For the Longest Time

 

 

“Castle delivers a fresh and honest story guaranteed to make you smile, laugh out loud, and even shed a few tears. I can't wait to read more.”

—bestselling author Candis Terry

THIS WAS NOT THE TRIUMPHANT RETURN SHE'D HOPED FOR.

Sam froze, unable to do anything but stare at the man looking sheepishly back at her. He was exactly how she remembered him. Except . . . he was nothing like she remembered him. Tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair that would always be a little spiky no matter how hard he tried to get it to lie down and hazel eyes the color of autumn leaves, Jake Smith had only improved with age. His face was more angular now, and the light growth of stubble on his jaw was a new, undeniably sexy addition. The last time she'd seen him, Sam realized, he'd still been a boy. Now there was no doubt he was a man. And even the torn jeans and flannel shirt couldn't disguise the fact that his body, which had once inspired thoughts her teenage self had been concerned meant she was a complete pervert, had filled out in all the right ways.

His smile was slow, warm, and more than a little incredulous.

He still has the dimples. Shit.

SIGNET ECLIPSE

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First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,

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Copyright © Kendra Leigh Castle, 2014

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ISBN 978-0-698-14171-1

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

 

 

For the misfits and the dreamers,

and especially for Sara, without whom I would never have found my voice

First and foremost, I'd like to thank Matthew Hamblen, the amazing artist whose work inspired me to write Sam Henry. I'm eternally grateful not only for his beautiful paintings, but for his honesty about the ups and downs of being a working artist. His art inspired mine, and I hope he continues making the world a bit brighter for many years to come. Thanks go, as always, to my amazing agent, Kevan Lyon . . . though this time even more than usual, because she'd encouraged me to try my hand at contemporary romance for years, and without her, I might never have gotten up the courage. Thanks as well to Kerry Donovan, my lovely editor, for taking a chance on me and being a joy to work with. And finally, thanks to my family for continuing to put up with me. I love you more than words can
say.

S
am Henry slouched farther down in her seat and took another swig of coffee from the enormous travel mug perched precariously half in and half out of her cup holder. She'd made it this far on what was left of her nerves. She could make it just a little bit farther. Sam kept her eyes fixed on the road in front of her, eyes narrowed behind oversize sunglasses as she passed historic homes that were usually written up as “charming” and “quaint” in travel magazines. Ten years living away, and she was already full of that creeping sense of paranoia that everyone was staring at her. “Everyone” at this point being a jogger, a couple of unsupervised kids whacking the hell out of each other with sticks in somebody's front yard, and an English bulldog that had given her a decidedly judgmental look as she'd rolled by its house.

Loser
, that look said. Right about now, she was inclined to agree.

This was not the triumphant return she'd hoped for. But when the combination of intense pressure, dwindling funds, and a roommate who'd decided to bail on the lease to become a high-priced call girl left you with a weeklong crying jag and an empty bottle of antidepressants, it was time to reevaluate what the hell you were
doing with your life. Preferably somewhere that included free room and board.

In her case, that was Harvest Cove, Massachusetts.

“Nobody's going to recognize me anyway,” she muttered to herself. What color had her hair been last time she'd dragged herself back here for some family function or other—pink? Black? She should be reasonably incognito now that she'd gone just a little lighter than her own naturally pale blond.

And she was kidding herself. This was Harvest Cove. She'd be recognized from a mile away, and by next week there would be a new spate of rumors about the return of the town's prodigal daughter. The best she could hope for was that at least a few would be entertaining.

Anything was more entertaining than the truth.

Sam tapped her fingers restlessly against the steering wheel, the black polish glinting with tiny red flecks in the golden light that had finally broken through the clouds. She made the turn from Hawthorne, which would have led her down into the village proper, onto Crescent Road, which traced the curve of the rocky little Massachusetts cove that her hometown had been nestled into since 1692.

Familiarity washed over her at the sight of the trees, complete with leaves of burning crimson and shades of gold, which arched over the narrow road to create a tunnel that was broken only by the entrances to the long driveways of those who lived here. To her right, the land rolled down to the sea between stately homes that had stood, in some cases for hundreds of years, against wind and salt and storm. The names on the mailboxes out here were still, mainly, ones that had existed in the Cove since its beginnings. Owens. Pritchard. Wentworth.

And, of course, Henry.

Sam blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes with a shallow puff of air and tightened her grip on the wheel as she turned in at the mailbox that bore her family's name. It was never hard to find, since the vibrant purple kind of stood out. It looked like her mom had recently repainted it. The thought of Andromeda Henry out here with her bucket of obnoxiously cheerful paint was the first thing that had brought a smile to Sam's face in days.

It was a big deal to live on the Crescent . . . unless you were a Henry. In that case, you were just the well-to-do's extremely eccentric and generally embarrassing cross to bear.

With the exception of her sister, Emma, “eccentric and embarrassing” seemed to be genetic. The burning desire to stay put, thankfully, was not. And as soon as she got her feet back under her, Sam thought, she'd be right back down the road and on her way. It had been a long time, but she wasn't stupid enough to think that things had changed here. Nothing
ever
changed here.

Still, as Sam pulled up the long gravel drive, she was unable to stop the overwhelming sense of relief that hit her as she got her first look at the house. It rose tall and stately against the backdrop of the sea and cloudy sky beyond, all arches and sharp angles, with a wide and inviting wraparound porch. The tower room and widow's walk still looked hopelessly romantic, even to a cynic like her, and despite its age and faded white siding, the house managed to be both grand and welcoming. This had been her family's land since the beginning, and somehow, it still managed to look more like home than her tiny apartment ever had.

That was part of the legend of the town, that the
original families were bound here, fated to return again and again just like the waves that crashed against the rocky shore. It was one of the reasons she stayed as far away as possible.

Fate, like most things about Harvest Cove, just pissed her off.

Her mom had painted the shutters to match the mailbox. Sam grinned and wondered how often the sight of them made flames shoot out of Emma's ears. Emma, as she liked to remind her wayward sister during their occasional phone calls, was a
respectable businesswoman
now. Sam guessed that meant the stick Emma seemed to have wedged up her ass was not painted this particular shade of purple.

Sam pulled around by the old carriage house that had long ago been converted into a garage, then parked. There was an unfamiliar pickup there alongside her mother's little yellow VW Beetle. She briefly considered wandering down to the water and hanging out until the company took off, then discarded the idea. News of her return would get around soon enough anyway. At least there was no way it was Emma. Whoever owned this truck seemed to enjoy driving through mud.

She killed the engine, sat for a moment, took a deep breath.

This is it
, she thought.
I'm back.

The urge to put the car in reverse and hightail it back out of town was tempered, more than she'd expected, by the thought of heading back to New York to continue beating her head against a seemingly endless series of brick walls.

The mild nausea she felt at even considering it had her opening the car door and planting her scuffed black
boots on the gravel. The tiny, high-pitched sound coming from somewhere nearby didn't even register until she'd heard it three or four times.

Mew
.

Sam frowned, shoving her sunglasses to the top of her head as she walked toward the sound, every footstep crunching loudly. She paused, waiting.

Mew
.

It seemed to be coming from underneath the muddy pickup, and it was definitely feline. A stray, maybe. Her mother hadn't had a pet since Cody, their big golden retriever, had passed away right before Sam had left for college.

She crouched down beside the truck and leaned over to try to get a look at what was underneath. A pair of bright green eyes peered back at her, looking much too large for the tiny black shadow they belonged to.

Whether it was the long trip, the fact that she'd been skirting the edge of a full-on breakdown for weeks, or just the sight of something even more pathetic—not to mention much cuter—than herself, Sam melted.

“Aww,” she heard herself coo. “You're just a kitten. Here, kitty. Come here.”

She reached under the truck, slowly stretching out her hand toward the crouching shadow and expecting little more than a hiss, and maybe something fun like tetanus for her trouble. Instead, she was surprised when she touched soft, warm fur, the kitten actually moving into her hand so she could draw it out.

It was little more than a ragged bag of bones, Sam realized as she pulled the kitten from beneath the truck. Pitch-black, with ears much too big for its head, it started to purr for all it was worth the instant she cradled it
against her chest, interjecting the occasional pitiful
mew
just in case Sam even considered putting it back down.

“Don't worry,” Sam told it, staring into bright green eyes she just knew were seeing a flashing
SUCKER
sign right in the middle of her forehead. She rubbed a finger behind its ear, felt a couple of tiny bumps, and winced.

“Oh, great,” she said. “Fleas.”

The male voice almost directly behind her startled her so badly she jumped with a muffled yelp, earning her a reproachful sound from the kitten and a warning prick of its claws through her T-shirt. However pathetic it looked, it wasn't completely helpless.

“Hey, Andi! The last one's out here!”

“Yeah, it's also embedded in my skin now. Thanks,” Sam said, turning to glare at whoever the genius was who'd thought it was a good idea to sneak up on a woman holding a cat and then shout.

“Shit. I mean, ah, sorry. Wasn't thinking. We were worried that one had crawled off and died. A couple of the others are pretty sick.”

Sam froze, unable to do anything but stare at the man looking sheepishly back at her. He was exactly how she remembered him. Except . . . he was nothing like she remembered him. Tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, with dark brown hair that would always be a little spiky no matter how hard he tried to get it to lie down and hazel eyes the color of autumn leaves, Jake Smith had only improved with age. His face was more angular now, and the light growth of stubble on his jaw was a new, undeniably sexy addition. The last time she'd seen him, Sam realized, he'd still been a boy. A beautiful boy, but a boy nonetheless. Now there was no doubt he was a man. And even the torn jeans and flannel shirt couldn't disguise the
fact that his body, which had once inspired thoughts her teenage self had been concerned meant she was a complete pervert, had filled out in all the right ways.

His smile was slow, warm, and more than a little incredulous.

He still has the dimples. Shit.

“Sam?”

She arched an eyebrow and, though it took every ounce of effort she had, looked blandly back at him. “Last time I checked.” Inwardly, she had to fight back her surprise. After their . . . well,
after
, it seemed like he'd forgotten she even had a name. She'd simply ceased to exist to him. And now he was here calling her mother
Andi
?

“Honey! I didn't know you were here!”

Despite the tension, Sam couldn't help but smile as Andromeda Henry came rushing down the porch steps and across the yard, her broomstick skirt whipping around her legs. Her mother's hair was escaping from the long braid that draped down her back, and her bangle bracelets glinted and chimed as she moved. She was as much a rush of color as she always was, a force of nature dressed like an aging gypsy.

“Hi, Mom” was all Sam managed to get out before she found herself enveloped in her mother's arms, one very unhappy kitten squished between them. Still, she found herself leaning into the embrace, shifting to prevent the wriggling kitten from getting smothered. She hadn't realized until just that moment how hungry she'd been for something as simple as a hug, or how long it had been since she'd been touched with honest affection.

Sad. But then, her life would have to be to have brought her back here with nothing more than an overstuffed
hatchback and a couple hundred bucks in her checking account.

Sam was appalled to feel the sting of tears when her mother stroked her hands over her hair and kissed her cheek, then pulled back to look at her with eyes that saw much more than she ever let on. The only thing that helped Sam keep it together was the determination that Jake Smith, of all people, was
never
going to see her cry. She'd done enough of that on his account years ago, not that he probably knew. Or cared. He'd never even kissed her.

But he held your hand. And he told you things he didn't tell anyone else. Because for a little while, you mattered to him. Well, he let you think you did.

She would have wondered why the gods would be so cruel as to shove him directly into her path on her first day back, but lately, the reasons for her lousy luck didn't seem to have any explanation more complicated than “because today is a day of the week ending in ‘y.'”

Suck it up, buttercup. Welcome to the rest of your life.

She didn't bother to look at him when her mother said, “You remember Jake, Sammy. He's a vet now, works with Dr. Perry. I called him to see if he could help me get a litter of kittens out from under the porch. I didn't even know they were there until yesterday, and there's no sign of the mother. He's going to take them back to the office and see what he can do for them.”

Only then did Sam notice the pet carrier at Jake's feet.

“There are five others,” he explained. “Not in great shape. I'm surprised the one you've got was strong enough to get out here. If they'd been much younger, they'd already be dead. I don't think the mother's coming back. Something must have gotten her.”

Sam stroked the back of the kitten's neck as it settled more comfortably against her. Jake was still looking at her like he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing, which wasn't a big surprise. Between the scuffed old boots, black leggings, long, rumpled black T-shirt and whatever state her hair was in at this point, she probably looked like she'd just rolled out of the nearest Dumpster.

Well, screw him. If he said anything snide she'd just act like Dumpster chic was the newest thing in New York. What did he know? At least she hadn't been rotting up here collecting flannel shirts.

But when he spoke again, he caught her off guard by being . . . nice. At least, she thought that was what he was trying to be. With him, she didn't really have a good standard for comparison.

“You must have the touch,” he said. “It came right to you?”

Sam shrugged, her cheeks flushing despite her best efforts to stop it. “I'm wearing a lot of black. It probably just thought we were related.”

He laughed, a lower, warmer sound than she remembered. “I'll have to try that next time. I got a few scratches for my trouble.”

She offered him a half smile before returning her attention to the kitten in her arms. He'd said its siblings were sick. Could this one be sick, too? Probably. And then there were the fleas, and who knew what else. She was swamped by a wave of protectiveness that caught her off guard. And there was Jake, former über-jock and King of the World, very helpfully reaching out his hands to take it from her.