“All right, but we have to leave soon to get you home.” As she lifted him from the counter, the stench wafting from his, ahem, backside, assaulted her nose. “Oh, buddy, we have a situation. Bets, did you bring his diaper bag in?”
“Yep, it’s on the bench by the back door. I’ll get it.”
She still held Oliver in the air, his legs dangling.
“Put me down, Num. Down!”
“How many OSHA rules would it break if I changed him in here?”
Betsy chucked the bag her direction. “Hey, as long as you’re the one doing the changing, I’m not complaining.”
She set Oliver on the floor. He must’ve known what was coming, because he made quick work of tugging off his shoes. She set the towel from over her shoulders on the floor and tugged Oliver over. He started struggling as she slipped off his pants.
“Come on, buddy. It’s not that bad.”
He kicked at the air and, while she was busy reaching for a diaper, rolled away and stood before she could stop him.
“Oliver—”
“Noooo!” He ran from the room, giggles bouncing along with his jiggling diaper.
Betsy stuck her hand on her waist. “We’ve got a streaker.”
“Oh brother.” Autumn hurried after him, followed him through the dining room and into the lobby, where a trail of puddles still waited to be cleaned up after they tracked in, and . . .
She skidded to a stop.
Someone waited at the desk. A very distinguished-looking someone, with one eyebrow cocked at the toddler now rubbing his hands in the puddle by the front door. The man wore a fitted silver-gray blazer over dark jeans, burgundy newsboy hat covering his head.
Where was Harry?
“Uh, I’m so sorry. Our deskman must be . . . around here somewhere.” She slipped behind the front desk, one eye still on Oliver. “It’s been a hectic day here.”
“This is the Kingsley Inn?” The man spoke with the slight lilt of an accent.
She fumbled for a smile. “That’s what the sign says.”
“I did not see any sign.”
Oh, right. The wind had knocked it loose a few days ago, and she’d ordered a new one that hadn’t yet arrived. Should arrive by Friday, in time to be installed before Dominic Laurent’s Saturday arrival.
Oliver plopped on the floor and pulled his shirt up his stomach. Lovely.
“Anyhow, welcome to our inn.”
“You work here.” Statement. Not a question. Though, considering the towel over her shoulders and her bare feet, she didn’t blame him for wondering.
“I do. My name is Autumn Kingsley. Do you have a reservation?”
“Indeed, although I am arriving early. I hope this is not a problem.”
If the man only knew how many rooms awaited occupants.
“No, definitely not a problem. Your name?”
“Dominic Laurent.”
Gone. Her breath. Her words, stuck.
And Oliver . . . now naked if not for his diaper, tugging on her pant leg.
10
This was either the best idea she’d ever had . . . or it was so stupid she deserved a snowball in the face.
Autumn’s fingers flexed inside her fuchsia gloves, boots crunching over the snow-packed sidewalk—a result of the steady snowfall that had started yesterday afternoon and continued into today. Winter had finally graced Whisper Shore with a wonderland appearance.
Perhaps that would impress Dominic Laurent, if nothing else. Beside her, the man adjusted his plaid cashmere scarf. He’d been in town a little over twenty-four hours. Maybe, just maybe, long enough to have shed what had to be a horrible first impression at the state in which he’d found the Kingsley Inn yesterday.
“I’m still not sure I understand,” he said now, pace matching hers as they created a trail of footprints from where Harry had parked on Main Avenue. She’d coerced him into driving them into town in his newer, roomier SUV rather than subjecting Dominic—Dom, he’d asked to be called—to her aging Jetta.
“It’s a town-wide event. Used to be tradition every year on the first big snow of the season,” Harry explained from behind. “Someone must have resurrected it.”
They weren’t sure who. Everything Autumn knew was contained in the text she’d received a few hours ago from Tim Jakes.
Snowball fight is on. 6:30 in the square. Spread the word.
And that’s when she’d had the idea to invite their international guest, to give him a taste of the Whisper Shore his investment might benefit. Only now, as he fiddled with the top button of his jet-black coat—not a speck of lint nor a wrinkle in sight—she wondered if it’d been such a good idea after all.
Despite her worries, she couldn’t help catching the buzz of excitement floating through the town square, like the puffs of white air accompanying her breathing. Harry stepped up beside her, excitedly clapping his hands together as they approached the center of the square.
“The entire town comes out to . . . throw snow at each other?” Dom slipped his fingers into leather gloves that looked as if they’d never been worn.
“Not the entire town.” Autumn pulled her wool beret over her ears. “Only the brave ones.”
The sun had bedded about thirty minutes ago, leaving the light of the moon, streetlamps, and strings of Christmas lights draped over trees and storefronts to illuminate the town square. The Andrews Sisters sang “Jingle Bells” over the speakers piping into the downtown.
“It’s pure Whisper Shore craziness,” she added. “I know it sounds weird, but it’s just one of our little quirks.”
A whistle trilled from the gazebo steps as they arrived at the huddle of townspeople. She’d recognize that shriek anywhere—it was how Mrs. Satterly used to call kids in from recess. The retired schoolteacher stood on the steps, megaphone in hand. “Folks, let’s gather for the rules before we get started.”
Autumn spotted Blake then, chatting with Tim Jakes over by an evergreen. As if sensing her gaze, he looked over, waved. She waved back.
“Something tells me this is going to be highly amusing.” Dom’s head was tipped to one side, and if she wasn’t mistaken, that was a hint of boyish anticipation on his face. The man might actually have a fun streak. So far all she’d seen was prim and proper. Which was about as foreign in Whisper Shore as his accent.
Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.
Mrs. Satterly’s voice sounded through the megaphone again. “Now that I have everyone’s attention, I’m going to go over the rules. Pay attention.” She adjusted the faux fur muffler that matched her coat. “Here’s how this is going to work. When I blow the horn, the snowball fight begins. No aiming at anyone’s face. No throwing anything other than snow. And for goodness’ sake, no tripping anyone. When I blow the horn again, it’s all over.”
As Mrs. Satterly spoke, Blake joined their group. “Hey, Red.”
She read the curiosity he directed at Dominic. “Blake, this is one of our hotel guests, Dominic Laurent. Dom, Blake Hunziker. He’s a . . . uh . . .”
“Friend?” Blake inserted, veiled amusement in his half smile. “And partner in festival-coordinating crime.”
But Dom wasn’t even paying attention, focus still attached to Mrs. Satterly and her megaphone. “That’s it?” he asked when she finished. “Those are all the rules?”
“Well . . . yeah.” Autumn shrugged.
“Nothing else? No winner? No objective?”
“Dude, fun is the objective.” Blake rubbed his hands together. Even in the dark, his dimpled smile radiated . . . cuteness.
Oh, Lord, the inappropriateness. He’s. A. Hunziker.
It seemed to matter less and less the more time she spent with him.
“On your marks, get set, go.” The horn blared over Mrs. Satterly’s last word, and the square exploded into action. Dom, with his perfectly gelled hair and shined shoes, gave her a helpless look as a snowball whizzed past his ear.
Autumn swung her hand into the snow
and scooped up a pile. “It’s a free-for-all, Dom. Go for it.” She lobbed her snowball at Tim Jakes’s back.
“Hey!” He whirled.
A carefree aura slid over Autumn—over everyone—and laughter bubbled up inside. She looked around, spotted Harry packing his own ball.
A snowball smacked into her shoulder. A few feet away, Dom grinned with pride, then reached for another handful, this time aiming for Harry.
“Now you’ve got the hang of it,” she called.
She shouldn’t have worried about bringing him along this evening. Perhaps the intended disorderliness of tonight would make up for the unintended disorderliness of yesterday afternoon. Might even charm the man.
Wet snow soaked through her mittens, and her jeans would never make it through the chaos without getting drenched. She didn’t care. The cold barely stung her cheeks anymore.
She packed her hands around a ball and looked up just in time to meet Blake’s eyes watching her. A fountain of snow flashed past her face, but Blake’s focus stayed on her, an impish grin stretching his cheeks.
Oh no. She whirled and ran, dodging flying snow and frenzied friends.
“Really? You’re running, Red? I thought you were braver than that.”
Autumn spun on her heel and chucked her snowball. It hit him in the cheek and broke into chunks. She clapped her hand over her mouth.
“You just broke one of the only rules.” Exaggerated shock danced in his tone.
She backed up. Bumped into someone. Oomph. Almost lost her footing. “I didn’t mean to hit you in the face.”
“I could report you to Mrs. Satterly. Or . . .” His hand tunneled through the snow. He came up with a handful of snow, rounded it into a snowball. A big snowball.
“I said I was sorry.”
He raised his pitching arm.
And then she was running again, squealing, hair flying behind her head. She shook with laughter as she ran, weaving in and out, Blake’s voice goading her from behind.
“You’re not going to get away.”
“I know I told you I’m bad at sports, Blake, but the one thing I can do is run. I—”
She went down. Her hands thudded into the snow, the slick chill reaching up her coat sleeves. She rolled onto her back, giggles racking her body. “Oh my goodness. Oh my . . .”
Blake stood over her, smiling as if he’d just nabbed his prize. He dropped to his knees, snowball still in his gloved hand. “I’ve got you right where I want you, Red.”
She lifted her palms in a surrender pose, out of breath. “I-I give. You win.”
“I win? But I haven’t even hit you with a snowball yet.”
“I’ve got snow in my hair, down my back, and in my shoes.” Laughter still jumbled inside, shaking her torso.
“That’s your own fault for running.” For one more second he held the snowball over her face, cheeky expression warming clean through her. Oh, I’m in trouble.
Seriously in trouble.
Something in his eyes shifted and he dropped the snowball. Her laughter stilled, the squeals and shouts and footsteps crunching through snow all around her fading. Only Autumn. Blake.
And something she shouldn’t be feeling . . . at once heavy and weightless.
Blake clasped both her hands and pulled her up into a sitting position, snow-wet strands of hair trailing down her cheeks.
One hand still enclosed in his, she tipped her head to meet his eyes once more. “Blake, you’re the one who got the snowball fight started again, aren’t you.” Was her voice as breathless as she felt?
Snowflakes were catching in his eyelashes. “I did.”
“Why?”
“You said the other day you missed it.” His smile was so sincere, the magic of the night, the snow still floating from the sky. She—
“Autumn!”
Autumn jerked at the shrill call. Through a kaleidoscope of color, her gaze landed on Mom, watching from the curb. As her brain “Maydayed,” she heard her name again, disapproval storming in her mother’s tone.
Get up. Explain. You were only—
And then her name again, this time in a gasp from the person beside Mom. Matching blond hair and a bulky red coat and . . .
She stood up. “Ava?”
A second later, a snowball smacked into her face.
Blake stood, brushing the snow from his knees as he watched Autumn trail away between her mom and her sister.
“Man, you didn’t make any friends with that move.” Tim Jakes approached from the side, picked up Blake’s stocking cap from where it had fallen during his chase with Autumn.
He must have seen . . . enough. “I know. Dunno who looked fiercer. Victoria or Ava. That was Ava, right? My eyes weren’t playing tricks on me?”
The squeals and shouts of the snowball fight continued around them. Ava Kingsley had looked at him as if he were the ghost of Ryan, come back solely to torment her. Her stare cut through him until he’d had to look away.
“That was her all right.”
He wanted to follow them. Tell Autumn’s family it wasn’t what it’d looked like.
Except it was exactly what it’d looked like. If they hadn’t been interrupted, he’d have kissed Autumn.
Provided she hadn’t pushed away or slapped him or anything, of course. But from the haze of delight on her face, the way she hadn’t moved a muscle as they’d sat in the snow, yeah, didn’t seem like she’d planned on fighting it. In those few seconds, their last names, their families’ rivalry, none of it mattered.
The heat of the moment still torched his insides.
“I should’ve at least made sure she was okay. That snowball hit her in the face hard. Did you see who threw it?”
“I saw a little kid run away with a horrified look on his face. Probably an accident.”
Autumn was just moving out of sight when Tim elbowed him. “Uh, Blake, you might want to find somewhere else to be right now.”
A note of dread hung in his voice, and Blake turned to his friend. “But why—” He broke off at the sight of William Baylor thundering toward them. Not good. “Whip out your badge, Tim. Could come in handy.”
Baylor reached them. “I was told you started this.”
“Um, well, I—”
“Who do you think you are?” The man looked ready to throw a punch.
Blake stiffened. “Look, Mr. Baylor, I ran this by my dad.”
“He’s not in charge of the parks. I—”
“But he is the mayor, which is about as high of an authority figure as we get around here.”
The tick in Baylor’s jaw became more pronounced. “I’m sick of your attitude, Hunziker.”
Blake pressed his lips, grasping for a calm he didn’t feel. This man could coax a pacifist into a fight. “If you want us to stop, I’ll go borrow Mrs. Satterly’s megaphone and send everyone home. If that’ll make you happy. But look around, people are having a great time. Why spoil that?”
“You think you’re welcome here, Blake? You’re not.” Baylor stepped closer, mere inches separating them. Blake could feel his breath, the tension seething from him. “We’re not going to forget what you took from us. I won’t forget. My son won’t forget.”
The words landed on target, pummeling the last of his confidence. Baylor was probably right. Blake could organize a snowball fight, throw a festival together, maybe even help the town out a little. But that didn’t mean he actually belonged in Whisper Shore.
After all, look at the way Autumn’s family had looked at him just now—searing accusation.
“Dad!”
Blake’s gaze shot to the source of the yell, the voice he still heard calling in his dream. “I don’t see Ryan’s chute.”
“Shawn.”
He pushed past Baylor, covered the short distance to his old friend. How many times in these past two weeks had he thought about stopping by Shawn’s apartment? He’d even called the Baylors’ house, breathing a sigh of relief when Mrs. Baylor had answered instead of W
illiam, and asked for Shawn’s address.
But as soon as he’d told Mrs. Baylor who he was, she’d hung up. He hadn’t had the nerve to ask Hilary for the information.
“Shawn,” he said again, now standing in front of his friend. Under the spotlight of a streetlamp, Shawn’s eyes darkened.
“Let’s go, Dad,” he called over Blake’s shoulder.
“Shawn, it’s been a long time. I’ve been meaning to—”
Suddenly, like a flare lit and let loose, Shawn pushed both palms against Blake’s shoulders. “Get away from me, Blaze.”
Blake caught himself before tripping backward, surprise stinging. “Dude, what’s the matter with you?”
“I said get away.”
But Blake only straightened. He’d had enough of this. “Look, I get it: you blame me for what happened. Newsflash: I blame myself. It destroys me all over again every time I relive it. Isn’t that enough?”
Shawn was in his face then. “I don’t blame you for what happened to Ryan. I blame you for running away and leaving me to deal with the aftershock.”
“Shawn, let’s go.” William’s voice was firm from behind Blake.
But Shawn ignored his father. “You know they all think I was high, too.”
Hot memories flickered, one match after another burning through him. Ryan and Shawn sitting in the car for a few minutes before gearing up. Ryan and Shawn laughing in the back of the plane before Ryan’s jump. “Yeah, well, for all I know you were. Ryan got the drugs from somewhere.”
Before the words were out of his mouth, Shawn’s fist connected with Blake’s face, the impact nearly as jarring as the hissing voice of the past shaking loose the pain he’d almost started to forget these past few days. He stumbled only for a moment before rushing Shawn.
The fight lasted less than a minute. Maybe only seconds. Because almost as soon as he lunged toward his once-friend, William and Tim jumped in to break it up. Tim’s arms pulled him backward, away from Shawn.
Blake’s breath heaved, his face throbbing where Shawn had punched him.
And slowly, in moments that dragged like mud under tires, everything came back into view. The snowball fight. The light of Christmas decorations stringing the park. Tim, with one arm still hooked over his. Mrs. Satterly watching from the gazebo.