In the Mood for Love (8 page)

“This should be good.”

It would definitely be a first.

Sam flexed his fingers as he turned onto Fox Lane.
Sweaty palms?
He angled the rearview mirror and glanced at his reflection. He’d nicked his jaw trying for a closer shave than usual and the creases fanning from the corners of his eyes were pronounced due to a sleepless night. He swore he spied a gray hair and that it had sprouted just this morning compliments of a war raging between Ben and Mina.

In truth, aside from the shaving injury, Sam looked like he did every day. He’d never been leading-man handsome. Not even ten years and two kids ago. He’d always been rough around the edges. Solidly built with rugged features. Although some women—like Paula—went for the unconventional. Other women—like the several he’d speed-dated last month—seemed enamored by his single-dad status. They praised his devotion to his children, thought it was admirable and sexy. He should have been charmed or at least intrigued. They’d expressed motherly tendencies as well as interest in Sam’s hobbies and goals. They’d probed to find his softer side, attempted to connect emotionally.

Unlike Harper who’d only wanted Sam for kinky sex and his mad (as she called them) carpentry skills. Their relationship was this side of warped and yet he’d suggested marriage without a second thought. Without discussing it with the kids first. Typically, he was more grounded, more cautious, more sensitive to the long term.

Fact: Harper wasn’t keen on being a mom.

Fact: Harper had no interest in, or was incapable of, an emotionally intimate relationship.

Hello, train wreck.

Or maybe not.

Sam couldn’t shake his discussion with Rae. She’d suggested breaking with convention, being adventurous. Considering future bliss with cayenne pepper as opposed to maple syrup. The military had trained him to rely on his gut and his gut screamed Harper.

There was also the sense that she was running from someone or something. Yeah. There was that.

Sam focused back on the road, tensing as the Rothwell Farm came into view. It’s not like he had to impress, seduce, or court the enigmatic publicist. She wasn’t marrying him for his looks, wit, or charm. She was marrying him for a green card. Still, he’d changed clothes three times before deciding on a white open-collar shirt and his go-to-teacher-conference jeans. He hadn’t second-guessed his appearance on any one of a dozen dates he’d been on in the last month. Why he was sweating a sure thing was a mystery.

Or maybe he was sweating because this
was
a sure thing.

Even though he’d spent the night wrestling with a hundred reasons not to marry Harper Day, he had no intention of backing out. He was haunted by that kiss, by the hint of a deeper connection, by the glimpse of a woman with heart. Try as he might, he couldn’t block the image of her fighting back tears and struggling to breathe. That vulnerability had snaked through his blood as sure as her signature perfume.

It was the image he had in his head as he parked the truck then scaled the porch. An image that shattered as soon as she opened the front door. She was talking on the phone and she held up a finger signaling Sam to give her a minute or ten. Something she’d done a million times before. Just one of her irritating habits.

“I know I missed the premiere. Yes, of course I know it was a big deal. Sapphire, I…” Harper rolled her eyes and fell back, motioning Sam to step inside.

Instead of moving into the living room and taking a seat while she finished her business, he hovered in the foyer, making it clear he was waiting. Even so, background chatter prompted him to look into the next room over. The chatter came from the TV—a journalist and a cop.

Once again
Hollywood Access
had lost out to CNN.

Huh.

Harper continued to pacify her client.

Sam glanced at his watch. One o’clock. He signaled Harper to wrap the call.

She turned her back while trying to state her case. Only Sapphire—whoever she was—wouldn’t allow Harper a word in edgewise. The woman—a celebrity client, he assumed—was ripping Harper a new one. Sapphire’s voice was so shrill and loud, Sam heard about every third word, most of them foul. And here he thought only marines utilized
fuck
as a verb, adjective, and noun.

“Have I not been there every other time you needed me?” Harper interjected. “What about that glitch with paparazzi? I…”

Sam stuffed his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and admired the curvy publicist’s backside. Overall, Harper had a body to die for. Although Sam appreciated her stylish wardrobe, he liked her best in the raw. Call him a dog, but he liked Harper naked. Naked now would be good. He had a major case of blue balls.

She turned and caught his gaze.

He knew, without a doubt, if he chucked her phone under the sofa and hauled her into his arms, she’d be hot and ready for a go against the wall. Tempting. But also distracting.

Sam glanced at his watch and mouthed, “One-oh-five.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sapphire,” she said calmly to the woman while glaring at Sam. “Maybe we could revisit … I’m sure I can spin that…”

Ah, yes. Harper doing what she did best. Smoothing ruffled feathers. Fixing someone’s problems. Taking control. No trace of the panicked woman who’d lost it the night before. Harper in full Harper mode. He knew her well enough to know this could go on forever. But he also sensed a new element of desperation that rubbed him the wrong way. Why was Harper, a woman who bent over backward for clients, essentially begging mean-spirited, foulmouthed Sapphire to give her a second chance?

Sam turned on his heel. If Harper wouldn’t end the verbal abuse, he would.

“Wait,” Harper said. “Hold on … Sam!”

He looked over his shoulder, saw her holding the phone to her chest.

“Where are you going?”

“We had a date.”

“I know. I’m coming. Just—”

He opened the door then walked out.

“Dammit,” she blurted. Then … “I’ll get back to you, Sapphire.”

Sam didn’t know how Sapphire felt about being cut off. He didn’t care. One thing he’d learned during the time he’d spent in Harper’s company was that most of her clients were has-beens, one-time-wonders, or reality stars. Most of them were self-absorbed and reckless. All of them were needy. He’d never understood why Harper wasted her time putting their train-wreck lives back on track. Maybe he’d ask her today. Burning question number ninety-five.

That’s if this date ever got off the ground.

Just as he reached the truck, he heard the front door slam. He turned and saw Harper eating up the stone path in her shiny yellow heels. She was wearing a short, flowery dress and a snug yellow sweater. Her long dark hair bounced around her perfectly made-up face. She was gorgeous. And angry.

“What the hell, McCloud? You’d break our date just because I’m running late?”

“I suggested noon. You said one would be better. It’s one-ten.”

“What are you, the Time Nazi?”

Sam opened the passenger door and helped her up into the truck. His gaze lingered on her long legs as she set aside her massive pocketbook and buckled in. “Why did you let her talk to you like that?”

“Like what?”

“She was screaming at you, Harper. Berating you. I’d have to be deaf not to overhear.”

“Sapphire’s high-strung to begin with and I let her down.” She frowned. “I’ve let a lot of people down lately.”

“Doesn’t sound like you.”

“Haven’t been myself for the last month.”

“Why’s that?”

She broke his gaze, stared at the dashboard. He’d never known her to be at a loss for words, but she was struggling now. She clasped the silver bracelet around her wrist. Twirled it once, twice. “You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Try me.”

Sam stood rooted, his body positioned between the open door and Harper’s wired body. He was keen to her every twitch. Saw the moment anxiety reared. Now she was staring out the window, mind spinning. Along with that bracelet.
Twirl
.
Twirl.
“You look pretty,” he said.

An unexpected compliment that snatched her out of her daze. Exactly what he wanted.

“I like your dress,” he added when she looked at him quizzically. Which sounded lame and awkward, even though he meant it.

She arched a brow and smirked. “No offense, Rambo. But no wonder your recent string of dates bombed. You suck at casual flirtation.”

He skated over the teasing insult. Besides, it was true. “Who told you about my recent dates?”

“Daisy. She keeps me apprised of all Cupcake Lover issues.”

“My social life has no bearing on the Cupcake Lovers.”

“You’re kidding, right? You’re in the limelight alongside every CL involved in the recipe book.”

“About that—”

“I’m sure any one of those prospects would have made a better wife and mother than me,” she said, getting back to his dates.

“Maybe.” If Harper was jealous or resentful, she didn’t show it. But Sam detected a hint of annoyance. Interesting, since she’d been the one to end their affair. “But you’ve got something they don’t.”

“Kinky urges?”

“My attention.”

*   *   *

Harper held it together as Sam drove them into Sugar Creek. A twenty-minute jaunt that felt like eternity. She alternated between checking her phone for texts and fingering her Serenity bracelet. She helped herself to his radio, dialing in cheery pop music to offset her darkening mood. She asked Sam to play tour guide, even though she was familiar with the area. Anything to distract her from morbid thoughts. Turned out he knew far more than she did about Sugar Creek and the surrounding land. Then again he’d lived here his entire life. She wondered what it felt like to love a place so much, you never wanted to leave. Harper had never felt rooted in that way, although she’d always had an affinity with the Rothwell Farm. Which prompted the question:
After they married, where would they live?
The farm was her safe haven and she had unfinished business with Mary. She didn’t want to move out. She’d just moved in!

Harper fingered her bracelet, tempered her breathing. “How is this going to work exactly?”

“The marriage?”

“No,
lunch.
” Okay. That was snarky. But it had also been reflex. She’d learned to protect her heart by pushing people away.

Sam shot her one of his wicked death stares. “Why don’t you shelve the sarcasm and tell me what’s twisting you up?”

Harper stiffened her spine. “I’m not fond of sharing my … personal misgivings.”

“Welcome to the club. What’s with the bracelet?”

Self-conscious now, Harper stopped twirling the bangle. “You know how some people stroke rosary beads as a way of meditation? Same concept.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“No.”

“Religious?”

“Not particularly.” Although the underside of her bracelet was inscribed with the Serenity prayer. “You?”

“I take the kids to church.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Sam rolled back his shoulders. “My faith has been tested over the years, so I’m a little shaky on my exact belief.”

Same as her.

The awkward confession pulled Harper out of her self-absorbed misery. While decorating the farmhouse, Rocky had shared stories about her family, including bits about Sam. Harper knew he’d lost his first wife to ovarian cancer. That it had been an intrusive, lengthy battle and that Sam had been devastated when Paula had died. Harper assumed that crisis had shaken his faith. She’d gone through a similar shock with Andrew.

Although Andrew’s fate, along with another, could have been avoided.

If only Harper had intervened.

Pulse racing, she shook off the memories, the guilt. That was Edward talking.

Because she didn’t want to mention Andrew, she didn’t ask about Paula. Instead she turned up the music.

Sam shut it off.

She focused on her phone.

Sam took it away.

“Dammit, McCloud—”

“The CLs mentioned you haven’t been in town since you’ve been back. That you’ve had your meals and supplies delivered to the farm. Why is that?” When she didn’t answer, he pushed. “You mentioned letting a lot of people down. Your clients? Why did the firm let you go?”

Harper balled her fists in her lap. She wanted to massage her aching chest. She wanted to stroke her bracelet. She wanted to punch Sam. But none of that would soothe her brewing anxiety.

The small town of Sugar Creek, with its quaint buildings and cobbled streets, loomed just ahead. She spotted the steeple of the Methodist church, the red-brick façades of the two- and three-story shops. The numerous trees populating the manicured parks and lawns and the green mountains that served as a verdant backdrop helped to create an old-fashioned scene reminiscent of a folk art painting. While the vision as a whole was serene, Harper’s pulse skittered with dread.

Though the local population was small, Sugar Creek attracted hordes of tourists. Mostly they took advantage of the outdoor recreation—biking, hiking, skiing, snowmobiling—depending on the season. But in between they explored the delightful shops and restaurants. They relaxed in the town square. Stocked up on groceries at Oslow’s General Store. Bought necessities at J. T. Monroe’s Department Store. Took advantage of the wireless Internet in Moose-a-lotta—just one of the draws of Chloe and Daisy’s kitschy café. They dined and socialized at the Sugar Shack, a popular pub owned by Rae’s husband, Luke.

The more Harper thought about the crowds and strangers, people who could have a gripe, or a death wish, or a mental problem … People who could act out in any way at any time, the greater her anxiety. She envisioned having a full-blown panic attack as Sam escorted her into a restaurant. The possibility served a brutal blow to her pride. She’d been so sure she had a grip on her phobia.

“Turn around,” she said, adding, “Please,” and cursing her strangled tone.

Sam cast her a glance. Not one of his stern glares, but a look of concern. It messed with her stubborn determination to fight her own battles. An unsettling first.