television is your business, not mine. I’m renovating the store while my sister is out of town, and I have to run daily operations, too. That doesn’t leave time for much else.” She scooped up her cell phone and stood. “Maybe when my sister returns, she could do it. She has more personal charm than me and I’m not really what you’d call viewer-friendly.”

“Wait.” Remy rose, as well, his lean height and well-tailored suit making her feel short and frumpy. “These spots are usually very good for a store’s bottom line, Erin. Did you want to check with your partner before you say no? She’s the one who brought your shop to our attention. And we can’t reschedule our whole central Tennessee spotlight until she returns.”

He handed her the piece of paper he’d withdrawn from the leather folder, and she recognized the Last Chance Vintage logo at the top of the letterhead. A note from Heather. No doubt her sister had worked hard to gain this kind of exposure.

Heather would kill her for turning down an opportunity like this just because Erin felt deceived that Remy Weldon hadn’t been forthright. Heather was always working on promo opportunities from the store, a part of the business Erin gave little attention.

“I don’t understand.” She stopped. Setting Heather’s letter aside, Erin folded her arms across her chest. “Why didn’t you tell me last night that you were in town to look at Last Chance Vintage for the show?”

“Two reasons.” He tipped one shoulder against the doorjamb, looking oddly at ease in spite of the hand-sewn floral aprons fluttering in the breeze from an oscillating fan nearby. “First, I don’t always advertise my business in case the store I’m researching turns out to be a glorified junk shop or the owners are difficult to work with.”

She supposed that made sense.

“And two, I was a road-weary zombie last night when I walked in here. I wasn’t thinking straight.” His smile returned, the one that made the cleft in his chin deepen. “I got distracted by the nail gun and figured we could just sort things out today.”

What was it about his Cajun accent that slid along her skin like a soothing touch?

“I don’t want to be on camera.” She had survived childhood as one of five children by learning never to be the center of attention. It was an MO that worked for her.

Her mom’s battles with bipolar issues had given her a big personality that overshadowed the rest of the household. For Erin, being the center of attention meant someone might notice her shortcomings, so she had always taken behind-the-scenes jobs in the family. The habit had rolled into the rest of her life. Heather kept things organized, Erin tried to help quietly on the sides and their youngest sister, Amy, had bailed on the family at the first opportunity, declaring herself an emancipated minor at seventeen and never looking back.

“So where’s Heather?” Remy peered around the shop as if she might walk out of a back room at any moment. “Maybe she can be the voice of the store on the show.”

“She’s on a buying trip. She won’t be back for four to six weeks.” Erin hated to let her sister down. She felt she’d been one disappointment after another to her family lately, starting with not showing up for that dinner with Mr. Right six months ago. She’d kept a low profile ever since, using store renovations as an excuse for skipping out on family events. “How soon will you want to film a spot?”

He frowned. “Normally, I’d have a longer lead time. But my host quit a few weeks ago and some of the spots pulled out when he did.”

“Meaning?”

“I just tentatively confirmed with a store in Franklin for next week. I could do the shoot with Last Chance Vintage right afterward. Maybe nine days from now?” He pulled out his phone as if to give her a date.

“No way,” she blurted. “I know Heather would love the promo, but not with the store still draped in plastic.” She was relieved, actually, because the renovation provided a concrete excuse for saying no, instead of being camera shy.

Or afraid her ex would see her on television and try to contact her.

“You’re sure?” Remy straightened, his fingers pausing over the screen on his phone.

“The store expansion isn’t complete. Plus, I just committed to holding a big Dress for Success event here. It’s an initiative to help make sure disadvantaged women have help putting together a wardrobe for job interviews and transitioning back to work,” she explained. “Which means I need to really focus on that instead of finishing the store renovations.”

“You can’t get me out of your hair fast enough, can you?” Grinning, Remy pocketed his phone and slid the leather folder under one arm. “I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed, Erin, because you’ve got a really unique place here. And we could have increased your clothing drive donations by about one hundred percent.” He extended his hand to shake hers. “But I respect your decision.”

Her mind still stuck on the “one hundred percent increase” remark, Erin held out her hand before she braced herself for Remy’s touch. The warm strength of a male hand wrapped around hers made a feminine instinct quicken inside her.

Damn him. She pulled her hand back quickly.

“Good luck with your show.” She was sure he’d find another store to take her place, although her pride in her business also forced her to admit that his second choice couldn’t possibly be as good. She’d worked hard to make Last Chance Vintage unique.

He nodded, still smiling. A handsome man who could surely find dozens of store owners who’d love to invite him into their place of business for a few days. Watching him walk away, Erin wondered if she would be able to handle the guilt of knowing she’d just refused the best possible assistance for her Dress for Success event.

Double damn him.

* * *

REMY WASN’T THE kind of guy to gloat.

But he hadn’t gotten this far as a producer without knowing how to read people. And he was almost positive that Erin Finley wouldn’t let him drive away. He’d seen it in her eyes when he’d told her his show would have improved her chances of a successful clothing drive.

Erin showed the world a tough exterior with her overalls, nail guns and the inky-black dye job. But those pale blue eyes of hers were a window to a whole different woman inside.

“Wait.” She called to him just as he shoved open the front door, the welcome bell still chiming over his head.

And even though he wasn’t the kind of guy to gloat, he made sure to keep his features neutral before he turned, because he needed this too badly to screw it up now. He’d had wealth to spare at one point in his life, but he’d personally financed a manhunt and a reward for his wife’s killer. Between that and unloading their extravagant Louisiana home for well under market value simply to get rid of it, he wasn’t in the same place financially as he’d been a few years ago. Plus, with private-school bills for Sarah and college just around the corner, he couldn’t afford a failing show.

“Yes?” He hoped like hell Erin would say yes. Viewers were going to love her, and he needed that kind of ratings spike to keep the show afloat into next season. He still had two other successful shows to his credit, so he’d find a way to make things work personally. But a lot of other people counted on this show for their livelihood and he refused to let a good program fail just because his host walked away.

“You really think an appearance on Interstate Antiquer will boost the Dress for Success event that much?” She wore a long black ballerina skirt and a white T-shirt with a cartoon monkey on it.

How could he not smile at the thought of her—dressed like that—being so concerned about a clothing drive meant to put struggling women into professional business attire? She was made-for-TV perfection. He still knew what made for good TV, even if he hadn’t been flexing his creative muscle the past two years.

“I do.” He dropped his folder on the raised platform that held the store window display of an antique bicycle, vintage picnic basket and an assortment of mismatched dishes. “Shops that do this show get calls from all over the country about pieces in their stores—not just items we feature. Viewers see random stuff in the edge of the frame and decide they have to buy it.”

Erin nodded slowly. “That means I could sell a lot. How do you know people will donate a lot?”

“On one episode, we had a shop owner in a dated wheelchair who had some trouble navigating it around his inventory. He had three new chairs show up the next day and twelve more offers for upgrades by email within the week.” That show had been a turning point for Remy’s anger during his grieving for Liv. Seeing the outpouring of caring had restored some faith in humanity. “Wheelchairs are expensive and we never suggested the guy needed a new one in the show. Can you imagine the kind of support you’d get on a drive where we invite people to be involved?”

He watched her flip her phone from hand to hand, thinking it over, obviously still full of reservations. He was surprised that someone who seemed so sure of herself could be this nervous about being on television. In the era of selfies and YouTube, he didn’t meet many people who were afraid of the camera anymore.

“What about the repairs?” she asked. “Will you try not to show that my store is all torn up?” She stalked toward the front counter and eyed the heavy plastic dividing the current store from the space she was renovating.

“We can avoid shooting it if you want.” He followed her, telling himself he was only curious about what was behind the curtain. “But viewers aren’t interested in seeing perfect places or perfect people. They respond to what’s real. They relate better to people who work hard just like they do. Seeing the process of building the business can be a part of the appeal.”

“Is that so? That hardly explains why every other show on TV is about Hollywood wives or teenage billionaires.” She set her phone down on the front counter and ran her fingers over a basket of polished gemstones sitting by the register.

He picked up a smooth green gem. They were worry stones with sayings on them—luck, happiness, joy. As soon as his hand went in the basket, hers darted away.

“Erin, people don’t watch those shows to see Hollywood wives being happy and pampered, though, do they? They want to see catfights and back-talking kids. They want to see the reality behind the glamour.” His hand stalled on a stone that read “Wisdom” and fought the urge to pocket it.

He had the feeling spending more time with Erin would not be wise for him.

“There will be no catfights in my episode,” she announced, walking away from him toward the construction area. “I’m putting that in my contract.”

“I don’t imagine anyone would mess with you after they’ve seen you with a nail gun anyhow.” He followed her to the plastic sheeting. “But I’ll make a note of it just to be safe. Although you never know what might happen if two people are drop-dead set on getting the same item. Think about those wedding dress reality shows.”

“Will you be staying in town until the shooting begins for the Franklin store?” She pulled aside the curtain to show him the other half of Last Chance Vintage.

“It depends how fast I can bring on a third business to feature.” He whistled at the space she’d unveiled. “Wow.”

The adjoining room looked like a turn-of-the-century general store, the walls lined with open shelving, drawers and bins. A waist-high counter stood a few feet in front of the wall shelves, the dark wood polished to a high sheen. A rolling ladder leaned against one set of shelves. An antique sewing machine sat on a black tea cart and an ancient cash register was parked on one of the counters. A few cast-iron lanterns hung from rafters.

“Pretty cool, right?” Erin was the most relaxed he’d seen her all day. “This was the candy store when I was growing up. Well, I guess they sold cards and drugstore stuff, too. But all those shelves were full of candy jars.”

Her eyes sparkled at the memory, as if she had come alive. He could see what drove her work on the renovations. Maybe what drove the whole passion for antiques.

“Sounds like kid heaven.” He followed her across the polished hardwood floor that looked recently refinished. Or maybe it was just the scent of wood stain that still hung heavy in the air.

“We would spend half a Sunday afternoon debating how to best use fifty cents.” Smoothing a hand along a countertop, she spun to a sudden stop.

“We?” He paused right behind her, close enough that the top layer of her ballerina skirt brushed against his leg.

“My brothers and sisters and me.” She propped her elbows on the counter and watched him with a steady gaze.

“How many would that be?” He pulled open a shallow drawer under one of the countertops.

“Five in all. Two brothers, two sisters and me. But, er—here.” She popped open one of the bins on the front of a shelf, her shift back to neutral topics an obvious scramble away from anything personal. “I’m going to use some of these spots for the smaller architectural pieces—cabinetry hardware, vintage doorknobs, keys and switch plates. Modern home owners love stuff like that.”

They stood close together to look at the drawer, close enough for him to catch a hint of Erin’s fragrance. Amber... The realization distracted him from the conversation and took him back to Liv’s studio, where she had developed her own perfumes. Half the reason he’d bought that mammoth new house in the middle of nowhere had been to accommodate her plans to expand her business. She’d been so happy with the workspace in a separate building at the edge of the property...

“Remy?” Erin’s voice tugged him back to the present. “Everything okay?” She frowned at him. “I have spinach stuck between my teeth, don’t I?”

Her comment surprised a laugh out of him, her easy diffusion of the moment a welcome relief even if it didn’t chase away the weird guilt that came with this heightened awareness of her. His own wife had once told him that a woman’s scent acted on a man’s sexual desires even when she was nowhere around, so it bugged the hell out of him that he couldn’t stir up a sense memory of Liv, although he could probably recite the damn chemical recipe.

“No spinach, I promise.” He needed to get out of this store. Away from Erin and a rogue attraction he didn’t want to feel. “Sorry. I just—ah—remembered I need to follow up with some stores tonight to try and nail down the third spot for my central Tennessee show.”

“Of course.” She tucked a stray dark hair behind one ear and swept toward the gap in the plastic divider, her black tulle skirt floating along with her. “You’ll be in touch to confirm the day and time you’ll want to shoot?” She dug under the front counter and produced a business card. “All my contact information is on here.”

“Great. I’ll have someone from the shooting crew call you to go over all the details.” He took the card, careful not to let his fingers brush hers. “I’m glad you’re going to do this, Erin. I hope it’s really good for business.”

“I’m not going to lie.” She straightened a few pillboxes on a display near the register. “I hope we get a ton of great clothes for women who need them.”

He wondered how she could be so blasé about the store’s bottom line but not enough to linger in her amber presence to ask about it. His gaze had returned to her mouth a few too many times in the past five minutes.

“Me, too.” Normally, at the close of a meeting like this, he’d shake hands and walk away. But she didn’t seem any more inclined to make contact than him. She was sticking close to the register.

And the fact that she was as wary as he was only made him more curious about her. He backed up a step.

“Good luck finding that third business.” She picked up her phone and turned her attention to the screen.

“Thanks, Erin.” Remy recognized he’d been dismissed.

It was what he’d wanted—to get out of the shop before the attraction ramped up higher. He pushed through the door and slid into his rental car, feeling oddly let down. He’d felt the spark of a connection, and he knew she did, too. In another lifetime, that might have been a cause for some joy. Pleasure.

Today, it made him determined not to go back.


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_3d29d201-fe02-51fa-b692-d97b863df6e2)

SARAH WELDON WAS so dead.

Cranking the volume on her car stereo as she drove from Gainesville to Nashville, Sarah hoped the throbbing bass would drown out her own thoughts since she usually tried not to think about that idea.

Dead.

Her mother had been murdered two years ago in a house break-in while Sarah had been overnight at a friend’s home. So death was a real, sickening reality for her. In fact, her father would have a fit if she said the words out loud—I’m so dead.

But then, her father was stuck in his grieving. Even she knew that, and she was just barely eighteen and in imminent danger of being kicked out of high school. There was a lot Sarah didn’t know, yet she was rock-solid certain that her father was more wrecked in the head than she was when it came to her mom. Sarah coped by trying new things, taking new risks and pushing her boundaries. Running fast and hard helped. She’d moved on, right? Her father, on the other hand, was stuck in the past and big-time overprotective of her.

Which was why she couldn’t tell him about the letter that had arrived for her last week. She rested her hand on her purse where she’d tucked the note, wishing it would magically disappear.

Squinting in the dark at the sign for Chattanooga, she merged onto Interstate 24 East just as her phone rang. She prayed hard it wasn’t her father. Or the family she was supposed to be staying with while her dad worked. Or the school field trip chaperone who would probably get fired for losing track of Sarah during the overnight visit to the University of Florida in Gainesville.

“Bestie,” chirped the Bluetooth automated voice, reporting the contact in a way that had made Sarah and her best friend, Mathilda, laugh for an hour when they’d given all of Sarah’s friends nicknames in the address book.

Taking a deep breath, she pressed the connect button on the call so it came through the car speakers.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Sarah blurted, her eyes glued to the road and the taillights of a semi she’d been behind for nearly an hour.

“Are you insane?” Mathilda whisper-shouted. “Where are you?”

Sarah pictured her friend in the hotel room where she’d seen her last, sitting on the king-size bed they were supposed to be sharing on the field trip.

“If I don’t tell you, you’ll be able to answer honestly when Ms. Fairly grills you tomorrow about where I went.” She chewed her thumbnail. It had been practically impossible not to spill this plan to Mathilda, but she didn’t want her to get in trouble.

Sarah had caused Mathilda enough problems in the past two years, dragging her to parties she didn’t want to attend and convincing her to sneak out after their curfew so Sarah’s father wouldn’t know she wasn’t at home. Sarah couldn’t help that she liked to have more fun than Mathilda, but she’d been doing better lately. Behaving herself.

“That may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever said,” Mathilda hissed in the same urgent whisper. “I’m your best friend in the world, and if you’ve done something stupid, you need to tell someone about it so they know when to worry about you for real, Sarah.”

“See? That’s why it’s been so hard not to tell you the plan. You’re so smart and I knew you would think of all the details I forgot.” She was nervous enough about her decision to sneak away.

Students weren’t supposed to have cars on the campus for the trip, but Sarah had planned a week in advance, paying a boy to follow her all the way to Gainesville from Miami the weekend before so she could leave the car in the lot. Boys would do anything for the chance to attend a big-deal college basketball game, and Sarah had helped him do just that—although she’d probably also given him the impression she liked him, which she hadn’t meant to. Still, it had been a way to drop off her car ahead of time so she’d have it for her escape. She’d told her father she’d left it at Mathilda’s, not that he’d asked. He thought mostly about work these days.

“What plan?” Mathilda pressed. “Seriously, I love you, but I’m about a minute away from ratting you out because I’m scared you’re doing something dangerous. You know you’re not supposed to go running at night by yourself.”

If only it was that simple.

Sarah watched the trucker’s signal light flip on to pass the car ahead and she turned on hers, too. It was nice having someone to follow through the dark.

“Don’t tell on me. I’m eighteen now, you know.” The Stedders had made her a cake to celebrate when her father had been on a location shoot in Georgia a couple of weeks ago. “What can the school really do to me at this point?”

For a long time she’d been waiting for the day where no one could tell her no. Even with the careful planning and occasional sneaking out, she still felt suffocated by her father. After her mom had died, he’d taken a leave from his job for over a year. He’d spent the time staring at Sarah as though she was going to be the next person to be murdered. It was enough to creep anyone out. Worse, she missed the old him. He used to be so much fun.

“Do not play that ‘I’m eighteen’ card with me,” Mathilda huffed, probably mad her birthday was still six weeks away.

“Fine. I left a couple of hours ago right after you fell asleep. I’m driving to Tennessee to see Dad and help him on his business trip.” And hide from letters that arrived from state prison.

She hadn’t opened the one that her so-called biological father had sent. Ten times over, she’d debated just burning it and pretending it had never existed. But what if he’d already mentioned her to his cell mates the way he’d talked about her mom? Thanks to him, her mother was dead. And while the guys responsible were in jail for life, that didn’t mean her sperm-contributing relative would stop talking.

Bastard. Did he want her dead next?

“Does your dad know?” Mathilda referred to Remy, of course, who was Sarah’s father in every way that mattered.

“Of course not. He’s going to kill me when I get there, but I’m going anyway.”

The fact that Mathilda was silent for a few seconds reassured Sarah. If her friend thought it was the worst plan in the world, she would have berated Sarah instantly.

“I don’t know why you couldn’t have just asked to go with him and gotten permission. Ms. Fairly is going to flip out.”

Sarah slid back into the right-hand lane behind the truck, her GPS reassuring her that she’d make it to Heartache, Tennessee, in time for breakfast.

“But that’s where the plan gets really good.” She tucked a long, brown strand of hair behind one ear and wished she had an elastic to hold it back. “I’m going to arrive at Dad’s bed-and-breakfast before the morning orientation meeting at the hotel. I’ll have Dad call Ms. Fairly and tell her that he picked me up last night for— I don’t know. Urgent family reasons.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.

“Sarah—”

“What?” she snapped, tired of tiptoeing around anything and everything that had to do with her mother’s death. “You know she’ll forgive him as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Poor Remy Weldon who lost his wife can do no wrong. Ms. Fairly practically drools on him every time she sees him.”

“It is gross,” Mathilda admitted.

“Agreed.” She rolled down her window for a little fresh air. She wasn’t tired, but she planned to take every precaution to make sure she didn’t feel sleepy. Two energy drinks rested side by side in her cup holders, but so far, adrenaline was keeping her going.

“Text me when you get there, okay? I have to know you arrived safely.”

Sarah’s throat itched from the sudden lump in it. Her friend didn’t try to “mother” her, but sometimes, when she said stuff like that, it made Sarah miss having a mom. It also made her super grateful she’d managed to keep one good friend during the hell of the past two years. She’d met Mathilda during a dark time in her life and Mathilda liked her anyway.

“Of course.” She cleared her throat and popped open one of the energy drinks.

“I can’t believe you’re not going to look at UF with me.” Mathilda wanted to be a Gator at the University of Florida in the fall, and she’d wanted Sarah to be one, too, but that wasn’t happening.

Sarah had no idea what she wanted to do. She’d spent half her high school years in mourning for her mom and then—later—for the dad who’d checked out on her, too. His parenting these past two years was a weird combo of being smothering or—lately—being absent. It sounded impossible, but he managed it well, sticking her with the Stedders, who were old enough to be her grandparents and twice as nosy. Then there were the freaked-out phone calls that came when he was away. Did he think she didn’t know he was terrified she’d get shot in the head someday, too, even though they’d moved nine hundred miles away from where her mom had died?

It was completely disturbing.

“Mathilda, no matter what happens in the fall, it doesn’t change that we’re friends.” She said it automatically, a response she’d trotted out a half-dozen times since Mathilda had forced her to fill out the paperwork for the college application.

Sarah already knew she hadn’t gotten in. Her standardized test scores were crap and her course grades were average at best. She’d only tried for the past two years because she had wanted to stay in classes with Mathilda.

“I know we’ll still be friends, Bestie,” she said, using the nickname from another era of their friendship. “But it makes me sad to think we won’t hang out as much. I can’t even imagine how much trouble you’re going to get in without me.”

Mathilda was only half teasing.

“Starting now.” Sarah stepped on the gas to pass the truck she’d been following, in a new hurry to get to Tennessee and hit the reset button on her life that had gone off the rails. “If Dad yells at me for making this trip, I’m going to tell him I’m dropping out of school.”

Her friend gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

Sarah pulled back in the right-hand lane and locked in a cruising speed faster than she’d been driving before.

“School has been a waste of my time for two years straight. I absolutely would.” Besides, she was scared of returning to Miami, where a letter had found its way into her mailbox from the man she hated most in the world.

She shuddered and hoped her dad would make everything okay again.

“Be careful,” Mathilda whispered into the phone. “I mean it.”

Sarah downed the last of the energy drink just as she crossed the Tennessee state line, wondering how it would taste with vodka. Not while driving, obviously. But later, maybe.

She needed something to forget about that letter burning a hole in her purse, and running for hours hadn’t come close to making her forget.

“Will do,” Sarah lied just before she disconnected the call and turned up the radio again.

This time, she had no intention of being careful.

* * *

“EVENTUALLY, I WANT to do caramel with ombré highlights.” Erin pointed to a picture in a magazine while her favorite stylist, Trish, worked on her hair at The Strand salon the next morning.

The salon opened early on Tuesdays, making it easy for her to change her hair color before she needed to be at Last Chance Vintage. She wasn’t the only one who appreciated the extended hours. Daisy Spencer—soon to be her brother Mack’s grandmother-in-law—was seated at the manicure booth getting a gel coat of bright pink on her toes. Her boyfriend, Harlan, read the paper in the waiting area.

Erin sighed. Mrs. Spencer navigated the dating world better at eighty-plus years old than Erin ever had.

“That will look fantastic on you.” Trish nodded while she skimmed the blow-dryer over a section of Erin’s hair, smoothing the newly bronzed strands around a fat round brush. “But I think this color is pretty hot, too. Or maybe I’m just glad you let me pull out that black. How long have I been telling you that color is too strong for your features?”

“Six months.” Not that she’d been counting the days since the guy who’d lied to her with every breath had turned her into the kind of person she’d never wanted to be. “Ever since I came back to Heartache.”

“So what made you finally change your mind?” Trish turned down the setting on the dryer as she began working on the front of Erin’s hair.

“That clothing drive I told you about?” She had already posted flyers in the salon and asked Trish to mention it to her clients. “I’m going to get some television publicity for it and I didn’t want to look like—you know—super scary.”

Personally, Erin thought she’d rocked the black hair, but her whole style lately screamed “don’t mess with me,” and she wasn’t going to risk it costing her any clothes donations. She was committed, both feet in, to making this thing a success.

Trish frowned as she shut off the dryer and set it aside. “I was hoping the new color might have something to do with a certain gorgeous someone I saw leaving your store after hours yesterday.”

Remy.

Just thinking about him stirred a mixed bag of feelings that she wanted no part of—curiosity, suspicion, undeniable attraction.

“Definitely not, but—” She was about to say more and then decided the less said the better.

“But?” Trish twirled Erin’s chair around and handed her a small mirror so she could see the back of her hair.

“But that was the producer for the TV show Interstate Antiquer. Last Chance Vintage is going to be featured on it. He said they will cover the clothing drive so I’ll increase my donations.” And the way Remy looked at her didn’t have a damn thing to do with her hair color.

Something unspoken, but definite, had passed between them while she’d been showing him the space she was renovating. A look, maybe. She hadn’t imagined that moment of mutual awareness any more than she’d imagined Remy’s reaction.

He hadn’t been able to leave fast enough.

“So you’ll be working with him?” Trish met her eyes in the mirror.

“No. It sounds like I’ll be working with a production crew that makes the actual episodes—a show host, a couple of camera people.” She had the impression Remy wouldn’t be back in Heartache if he could avoid it. Something about his hasty retreat almost made her wonder if he was married.

An honorable guy would walk away fast if he felt a stray attraction to someone else, right? She wanted to believe that, but that was about as far as she’d come in getting past the Patrick ordeal—an acknowledgment that she still held out hope for some marriages.

She just didn’t hold out much for herself.

“That is so exciting.” Trish beamed as she admired Erin’s hair. “You’ll look fantastic on television. And this will be so good for Heartache.”

Standing, Erin checked her watch and noticed she was a few minutes late opening the store. Digging out her wallet, she called goodbye to Mrs. Spencer and Harlan, then followed Trish to the checkout register.

“It will be great to rake in lots of clothes. I’m really excited about the chance to help out women who—” had been cheated on by two-timing bastards “—need an extra hand.”

“Yes, well, for that reason, too.” Trish rang up the cost of the services. “But I meant this will also be good for the rest of us. A nationally broadcast show with your adorable store featured? It’s going to put Heartache on the map for tourists. Your sister must be turning cartwheels.”

Something about the way she said it made Erin stop.

“I don’t think it’s a show with that much reach.” Interstate Antiquer was geared toward a niche audience.

“Are you kidding me?” Trish ran Erin’s credit card and printed the receipt. “I’ve watched it, and I don’t know anything about antiques. People tune in for the slice of small-town life to get a feel for a place. It’ll definitely bring tourism to town. Your father would have loved this, Erin.”

Erin’s father had passed away eighteen months ago. He had been the mayor of Heartache for over a decade, helping to bring the town out of a recession. The Finley name was practically synonymous with Heartache. While Erin was proud of her town, she didn’t want any part of expanding tourism and bringing lots of outsiders in. She was a behind-the-scenes woman, for one thing.

And for another? She liked things here the way they were—Heartache was a place that still felt a little isolated from the rest of the world. It didn’t even have an airport. That time she’d planned to bring Patrick to town with her they’d had tickets to fly into Nashville.

“We’ll see,” Erin said finally, when she realized Trish had been waiting for some kind of response. She took her receipt and jammed it into her purse, wondering if she’d made a huge mistake by saying yes to Remy.

“Hey, isn’t that your producer friend now?” Trish pointed out the window where they could see the front of Last Chance Vintage. Where Remy Weldon stood, back against the glass storefront, cell phone pressed to his ear.

The fluttery feeling that started in Erin’s chest would have been exciting if she was sixteen. Right now, it felt ominous. She took a deep breath.

“Guess I’d better open the store.” Erin scrawled a quick signature on the receipt.

“You said it.” Trish’s eyes remained fixed on Remy. “Go get him, tiger.”

Erin shook her head. “Seriously. Not interested, Trish, but thank you for the great hair.”

Her friend winked at her.

Main Street held only a handful of local businesses. Her shop. The sandwich place. The Strand. There was a gas station farther down, and a pizza parlor. Then at the corner, she could just see Lucky’s Grocer and the village square. She liked it this way and she didn’t want to see four new fast-food chains pop up if tourism increased.

“Looking for me?” Erin called as she crossed the street.

Remy tilted his head sideways as he tucked his phone into his pocket. “I don’t know. Is that you?”

“Of course. I don’t look that different.” Her heart beat too fast and she didn’t want to talk about her appearance. “Figured I’d better spruce up the locks if I’m going on television. Don’t want to embarrass my mom.”

Remy leaned a shoulder into the doorjamb, far too close to where she needed to insert the key in the dead bolt. But then, he seemed distracted by her hair.

“What was wrong with your color?” His eyes wandered over her in a way that seemed more like a professional assessment than a personal inventory.

That was, until his gaze reached breast level. It would have been laughable at how fast his chin shot up except that he seemed...pained. Feeling that she’d witnessed some private part of him, she turned her attention to the lock.

Remy stepped back to give her room, taking all his lean good looks and masculinity a few inches away.

“Black wasn’t my natural color.” She let herself in and he followed slowly, closing the door as the bell jingled. She flipped on the lights. “See that photo of Heather and me?” She pointed to a shot her mother had taken of them on the front porch when they were about nine and ten years old, sharing a bowl of raspberries and wearing matching blue dresses. “That shade of red is my color. Heather still looks exactly the same, by the way.”

“That’s a great picture.”

“My mom has always been good with a camera.” It was one way Erin had been able to relate to her mother since Diana saw the world differently through the lens, where her perceptions weren’t quite as frenetic. Erin fired up the computer and turned on some music. “I’m surprised you’re here. I thought for sure I’d seen the last of you yesterday after you sprinted out the door.”

“About that—” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his sleek dark trousers. His white silk T-shirt probably meant it was a casual day for him, but since he wore it with a gray jacket, he still looked extraordinarily well put together. “I wanted to apologize. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and—” He shook his head as if he wasn’t sure where to go with that next.

“It’s no big deal,” she said, leaping into the conversational void to save him, or possibly herself. She didn’t need to hear anything overly personal about Remy. “I can imagine it must be difficult traveling away from home so often.”

Her eyes went surreptitiously to his left hand, bare of a wedding ring. Was it her imagination, or could she see a hint of a tan line there?

“That’s no excuse for bad business.” He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “I figured I’d deliver this personally so I could apologize. This is the contract and some information about how we film and what to expect.”

“Nice.” She reached for the papers, grateful for the counter between them. “I will look it over tonight.”

There was something incredibly appealing about his jaw, which sported a few days’ growth of beard, scruffy enough to keep him from being movie-star handsome. She wondered how many women threw themselves at him in his line of work.

“Erin.” He didn’t let go of the papers, his eyes locked on hers. Confusing the hell out of her.

What was this push-pull game he was playing and not just with the contract?

The bell on the shop door rang, the entrance banging open as a crying teen stepped inside the store. Erin and Remy jumped apart. Erin was about to ask the girl what was wrong, but the young woman’s green eyes landed on Remy.

“Daddy!” she wailed, rushing toward him. “Where have you been?”


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_15321bc8-6cb0-5eb4-b69c-bd31d489c540)

REMY COULDN’T PROCESS what he was seeing. His daughter, Sarah, inside Last Chance Vintage. Three states away from where he’d left her. She had held herself together better than he had after Liv’s death, so seeing her in tears stopped him cold, making every protective urge fire to life.

“Sarah? What’s wrong?” He opened his arms to her and she flew into them in a swirl of hair ribbons and high drama. “How did you get here?”

He met Erin’s shocked eyes briefly over his daughter’s head.

“I drove!” Sarah’s voice was high and impatient. She got angry more easily now than she had...before. “What matters is that Ms. Fairly will kill me for leaving the field trip unless you call her now and tell her that I’m with you.”

Sarah thrust her cell phone at his face.

Erin’s lips pursed in a disapproving frown. Who was she to judge his daughter? Or him, for that matter?

“Why did you leave the field trip?” He withdrew the phone from his daughter’s shaking fingertips while the store’s welcome bell chimed again. He glanced over. An older couple was entering Last Chance Vintage.

“Feel free to use my office if you want to talk more privately,” Erin offered, gesturing to the area where they’d met the day before. Excusing herself, she walked over to greet her customers.

Leaving Remy with his crying teen and completely out of his depth. Damn it. He’d struggled to force himself back into a routine after Liv had died, convinced something would happen to Sarah if he left town again. But Sarah’s counselor had been adamant that he wasn’t doing the teen any favors by coddling her. Yet, look what happened when he left?

“Sarah, come sit.” He drew her toward the back room. It wasn’t totally private, but he didn’t want to go to the car and be on display on the town’s main street. Plus, driving anywhere right now was out of the question. He couldn’t believe his just-turned-eighteen-year-old daughter had traveled well over five hundred miles by herself. Without telling him, let alone asking his permission. Hard to believe the girl who had once texted him eight times from cheerleading tryouts with updates on the final cuts would not even bother to discuss this trip with him.

He’d asked Sarah’s grief counselor about her risk-taking behavior a year ago, but at the time, the woman’s professional opinion had been that sporadically cutting class, lower grades and one nightmarish episode of underage drinking were “normal” teenage incidents. As a parent, how was he supposed to tell the difference?

“Can you just call Ms. Fairly?” Sarah blurted, twisting the end of her long, brown braid where it rested on one shoulder. “I thought you’d be at the bed-and-breakfast, so I went there first, hoping you could contact her before she found out I was gone. But now it’s getting late. I’m going to be in so much trouble unless you tell her I’m with you.”

Frustrated and trying his damnedest to keep a lid on it, he placed his hands on Sarah’s thin shoulders. Was it his imagination, or did Erin’s eyes track the drama in the back room while she helped her customer?

“In a minute. I’m not calling your teacher until I have the answers to the questions I know she’s going to ask me.” He set Sarah’s phone on the wooden counter that Erin used for a workspace. “Like why did you leave the field trip without my permission?”

She could have broken down on the way to Heartache. A pervert could have stopped under the guise of helping...

Remy’s chest constricted.

“That’s the thing.” Sarah swiped her eyes, which were a different shade of green than her mother’s had been. Her biological father was a high school classmate of Liv’s and he’d wanted nothing to do with Liv or Sarah after he’d found out Liv was pregnant. Later, the guy had used his computer skills to hack a system that should have been secured by the Department of Defense, and had been in jail for as long as Remy had known Liv. “Just tell her I had your permission. Like it was a family emergency or something and you left a message that she must have just missed.”

Remy heard Erin making small talk with her customers and greeting a few more who walked into the store. He watched her stride off toward the back to retrieve something off a nearby shelf. He kept his voice low as he spoke to his daughter.

“If you’re going to ask me to lie, I think I have the right to know why.” He’d really thought Sarah was on track with school after the bumps in the road at the end of her junior year.

Mouth falling open, she gave him a look that suggested he needed a brain transplant for asking the question.

“To see you!” She jabbed one finger onto the wooden workstation as if making a point. “How many times have you said you wished you could stay closer to home for your work?”

Guilt pummeled him even as he felt Erin’s gaze on him again. “It’s not easy, Sarah—”

“I get that.” She shrugged at him. “So I made it easy for you. I don’t need to be on that field trip since I don’t care about college. I want field experience in television and who better to shadow for a week than my own dad?”

Remy had spent enough years on the winning side of a conference table to recognize when he’d been beaten. Either his daughter had a great point or she’d just played him extremely well. But at this moment, it truly didn’t matter. She was here—five hundred miles from where she was supposed to be—and he didn’t have time to leave the job and personally escort her home. Just thinking about all the things that could have happened to her on the road alone threatened to send him back into another panic attack. His forehead broke out in a cold sweat.

“Remy?” Erin called from the other side of a clothing rack. “Can I talk to you for one quick second?”

He glanced up, in no mood to think about anything but Sarah at the moment.

Erin waved him over.

Stepping away from his daughter, he regretted having this discussion with Sarah here. He wasn’t thinking clearly.

“What?” He was terse, but not nearly as terse as he felt.

“I have no right to make a suggestion, but I’m going to advise you not to lie for her or she’ll never learn how to be accountable for her own actions.”

Remy shook his head. “Seriously? You’re giving me parenting advice? Do you have kids?”

She frowned. Bristled. “You looked like you were drowning. I thought I’d send you a lifeline since you didn’t seem to know what to do.”

And didn’t that just get on his last nerve? How many times had he struggled with not knowing how to string words together in the year after Liv had died? With losing his train of thought in the middle of talking? He thought he’d kicked both those problems pretty damn well, so it ticked him off that Erin was finding fault when he was holding it together just fine.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said between gritted teeth.

Her shoulders straightened. “Fine. I’m sure I know nothing about teenagers since I have no kids of my own.”

She stalked off, back ramrod straight.

He’d won that battle, but now he was going to have to make nice with Erin all over again if he wanted her to stay on board for the show. He turned back to Sarah and drew her deeper into the back room.

“Daddy, please,” she started, her pleading tone grating when he had already decided to do what she’d asked.

He just wasn’t going to lie for her.

“This discussion is not finished,” he barked at her. “I’m going to call Ms. Fairly and deal with that end of the problem, but I have a major issue with you deciding to leave school on your own. You may be eighteen, but you’re still under my roof, which makes you accountable to me for your actions. We’ll revisit that later.”

The relief on her face—her wide smile exactly like her mom’s—reminded him of when he’d first met Sarah as an outgoing eleven-year-old. She’d charmed him even then, inviting him to her dance recital after he’d applauded her pirouettes on Liv’s kitchen floor when he had visited their place to buy an original painting from the up-and-coming local artist—his future wife.

Later, her art had expanded to gardening and then perfumes, her creativity knowing no boundaries. Remy had wanted to give her every opportunity she’d never had growing up or while raising Sarah alone, so he’d tried to help her develop her talents.

On impulse, he leaned over to brush a kiss on Sarah’s forehead.

She maintained a weary, indulgent smile. “Seriously, though. My teacher will freak out unless you sweet-talk her.”

While Sarah punched in the number and dialed, Remy’s eyes found Erin. She was accepting an armful of clothes on hangers from a woman wearing a bright orange caftan and head scarf. He wondered what drove Erin to be such an activist even as he told himself to stay away from her. She was going to be on one of his television shows. Nothing more.

He didn’t appreciate her telling him how to parent his daughter when she had no idea what Sarah had been through. Bad enough the girl had a felon for a biological father. Now she had no mother and her adoptive father was coming up short on the parenting front.

He switched into father mode as Sarah’s teacher answered the call. He made excuses and apologies for Sarah’s absence, keeping his explanation as vague as possible until he’d had time to talk to his daughter’s counselor about their next move. He didn’t doubt for a minute that the school would expel her if she got into any more trouble, especially considering some of the stunts she’d pulled the year before. He would talk to her about it. Make sure she was level or send her back to the counselor.

Maybe it was just as well she was here where he could keep an eye on her since he was spending half his time worrying about her anyway. He couldn’t afford anything happening to her while he was gone—like another drinking episode. If Sarah was this serious about needing his attention, he planned to make certain she had it.

By the time he finished speaking to the teacher—assuring her he’d come in for a meeting to discuss the issue as soon as he returned to Miami—he noticed Sarah had her head down on the table, arms folded.

“All set,” he told her, passing back her phone.

Only to realize she’d fallen asleep right there.

Crap. Now what?

A stress headache promised to level him any moment now. He gripped his temples and squeezed tight.

“Everything okay?” Erin asked, appearing at the open entryway between the back room and the rest of the store.

She stared at Sarah and then at him, her new bronze highlights catching the overhead light. He told himself to pull it together. Now that Sarah had passed out on Erin’s table, there was no pressing need to get out of the store.

“I suppose everything is all right. Until the next crisis that comes with having a teenager.” He tucked Sarah’s phone in his pocket for safekeeping. “Sorry I didn’t get to introduce the two of you before she conked out. That’s my daughter, Sarah.”

Erin watched him with a wariness that he hadn’t seen in her before. She carried an armful of clothes on hangers.

“You’re married?” She spoke the words carefully, enunciating each syllable with an awkwardness that felt uncomfortable.

Or was that just his imagination? Sometimes he felt as though the whole world must know he was a widower, as if that grief had been permanently etched into his features at all times. He knew he should probably get out of Erin’s store and take Sarah with him, but finding out what his daughter had done had thrown him for a major loop. He was exhausted, and it wasn’t even noon yet. Besides, Sarah looked as though she could sleep for three days straight, her right arm pillowing her head and her braid draped over her chin.

Poor kid.

“I was married. My wife died two years ago.” Because of him. Even then, he’d been on the road too much. Was the answer to quit his job? To make sure Sarah was safe and stayed out of trouble for the rest of her senior year?

Too bad he couldn’t come close to affording it. He needed to work to bring his finances back in line to pay for Sarah’s college tuition.

Erin’s expression shifted in predictable ways. Empathy, sympathy, a trace of pity.

He’d become adept at picking out all three in people’s faces. More so once they’d heard how she’d died.

Something he would not be sharing today as he was still recovering from the shock of seeing Sarah. He brushed a hand across his forehead, the skin cold and damp.

“I’m so sorry.” Erin laid the garments on a credenza. “That must be hard for both of you.”

Her eyes went to Sarah, for which he was grateful.

“I thought she was doing better.” He watched his daughter’s shoulders rise and fall ever so slightly with each breath. “It’s tough to tell what behaviors are normal teen drama and what things are in reaction to her mom’s death—the things I should be watching out for.”

“So she drove herself all the way up here?” Erin filled a coffeepot at a utility sink against one wall. “From Miami?”

He noticed she hadn’t apologized for butting in regarding his parenting. Then again, maybe she wasn’t sorry.

“She was in Gainesville on a school trip.” Was Sarah really serious about wanting experience in television? He’d dismissed it in the past when she’d asked to join him, assuming she was merely trying to take a few days off from school. “That put her several hours closer. But still...she had to have been driving for nine hours.”

“No wonder she’s exhausted. Thank goodness she made it here safely. Want some coffee? I don’t know if you’re going to move her anytime soon.” Erin spooned coffee grounds into the machine, the storefront quiet for the moment except for Sarah’s light snores coming between measured breaths. “I’m surprised she knew to look for you here.”

“I gave her a rough itinerary before I left.” Thank God she was safe. He wanted to just stare at his daughter and rejoice in that fact. “And I did mention stopping by here to the woman who runs the bed-and-breakfast.” His voice was gravelly with exhaustion after these past few days. “And please, no need to make any coffee for me. I’ll get out of your hair as soon as I recover from the heart attack of seeing Sarah.”

“You’re staying at Heartache B and B?” Erin asked, flipping the switch that turned the coffeepot to brew. “Just so you know, telling Tansy Whittaker spreads news faster than Twitter in this town.”

The dry note in her voice made him smile in spite of the crap kind of day he was having.

“Today, that turned out to be a good thing.” He didn’t need Sarah getting any more upset. Her tears and worry were painful for him.

“Amen to that.” Erin nodded slowly, her blue eyes resting on Sarah again. “Is she your only child?”

“Yeah.” The sound of the coffee percolating filled the silence as it stretched, strangely comfortable, between them. He wished he hadn’t snapped at Erin, even if he hadn’t appreciated her advice. “I adopted Sarah when I met her mom. Actually, maybe Sarah adopted me first. She’s got a powerhouse personality. She’s all in when she likes someone.”

“My father was like that—very magnetic. He was the mayor of Heartache for almost fifteen years before he died.” Erin’s gaze shifted to his. “I always admired that charismatic side of him.”

“You were the mayor’s daughter while you were growing up?” Sarah’s phone buzzed with incoming messages, so he reached into his pocket to turn it off.

“Just during my teenage years.” Erin’s expression closed. She definitely wasn’t one to talk about herself. “So what are you going to do with her now that she’s here? Will you have to return home sooner than planned?”

“No.” He knew that much from discussions with her counselor in the past. It didn’t help the situation to adjust his life to suit her, even though families healing from grief sometimes did just that in an effort to ensure their kids never experienced any other obstacles. “I’m fortunate to have maintained my job despite long absences after Liv’s death. I can’t shortchange the show now.”

It was true enough, and it spared him from having to discuss the show’s loss of ratings and the need to bolster it to keep it afloat.

“At the risk of having you accuse me of overstepping, was your daughter having problems at school? Is that why she drove all this way to see you?” Erin reached into an overhead cabinet and pulled out two mismatched mugs and a sugar container.

“No. Actually, I don’t know. She’s been asking me not to travel as much, but I thought that was because she liked being at our place instead of staying with an older couple when I leave town.” Did he really know what had been going on at school lately? Maybe he had just figured no news was good news. “But now she says she doesn’t care about college and she wants to go into television, so it makes sense to watch me work firsthand. She does have spring break coming up, so...”

“Are you sure you don’t want some coffee?” Erin asked, pouring a cup for herself before the whole pot finished brewing.

“No, thanks. I should settle Sarah back into her own room at the bed-and-breakfast, I guess. I had checked out this morning, thinking I’d find a place on the road closer to my next stop, but maybe now that she’s here, it’ll be easier to make this my home base for a few more days. I can’t take her with me everywhere.” It wasn’t feasible. Sarah should understand that.

“Heartache makes a nice home base.” Erin added sugar to her cup.

Damn, but parenting was difficult.

“I know I overreacted when you were trying to help before—”

Erin narrowed her eyes. “Just because I don’t have kids doesn’t mean I’m clueless in the ways of teenagers.”

“Right.” He told himself not to get defensive. She hadn’t said his parenting sucked. Just that she wanted to help. “So now I’m asking for your opinion.” He needed to make nice with her, for one thing. And for another...he really was curious. “Do you really think her driving all the way up here means something’s wrong at school? I know you don’t know her well. I just wonder about your gut reaction. Does that sound like a red flag for a teenager?”

“I don’t know if it means problems at school, but if you want me to be totally honest...”

“Please.” He grabbed the empty coffee mug and poured himself a cup after all. He might need the caffeine to get himself through this day.

Erin stepped out of his way, giving him access to the sugar.

“Then honestly, it shouts red flag in my book. If not school issues, there could be friend trouble or boy problems. My niece went through a rough patch last year and I know that stuff causes kids a lot of stress. As we get older, we forget how life-and-death everything is at that age—the emotions, the fears...”

Remy gulped the scalding coffee.

“You’re right.” Damn it, he needed to figure out what was going on with his daughter.

“But I think it’s great she wanted to see you.” Erin sipped her drink out of a stoneware mug that looked as though it had been hand painted. “A lot of teenage girls wouldn’t turn to their fathers for help.”

Something about the way she said it suggested she would have never turned to her own father—the father beloved by all of Heartache. What had it been like growing up in such a small town in a well-known family?

He sighed. “Maybe she just knows who the pushover is.” He didn’t appreciate Sarah’s insistence that he “sweet-talk” the teacher. Worse, it bugged him that he’d done exactly that.

“I think it speaks well of your relationship.” Erin’s rings clanked against the mug handle as she set down the cup.

She wore a black dress today with a black vinyl apron that suggested she planned to do a bit of crafting. The short sleeves on her dress exposed a brightly colored tattoo. Vines twisted around one arm and disappeared up into her sleeve.

He must have taken too long to answer because he became aware of her staring at him.

“Is there anything else I can do?” she asked, making him realize he’d stood there too damn long, taking over her store and her office with his personal problems.

It must be the odd thread of attraction he experienced that had his feet rooted to the floor, but it had been nice having someone to talk to about Sarah’s behavior. Someone who wasn’t a shrink and didn’t connect everything in their lives back to Liv. A year ago, that thought would have felt disloyal to her memory. But now he owned it for what it was—plain and simple truth.

“No.” He set down the cup and straightened. “I’ll wake Sarah and get out of your hair.”

“There’s no rush—”

“I’ve imposed on your goodwill enough in the past few days.” He jammed his hands into his pockets to make sure things didn’t become more personal than they already were. “I’m glad you’re going to do the show, Erin. I’m not going to risk scaring you off now.”

He tested out the smile that worked with other people, but, true to form, it seemed to fall flat on Erin. She frowned.

“Remy, I’m scared off by slick, big-city manners, so please don’t feel you need to pile on the charm for my sake. If we’re going to work together, I’d rather know the real you than the television sham.”

And wasn’t that a wake-up call in his day?

“I’ve got a whole lot more real where this comes from.” He shook his head. “Too much.” He laid a hand on Sarah’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Come on, Sarah. Time to go.”





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/joanne-rock/nights-under-the-tennessee-stars/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.