From the Start (36 page)

“No.”

“You really like my sister.”

“I do.”
Really-
really.

“Okay, then.”

“And if you want to pass that message around to all the male Walkers, be my guest.”

Logan laughed, and Colton reached for the shoes once more.

“Hey, sidenote: Kate sent me the first few chapters of your book. It’s some seriously good stuff.”

He tied the laces of Bear’s shoes. “I didn’t know she was sending it to you.”

“Eh, we’re both writers. We trade material a lot. It’s almost weird reading it, because I know Kate wrote the bulk of it, but it sounds so much like you.”

“She’s talented.”

“And you’ve spent a lot of time together. You’d have to for her to capture your voice so well.”

But that was part of Kate’s gifting—she was good not only at telling stories, but at sensing them, hearing them. Drawing a person out. Look at what she’d done with Megan.

“Anyway, I have a feeling this thing’s going to be huge for you once it’s published. It’s going to make a splash.”

Colton leaned back against Bear’s leather couch, the same niggle of concern that’d been needling him for a few days now—especially in the past twenty-four hours—pricking him again. “Thing is, I’m not all that convinced I want it to make a splash.”

He heard Logan whispering to Charlie on the other end. Something about crayons and not drawing on the kitchen table. Then his voice again. “Explain.”

“Ever since the injuries, the new goal of this book turned into reviving my career, putting me back in the spotlight. But that might not be what I want. Not anymore. Truth is, I’m not sure why I’m even doing the book at this point.”

“I guess I get that. Celebrity’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve worked around politicians enough to know that. And yet, you do have a story, Colt. Don’t you think it’s worth telling?”

Not if it meant killing his chances at having a normal life—the kind of life he’d experienced the past month. All those things Amelia had mentioned during her interview—book tour and signings and publicity events—slipping back into that kind of life held about as much appeal as roasting in a polyester suit on a ninety-five-degree day.

Once upon a time he might’ve craved notoriety or success lived out in the public eye. But there wasn’t a happily ever after to be had there. He was sure of it.

“Maybe the more important question is, if you drop the book, what are you going to tell Kate?”

And that right there—that was the question that’d made getting any kind of real sleep this afternoon almost impossible.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s times like these I’m glad everybody knows everybody in Maple Valley.” Kate touched the handkerchief Colton had used as a blindfold. “If we were somewhere else and people saw this, they’d think a kidnapping was in progress.”

Her right hand was enfolded in Colton’s as he led her from the car. A teasing wind tickled her nose.

“Careful. Curb.”

Colton guided her up the curb and down a sidewalk toward who knew where. He’d insisted on the blindfold before they left Megan’s, where he’d picked her up. She’d argued for all of fifteen seconds before giving in. Because it was just too hard to say no to the man when he wore that blue shirt that did amazing things to his already amazing eyes. And when he smelled of spicy aftershave. And when his drawn-out “please” was accompanied by twin dimples.

“I don’t know, though, Rosie. For this to really look like a kidnapping I’d probably need to have a weapon of some kind instead of a blanket.”

Yeah she’d wondered about that blanket he’d borrowed from Megan. Picnic? But there were few picnic areas unaffected by the flood.

Leaves crunched under their feet until Colton’s steps slowed. “All right.” He released her hand and moved behind her. She felt his hands near her hair as he worked the knot of the blindfold.

“It’s a good thing Megan and Ava didn’t see you tying that thing over my hair. They fought with my hair for an eternity trying to get it to behave.” Ava had completely surprised her when she’d showed up on Megan’s doorstep a couple hours ago.

“
Raegan sent me. I’ve got clothes, hair
supplies, everything. Have to admit, my closet is somewhat slim
pickings. But I have a couple dresses.”

They’d settled on a simple green wrap dress with a tie at
the side—brown boots, matching brown-and-beige scarf, and a jean jacket completed the look. Had Colton ever seen her in anything other than haphazard mixes of jeans and tees, hoodies and oversized plaid?

Her hair had finally ended up pulled over to one side, fastened with a flower-shaped clip the same shade as her hair.

“I don’t think I messed it up too much,” Colton said now. “But even if I did, I like your hair when it’s messy.” The blindfold slipped free.

Kate blinked and opened her eyes. Then blinked again as surprise wiggled through her. The old green house? The one she’d told Colton about that night at the corncrib. He moved around to stand beside her now, handkerchief dangling from his hand.

She glanced from the house to the ages-old For Sale sign in the yard to Colton.

“You remembered?”

“Of course. You said, and I quote, ‘There’s something magical about that old house on Water Street.’ I wanted to see it for myself. Plus, I think it’s sad you love the place so much but have never been inside.”

She looked back to the house. With its wraparound porch and ivy running up the side, even old and run-down, it still felt exactly that—magical, somehow both quaint and regal at the same time.

“What are we going to do, break in?”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key hooked to a realty key chain. “Each day I’m here, I learn another perk about small-town living. I talked with the Realtor this afternoon, told her I wanted to use the house as a date locale. She thought it was romantic, and that was my in.”

Romantic, indeed. “You’re something else—you know that, Colt?”

He picked up the picnic basket and blanket he’d taken from the backseat, laced his fingers through hers once more, and led her to the house. The sidewalk in front of the property was cracked and uneven, bordered by overgrown grass from a lawn that clearly hadn’t been mowed in weeks.

The porch steps groaned as they climbed, and in several spots gaps in the wood revealed years of neglect and damage. The porch itself was no better—boards knobby and unsteady, and the railing a mass of splinters waiting to happen.

But none of it ruined the stately feel of the property. It just needed a little TLC.

A porch board underneath her foot wobbled. Okay, maybe a lot of TLC.

Colton fit the key into the house’s massive front door and wiggled the knob. “The Realtor said it’s stubborn.” He jiggled harder until finally the door heaved open.

A musty scent reached out to envelop them as they walked in. The arched entryway spilled into a spacious living room void of furniture but adorned with the kind of woodworking Kate loved about old houses. Some Old English could have this room sparkling in no time.

Colton set down the picnic basket and grinned at her. “Ready to go exploring?”

“Of course. But for the record, Greene, I know we’re only a few minutes into this date, but it might be the best one I’ve ever been on.” Not might be. Was.

The comment earned her one of his perfect smiles. And then, for the next twenty minutes, they wandered through the house. The creak of the hardwood floors tracked their movement, and their voices echoed in empty rooms. Rich wood pillars, French doors, a staircase with an ornate banister.

The bathrooms were old, and the kitchen needed more than a
facelift. Probably every window in the house should be replaced. And oy, all the wallpaper.

But for all its wrinkles and obvious signs of age, the house felt every bit as enchanting as it had seemed when she was a kid. Only even better now that she’d had the chance to see inside.

They ended up back in the living room. “So what do you think?”

“I think it’s crazy someone with money hasn’t already snatched this place up and gone to town on renovations. It’s the coolest house ever.”

He smiled and reached for the picnic basket. “Why don’t you buy it?”

“You must’ve missed the part about ‘someone with money.’ Besides, I’m not sure there’s much for me in Maple Valley. I mean, my family’s here, but what would I do with a massive house?”

Colton handed her the basket. “I have a few things to grab from the car. Want to unload the basket?”

She nodded and he retreated, the sound of his footsteps loud on the porch.

She peeked in the picnic basket. Smiled as her stomach growled. He’d stopped at The Red Door.

By the time Colton returned, she’d unloaded the basket’s contents—pulled pork in a leakproof container, sandwich buns, pasta salad, fresh fruit. Two delectable-looking pieces of blueberry pie. Plates, silverware, napkins.

Colton set an overflowing cardboard box in the center of the floor and started unpacking. A bedsheet? And . . . something plastic. An air pump. Computer and projector.

“I have no idea what you’re setting up for, but I’m incredibly impressed at your preparation. Didn’t you get any sleep after working all night?” Not that he looked tired. Oh no, he looked good.
Good
good.

“Eh, I’m fine. I’m going to need a little help with the sheet, though.”

“Where are we going with it?”

He pulled a package of thumbtacks from his pocket. “Hanging it on the wall.”

And that’s when it started to make sense—the sheet, the projector. “We’re going to watch a movie?”

“Yep. I have to admit, as far as movie selection, we’re on Plan B. I originally wanted to get
The African Queen.
Figured it might be good to see the movie where your nickname came from. Alas, the library did not have that one. They only had one Katharine Hepburn movie, actually.”

Kate tsked. “It’s sad, the state of movie viewing in our country. And this is coming from a movie writer. People don’t realize what they’re missing.”

“Well, thanks to you, I am done missing out on the greatness that is, apparently, Golden Era Hollywood.”

She accepted one corner of the sheet. “I’d like to reiterate what I said earlier, about this being the best date ever.”

An hour later, dusk had pulled all light from the room save the black-and-white movement on the makeshift screen in front of her. The plastic of the blown-up couch—the kind of thing that belonged in a pool or a college dorm room—squealed as she shifted. And Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant bantered while chasing a leopard around a Connecticut farm—dialogue she had memorized from so many viewings with Mom.

Hepburn: You mean you want me to go home?

Grant: Yes.

Hepburn: You mean you don’t want me to help you anymore?

Grant: No.

Hepburn: After all the fun we’ve had?

Grant: Yes.

Hepburn: And after all the things
I’ve done for you?

Grant: That’s what I mean.

“Man, is there any better screen pairing than Grant and Hepburn?” Her whisper slipped out while the movie continued.

“They are pretty great.” Colton had stretched his arm around her not long after they finished their food. His fingers brushed through her hair now.

“Not great, Colt. Try amazing. If I could pull off something as witty and hilarious as
Bringing Up Baby
I’d totally keep writing romance scripts. Or maybe even another book.” Something fun and romantic this time, instead of the heavy literary tome she’d attempted.

“You could. I know you could.”

Perhaps. Between finishing his book and Africa, though, she wouldn’t have time in the foreseeable future.

But maybe when she got home. She should be set financially for a little while, at least, right? That advance coming her way from his publisher would cover her bills while she was out of the country, yes, but there should be plenty left over. What if she took some time—tried her hand at writing not another Heartline screenplay but a book? See if she could pull in what she loved about classic rom-coms and come up with the kind of romance she’d like to read.

Then again, after Africa, surely she’d come home with ideas for a bigger story. Something heftier and intense. Wasn’t that what she’d been telling herself for years she was supposed to write?

She glanced at Colton now, saw his eyes fluttering closed. Poor man could barely stay awake.

Amazing how he’d found a way to topple the wall around her heart. Not in a crazy dynamite-like explosion or with the force of a wrecking ball, but in a slow brick-by-brick dismantling. The way he poured himself into working with her dad at the
depot. How he overtipped at Seth’s fledgling restaurant when he thought no one was watching. The way he coached Webster and stuck around to help Megan today.

And tonight.

“You know what, Colt?”

His eyes drifted open. “Hmm?”

“I think agreeing to write your book was the best decision I ever made.”

He shifted on the plastic couch, sudden discomfort playing over his face. “It was a good decision. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”