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“It’s working. And it’s probably a lesson you need. Bite-size morsels like you shouldn’t chase after the big bad wolf.”
She surprised him by taking a sudden step forward, nearly erasing the remaining gap between them. “I grew up with two older brothers who taught me not to back down in the face of bullies, so save your bluster for someone else. I don’t think you’re that big or that bad.”
You’re wrong. But her clear gaze was so piercing that for a second he almost couldn’t find his voice. “Arianne, you’re a Mistletoe native. I know you’ve…Whatever you’ve heard about me, it’s probably true.”
It was a minor victory that she looked away first.
But she regrouped, meeting his eyes as she asked softly, “Why do you stay?”
He stiffened. “None of your damn business.”
“Because if you feel like you, I don’t know, maybe owe something to—”
“Drop it.” The words came out in a low growl.
Her eyes widened and, for a change, she listened. She kept her mouth shut as he crossed the few feet of asphalt from where he’d stood to his truck.
He should’ve known it was too good to last.
“Will you at least think about helping with the festival? For the good of the town?” she implored.
“No.” He unlocked his door.
“How about this?” She played her ace. “You help Quinn slap together a couple of booths, and I promise never to disturb you again.”
When you put it like that…Feeling unfairly beleaguered and somehow years older than when he’d arrived for lunch half an hour ago, he slapped his hand on the side of the truck and looked back at her.
Arianne offered him a beatific smile.
Against his better judgment, he heard himself say, “I’ll think about it.”
SUNDAYS WERE THE ONLY DAY of the week Gabe didn’t work, so it was the perfect time to catch up on mundane errands. Like grocery shopping. Surveying his barren kitchen pantry, he mentally cursed himself for not remembering to pick up coffee sooner. He debated whether there was enough left to make a full two cups, then opted instead for one really strong mug to kick-start his morning.
Twenty minutes later, he got in the pickup truck and headed for town. There was only one main grocery store in Mistletoe, and it had a huge parking lot to accommodate as many citizens as possible. Right now the lot was nearly empty. Most people were either taking advantage of the weekend to sleep in or at church.
Gabe had once considered visiting one of the town’s houses of worship, wondering if he could find…what, redemption? But he’d decided to spare both himself and the good folks of Mistletoe the discomfort. Shay’s parents were both Sunday school teachers at the Baptist church; the Methodist church was where Gabe’s own parents had been married. He’d been told his mother had been a soprano in the choir, and as a boy, Gabe had liked to imagine she’d once sung to him, even though there’d been little more than a week between his birth and her death.
He grabbed a cart on the sidewalk and propelled it toward the automatic entrance doors. First stop, coffee aisle. Moving purposely through the store, he piled staples into the cart: ground beans, filters, steaks, juice, cereal, new razor blades, eggs and cheese. He was en route to the freezers and his one major vice—besides coffee, of course—when he had the unpleasant prickling sensation of being watched. Slowly he turned, half expecting Arianne Waide to wave at him from a soft drink display. If that were the case, he vowed he’d put an end once and for all to—
His stomach tightened, then dropped about ten feet. “Sir.” Gabe swallowed, hating the arctic glare of Jeremy Sloan’s pale eyes, but unable to look away.
What is he doing here? Gabe’s father should have been in some congregation pew among his righteous brethren, not skulking the aisles of the Mistletoe Mart.
“Gabriel.” The older man spoke without the banked anger Gabe remembered. Instead his tone was flat.
Gabe floundered for a response.
How’ve you been, Pops?
I see you’re eating the same brand of cereal after all these years.
Still hate me?
Gabe had shifted his gaze to the contents of his father’s cart because it seemed far more innocuous than looking at the man who’d dutifully raised him but never warmed to him. Yet now that Gabe took a closer look, the groceries he saw sent a ripple of foreboding through him. Cereal, a large can of coffee, some ground round, dairy, orange juice and shaving supplies. So what? We both drink coffee and eat red meat. I’m nothing like him.
Not in the ways that mattered anyway. Their physical, superficial resemblances were undeniable. The same icy eyes, too devoid of color to be called blue; the same tall, muscular frames. Though Jeremy was fast approaching sixty—and showed it in every bitter line on his face—he was undoubtedly stronger than a lot of men in their forties.
Jeremy cleared his throat. “Need to get this milk and cheese home. Into the fridge.”
Gabe nodded, feeling both relief and anger when his father turned to go. But the anger was more of a remembered, phantom emotion—a holdover from the past—than what he was experiencing now. The truth was, encounters with his own parent were in some ways more painful than the times Gabe ran into Shay’s parents. Gabe was grateful the awkward moment had passed so quickly.
He progressed to the frozen-foods section and grabbed a gallon of Breckfield Banana Crème ice cream. With effort he managed not to look over his shoulder. Even if he caught you buying it, so what?Gabe was no longer a child who could be scolded for smuggling sweets into the house.
I don’t want to see you dishonoring your mother’s memory by eating that sugary garbage, boy. Diabetes is hereditary.
Beth Ann Sloan’s diabetes had fatally complicated her post-Cesarean infection. Gabe had grown up unsure whether his father blamed the disease or the baby who’d been brought into the world from that C-section.
A surge of negative emotions rose in him, and Gabe added a half gallon of chocolate ice cream to his buggy. He was reaching for a pint of home-style vanilla when he stopped himself with a sigh. Was he going to let seeing his father reduce him to the level of a rebellious twelve-year-old, or finally grow a pair and decide not to care that his own flesh and blood couldn’t stand the sight of him?
He put back the chocolate and moved on to the next row.
Moving on. Now there was an idea. It wouldn’t have to be fleeing Mistletoe with his tail tucked between his legs—no one’s opinion here mattered enough to run him out of town—but simply leaving for a fresh start. As early as middle school, he’d started dreaming of college. Going somewhere, anywhere, away from his father.
Arianne Waide appeared in his mind just as abruptly as she’d materialized at the barbecue house earlier this week. Why do you stay? she’d asked. Good question. Granted, college scholarships had ceased to be an option after the deaths of Shay and Roger Templeton. Gabe had graduated by the skin of his teeth, but high school had been a long time ago.
Gabe told himself that he didn’t care about the past. Could he let himself care about a future?
Chapter Four
“I hate to say this because you’ll probably let it go to your head,” Quinn teased, “but your advice was absolutely spot-on.”
“That’s because I’m wise beyond my years.” In the crowded lot outside the Dixieland Diner, Arianne narrowly squeezed her car into a space between an oversize truck and a sedan that had parked crookedly. “I should run for mayor.”
Quinn unfastened her seat belt with a chuckle. “This is sort of what I meant by letting it go to your head.”
Meeting for Sunday brunch was a semiregular tradition for the two friends, and Arianne had known as soon as she’d seen the other woman’s bright smile that Quinn had finally talked to Patrick Flannery. On the drive to the diner, Quinn had said he’d agreed to help with the festival; he’d even admitted that he’d been looking for a way to get more involved and meet people in the community but hadn’t known where to start. Quinn had casually mentioned that they could discuss the festival more over dinner this week.
As they got out of the car, Arianne asked, “So are you grateful enough for my suggestion that you’re buying?”
“On a teacher’s salary?” Quinn snorted. “Dream on.”
“When I become mayor, I’ll see what I can do about getting you guys pay raises.”
“I’d laugh, except part of me thinks you’ll actually run someday and probably talk me into being your campaign manager.”
Grinning, Arianne turned to look at her friend, but she forgot what she was going to say when she noticed the red pickup truck driving past the diner. Gabe. Her heart beat faster, and she had one of those annoying flashback moments she’d been experiencing for the past few days. In random moments—as she drifted to sleep, or when the shop bell rang and she thought it might be him coming into the store—she would relive their last conversation, when they’d been toe-to-toe and she could feel the heat coming off his body. When she’d been deliciously uncertain whether he’d been about to shake her or kiss her.
All right, that last part might have been a fanciful embellishment. Gabe showed no signs of wanting to kiss her, and he was too aloof to shake anyone. If he’d once been swept away with passion over a married woman, he’d learned from his mistakes.
Quinn followed her gaze. “Isn’t that—”
A squeal of tires interrupted her question. Although the pickup hadn’t been going that fast, Gabe had apparently decided at the last minute to make the left-hand turn.
“He’s coming toward us,” Quinn whispered.
Arianne nodded, watching wide-eyed as he navigated the crowded parking lot and finally rolled to a stop a few feet away from them.
He crooked his finger out the open window and beckoned toward them. Under other circumstances, Arianne might have scoffed that she wasn’t the type who could be summoned like that, but there was no chance she would deny her raging curiosity. Both women exchanged puzzled glances and walked forward.
After Arianne’s last meeting with Gabe, he’d seemed more likely to peel out in the opposite direction than pursue her. Unless he’d deduced her plans to follow up with him later in the week and was making a preemptive strike, she couldn’t imagine what he wanted to discuss.
“Hi, Quinn.” Gabe called out a relaxed greeting that ignored Arianne entirely. Except that his gaze was locked with hers.
“H-hi.”
He continued in that same easy tone that didn’t match the banked intensity of his eyes. “Your friend tells me that you could use a hand. With the fair.”
Quinn couldn’t quite mask her surprise; Arianne didn’t bother trying. Her mouth fell open. She’d planned to wear him down, but she hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. Damn, I’m good.
“That’s right,” Quinn said. “The fair’s October 24, and we would appreciate any help you can give us getting ready.”
“Two weeks,” Gabe muttered, almost to himself. Then he nodded. “I should be able to make that work.”
Make it work? Was he still talking about the festival?
Recalling the times her mom had used a good meal to coax conversation from reluctant men, Arianne invited, “Why don’t you join us for breakfast and we can talk about the fair some more?”
“No. Thank you,” he added with a polite nod toward Quinn. “Got groceries in the back.”
“We won’t keep you then,” Quinn said.
Speak for yourself. “Quinn, would you mind putting our names down for a table? I’ll be there in just a second,” Arianne promised.
Quinn nodded without hesitation, but Arianne knew her friend would be full of questions once they were alone. As soon as Quinn walked away, Arianne’s gaze snapped back to Gabe, his pull on her practically tangible. She sighed inwardly. Why are the hot ones emotionally unavailable?
“I’m glad you’ve changed your mind about the fair,” she said. “When did you decide to help?”
“About three minutes ago,” he said. “I was on my way home, thinking about something you said the other day.”
“Yeah?” She went tingly and warm with pride.
He stared through his windshield. “You asked why I stayed.”
She’d suggested that maybe he felt, deep down, as if he owed something to the town. Maybe he was ready to extend an olive branch. Naturally Arianne would help. It was far past time for Gabe Sloan and the citizens of Mistletoe to—
“So I’m leaving,” he said on an exhale.
“What?”
He nodded, his expression calm and inching closer to happy than she’d ever seen. Even if he still hadn’t smiled.
“I’ll help with this fair—why not? It’ll be like my parting gift,” he said wryly. “And then I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.”
“SO WHAT’S THIS I HEAR about Gabe Sloan trying to run down my sister in the Dixieland parking lot?” Tanner Waide mock-growled as he stepped inside the supply store on Monday morning.
Arianne paused in the act of stocking the register drawer with bills and coins, glancing toward the door that led to the private office in back. “Shh! You know better than to make dumb comments like that with Mr. Overprotective on the premises.”
Tanner approached the counter, chuckling. “Please. You actively seek out opportunities to provoke Dad into worrying so that you can argue with him about how capable you are.”
“Hey.” She shot him an indignant look. “You forget, I matured during the years you were away from Mistletoe. I don’t intentionally pick fights.” Sometimes they just happened to occur in her vicinity, usually because others were having a hard time seeing reason.
Her older brother raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
“Did you stop by just to harass me?” she wanted to know.
“No, I promised David I’d come by to go over some first-quarter projections.” Although Tanner, who’d formerly worked as a financial bigwig in Atlanta, wasn’t a full-time employee of the family store, he did help with their books.
“David’s running late,” Arianne said. “Apparently the baby had a very fussy night.”
Tanner set down his briefcase. “Guess I’ll have a cup of coffee while I wait and harass you after all. So…anything going on between you and Gabe Sloan?”
“Yes, I asked him to help set up the fall festival and he agreed.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s all very tantalizing. Are people still so suspicious of him that they’re paying attention to his every conversation? Because we spoke at a public place in broad daylight. I can’t imagine that makes for very interesting gossip.”
Cocking his head to the side, Tanner regarded her thoughtfully. “Actually, I heard about it when I ran into Shane McIntyre at the gas station this morning, and I’m pretty sure his interest was in you, not Sloan—but your wildly defensive attitude is intriguing.”
“Oh.” She looked down, not sure what to say. Maybe it would be better to keep your mouth shut for a change of pace.
“It’s funny,” Tanner added, “but when you got angry about people being ‘suspicious’ of him, you sounded almost as overprotective as you accuse Dad of being.”
Could Gabe use someone to speak up in his defense? Her parents had tried to shield her young ears from the initial gossip, so other than being peripherally aware of the Templetons’ deaths and Gabe’s rumored connection, Arianne was vague on details. Who had Gabe been friends with when he was in high school? Had anyone stuck up for him? Had Mr. Sloan tried to shield his only child?
“Ari?”
“Sorry, not a morning person.” She pointed toward the back office. “Better bring me some of that coffee, too.”
He gave her a knowing, lopsided grin. “Was that your way of dismissing me?”
“I always said you were the smart brother.”
“What’s that make me?” David asked, once the copper bell above the door had heralded his arrival. “The good-looking one?”
Tanner snorted. “Out of sympathy for your rough night, I won’t even point out how ridiculous that statement is.”
As their older sibling got closer, Arianne saw just how uncharacteristically rumpled he was. David had tucked his wrinkled shirt into khaki slacks but had forgotten his belt. His brown hair, while still shorter than Tanner’s, had outgrown its normal cut and there were dark circles under his Waide-blue eyes. But even the lines of fatigue on his face couldn’t erase his obvious joy at being a parent.
“Got new pictures of my niece?” Arianne asked. It had become their morning ritual.
He tossed her his cell phone, which she caught one-handed. “Took one right before I left. She looked…Angelic is the only word for it.”
