Christie Ridgway – Keep On Loving You (страница 15)

Lie.

But he hadn’t intended it to happen, that was true. The opportunity had just presented itself as she moved her lips toward him, coming in for a cheek-swipe. Instead of offering up the side of his face, he’d cheated just a little and provided his mouth instead.

Sue him.

He hadn’t even tried any tongue.

But still, the kiss had been electric. Zing. Hiss. Wowza.

Mac had panicked, jerking away and staring at him through accusatory eyes. That won’t happen again, she’d said.

He’d responded with a shrug and left as he’d promised, happy enough that it had happened once. Not that he’d explained any of that. But why wouldn’t he be pleased that the old black magic had set off a spark? It only went to prove that his memory had not overelaborated all the sputter and steam that had been kissing Mac.

The flames and the burn that had been bedding Mac.

Best not to think about that now, though. He applied himself instead to helpings of an excellent lasagna, green salad and garlic bread. As the meal wound down, he tuned into the talk around the table. Then he had to turn to the woman on his right, Angelica, Brett’s wife.

“What cabins?” he asked in an undertone.

“Do you know about the mountain, the fire?”

He nodded. The Walkers owned a tract of land, the last from what their ancestors had purchased when they’d first arrived to log the mountains 150 years before. A small ski resort had been situated there, run by the family, which had burned to the ground when they were kids. “They’re rebuilding?”

“Can’t,” Angelica reported. “Their dad sold off the top of the mountain—”

“To a man who refuses to speak with us,” her husband said from the other side of the table. He must have caught the drift of Zan’s conversation with Angelica. “Victor Fremont.”

“No spitting,” Ryan put in, holding up a hand.

While no actual saliva was involved, the siblings turned their heads to the side and pretended to spit on the rug at their feet. Four shoes rubbed there and then four fingers made crosses over their respective hearts.

“May his days be cursed,” Poppy muttered.

Zan didn’t bother to suppress a grin. This was such a Walker thing. They were a ferocious band, and he’d reveled being associated with them when he’d lived here. Still, the explanation wasn’t completely clear. “Cabins?”

From her place at the end of the table, Poppy—hostess, mother, almost-wife, it still boggled the mind—leaned his way. “Don’t you remember? There are a dozen of them—now eleven—that have been sitting empty all these years. I came up with the brilliant idea to refurbish them and rent them out.”

High-end seclusion, she went on to explain. No Wi-Fi. Rustic surroundings with luxury bedding. Gourmet food and drink available for delivery.

“Sounds good to me,” Zan said.

“I know.” Poppy beamed. “We’re all on board—and excited.”

Near the other end of the table, Mac raised her hand. “Voice of reason calling.”

Poppy groaned and Shay and Brett frowned at her.

“Voice of pessimism,” Poppy grumbled.

Which was weird, Zan thought, as Mac talked about advertising and discoverability and maintenance costs—all communicating her clear doubts. Truly, as Poppy said, very pessimistic, which wasn’t like the old Mac at all. The old Mac had been full-speed-ahead, we-can-do-anything, let’s-put-on-a-show.

This Mac was... Maybe it was just maturity.

Angelica leaned close, speaking under the general conversation. “I wish they could find a way to regain the mountaintop property and rebuild the ski resort,” she said. “Let me show you the drawing that Brett did in college for a lodge.”

Pulling out her phone, she called up a photo on the screen, then passed the device over. Zan gazed down at the image, his fingers tightening on the pink plastic case. It brought him back. The three amigos—Brett, Mac and himself—lying in the grasses on the mountain peak, dreaming up a vacation destination from which families could hike or bike in the summer, spring and fall, and ski and sled in the winter months. They’d argued and debated and refined their idea time after time.

Brett had drawn it just as Zan remembered.

Maybe better than he’d imagined.

Pain radiated from his chest, and his throat felt strangled again. Shit, was he getting sentimental in his old age?

Feeling eyes on him, he looked up to see Mac was staring.

She abruptly stood, stacking a few plates, and headed to the kitchen with them. Without thinking, Zan followed with more dishes. There was some protest around the table, Poppy telling him he was a guest, but he just announced that he and Mac had the dishes.

Her back to him, she was already rinsing and putting items in the dishwasher. He saw her spine stiffen as he came up behind her.

Sheesh. So damn prickly, he thought, feeling another echo of that earlier pain. Where had his Mac gone, that fun-loving girl full of enthusiasm and zest for life? He wanted to find her inside this new hard shell.

As he put his dishes onto the counter, an idea came to him on the fly. “Hey, I have a proposition for you.”

“No.”

“A business proposition.” Which he immediately realized was how he should have couched it. And it was a sensible idea, really. If she complied, then he’d be able to dispatch his obligations here that much more quickly and get on with...whatever he was going to do next.

“No,” she said again.

Brat. “You don’t even know what it is yet.” And the more he considered it, the more necessary it was to him.

In the distance, he could hear the Walkers still talking around the dining room table. Arguing, really, and the kids were even getting into it. The sound of the good-natured squabble made him grin. He couldn’t let go of these people quite yet.

Walking out of here tonight might mean not seeing them again. But if he could get to Mac, that would get him a small toehold into their lives. Temporarily, yes, but he’d take it.

“I need some help at my grandfather’s place,” he said to her. “Clearing out belongings, sorting things, cleaning up so the house is ready to be put on the market.”

She’d gone still. “I suppose I could send over Tilda or one of my other employees...”

“Oh, it has to be you.”

Over her shoulder, she sent him a narrow-eyed glance.

He hoped he looked innocent. “I need your good advice on what should stay, what should go. You’d be good at that, since you’re in and out of other people’s homes around here all the time.”

She’d yet to reply when Shay came into the room, followed by teenager London. They halted, their gazes going between him and Mac, as if they sensed the tension between them.

“Um, everything okay?” Shay asked.

“Sure,” Zan said, all casual attitude. “I just presented a business opportunity to your sister and she’s mulling it over.”

“Mac’s mulling over a chance to make money?” Shay asked, in obvious surprise.

“It involves my grandfather’s house. I think she’s afraid—”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Mac retorted.

“Then I guess that means yes,” Zan said, on a smile.

It didn’t die until Shay brushed past him. “Dude,” she murmured. “You should be careful what you wish for.”

* * *

ASH ROBBINS HAD a few terms he liked to think described himself. Well educated was one, and he believed just about anyone would agree it fit, thanks to his parents’ money and his own pride in achievement. His name and hardworking had been mentioned in tandem more than once, and he’d also been taught to never stand on others to get ahead. He strove to be kind to everyone, small children and animals in particular.

His parents, successful and respectable John and Veronica Robbins, for twenty-two years by word and through example had raised their only son to become an upstanding, decent man.

He could only imagine their disappointment if they knew he was also a latent stalker.

Still, Ash’s gaze stayed glued to the back of Tilda Smith’s hair. Its waves bounced against her thin jacket. He frowned at that. While it was sunny today and the last weather event here in Blue Arrow Lake had been rain, there was snow on the higher peaks. It glistened between the evergreens on the mountainsides, and the breeze wafted like frosty breath across his face.

Tilda should be dressed more warmly.

She turned a corner and he hurried, instinct pushing him to keep her in sight while still maintaining distance. Something about the girl was like floating dandelion fluff, a rainbow-hued bubble passing in the air, that great idea hovering at the edge of your mind that you’d lose if you reached for it too quickly or grasped too greedily once your fingers closed around it.

If he wanted her, he had to take great care.

And yeah, he wanted her.