And leave her alone to dislocate enough discs to make a chiropractor’s day? He reached out to take her hand and tugged. “Come on.”
“No, I’m going to clean this up.”
“You’ll ruin your dress.”
“I don’t care.” She attempted to pull away, but he held on.
“Well, I do. It’s gorgeous on you.”
Another yank and she freed her hand. Immediately her arms folded, and she stood as if in cement. He studied her for a moment, then reached into his pocket. “Fine.”
“What are you doing?” Her eyes narrowed.
He lifted his phone. “Taking a picture of this. Because one day, Autumn Kingsley, you are going to laugh about the fact that a bathtub fell through the ceiling and landed on your dining room table.”
“I will not.”
He snapped a photo of the mess. “Pretty sure you will.”
“You think you know me so well.”
He tipped his phone up to get a shot of the oval-shaped hole in the ceiling. “No, I think I know what’s funny. And this is funny.”
“Is not.”
He pointed the phone at her and tapped to take a photo. “Is too.”
She just stood there, rooted to the floor for another couple seconds, until finally her arms flopped to her side and she dropped to sit on the edge of the bathtub. He watched the lines of her forehead smooth away, one corner of her mouth tug upward. She lifted her eyes. “Did you see the way Chester Johnson’s eyes bugged?” She gave a squeak of a laugh.
He pocketed his phone as a grin pinched his cheeks. The town’s postmaster had turned frog-eyed. “I’m surprised he didn’t lose his toupee.”
“I’m not sure anyone would’ve noticed if he had. Not with this thing making an entrance. Talk about crashing a party.” She bent over, a raspy burst of giggles finally surfacing.
“My mom always used to tell me to wash up before dinner.” He sat beside her on the edge of the tub. “This gives it a whole new meaning.”
Her laughter mingled with his, rising until she no longer held back.
“Just think if Ellie had gone into premature labor,” she pushed out between breaths. “The bathtub would’ve been right there.”
“Oh, Red, get that picture out of my head.”
“Hey, you rhymed.” She hiccupped.
He steadied himself with both hands on the rim of the tub. “It’s a special talent of mine.”
She tilted her head back, laughter stilling into a sigh. “My sides hurt.” Another hiccup. “You do know I’m going to demand you delete whatever pictures you took of me, right?”
“Not going to happen. I’m going to save them for the perfect occasion.”
“You better not.” One more giggle, and then she lifted her hands and swiped them under her eyes. A tear escaped down one cheek.
She had either laughed so hard she’d teared up or . . .
Another tear trailed down her face.
“Aw, Red.” He reached an arm around her shoulder. “It’s going to be okay.”
She stiffened only a moment before relaxing into his grip. “I really wanted to impress him.” Another hiccup. “First he shows up early and finds a half-naked kid streaking through the place.”
Oh. Dominic Laurent. A reminder of what he’d learned earlier today batted his conscience. He’d waffled all day as to whether to tell Autumn the investor she thought she had in her back pocket was really in town for his family’s hotel.
Would she feel at all better about what had happened tonight if she knew Laurent had never had any interest in the inn?
Not likely. At all.
“And now he sees what truly poor shape this place is in. I thought tonight would be the spark we needed, but . . .” She sniffled, and he wished he had a tissue to offer her. “Maybe I just . . . don’t have spark.”
With his free hand he brushed a strand of hair from her face. “Red, you’ve got spark. Trust me.” It radiated from her whether she knew it or not.
She shivered then, and he felt the goose bumps rise on her bare arm under his fingers. The tears had stopped, but not her shaking. How could she be cold when he felt warm enough to heat the room?
And when she was close enough to . . .
His gaze dropped to her lips, and he could feel Autumn tense. But she didn’t move. His fingers strayed across her cheek. “Red.”
Her voice came out a whisper. “I’m still moving, Blake. And there’s going to be an entire ocean—”
“Yeah, well there isn’t one now.” Despite the mess, despite the wreck of their situation, this moment . . . it felt like a second chance following yesterday’s moment in the haymow. Was that just yesterday?
“True.” The word feathered from her lips just as he tilted toward her.
The kitchen door burst open. “Autumn, Betsy asked me to tell you she’s saving some dinner for . . .”
Blake jumped to his feet, and the movement sent Autumn wobbling.
Ava stopped halfway across the room. “Oh.”
Blake reached for Autumn’s hand before she could fall backward into the tub and pulled her to her feet. She bumped against his side before steadying and practically jumping away.
“We were just—” he began.
“Right. Dinner. That sounds good,” Autumn blurted at the same time. She threaded her fingers through a messy wave of hair and brushed past him, disappearing through the door Ava had just entered.
He couldn’t read Ava’s expression. Didn’t have long to try, because she turned to follow her sister.
Leaving him to stand in the middle of the wrecked dining room beside a bathtub, wondering if he had any chance of making things better.
Something tapped in an uneven rhythm, like Morse code against a windowpane.
Autumn blinked one eye open, the glare of sunlight creating a haze around her even as cold burrowed under the blanket covering her.
Where in the world . . . ?
She opened her other eye. Her office at the inn. The couch. She peeled her cheek from its cool leather and lifted her head. Why hadn’t she slept in one of the empty guest rooms instead of the office?
The tapping at the window continued as she slid to an upright position, a thrumming in her temple matching the branch nearly beat for beat. That was some wind outside.
“Oh, Lord, please tell me it was a dream.” The wish came out a whisper—and a futile one at that. Because she wouldn’t have slept in her office if last night’s calamity had been the stuff of nightmares instead of pure, pitiful reality. Nor would she be wearing such a mismatched outfit—yesterday’s tennis shoes and last night’s dress, topped with a sweatshirt that wasn’t hers.
Right. Blake’s.
She’d stood barefoot at the island counter in the inn’s kitchen last night, eating Betsy’s fancy dinner while Ava helped Betsy put away unused dishes. Ava had explained Mom went home with a headache. She’d thought Blake had left, too, until a knock sounded at the back door. They’d all jumped.
Harry answered. Autumn had craned her neck just in time to see Blake hand something to Harry. “She looked cold.”
Harry nodded.
“G’night.”
The door closed.
She took a bite, and when she looked up, everyone stared at her. “What?”
Harry handed her the sweatshirt and they went back to putting dishes away, a trail of yellow lights through the window signaling Blake’s departure.
Now fully awake, Autumn let out a groan and forced herself to stand. “Come on, Kingsley. You can hide away, helpless and distraught, or face the mess head on.”
“Talking to yourself?”
She started at the intruding voice, nearly tripping on her untied shoelaces. “Sheesh, Harry, ever heard of a knock?”
He gave her a once-over and snorted. “Ever heard of fashion sense? Or proper pajamas?”
“Just wait. Someday all the models will be wearing sneakers and hoodies with their dresses. Why aren’t you at church?
”
Harry folded his arms, eyes lit with a curious anticipation. “There’s something you need to see.”
Autumn walked to the oval mirror hanging on one wall. Framed in ornate brass, the glass reflected a sad state of affairs appearance-wise. No wonder Harry had snickered. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest gone wrong, and her wrinkled dress would make an iron cry. The sleeves of Blake’s sweatshirt dangled past her fingertips.
How was it the thing could still smell so much like him when she’d been wearing it the past seven or eight hours? Not that it wasn’t a good smell. And its soft cotton warmed her upper half clear through.
“Ahem.” Harry cleared his throat, breaking her stare.
“Right. There’s something I need to see. What now? Did a bed land in the lobby? Better yet, a toilet. Maybe we can turn the whole first floor into one giant bathroom.” There, she’d made a joke. Maybe this day wouldn’t be all bad.
Harry rolled his eyes. “I never realized how sarcastic you are in the morning.”
“I’m overwhelmed. How are we going to fix this? Here, I was actually happy that we’re close to fully booked the week of Christmas. Now I’m worried we’re going to have to cancel reservations.”
Yet in the light of day, with the bright sun streaming in through the window and Blake’s sweatshirt cocooning her in warmth, a shred of hope snuck in. If they acted fast, surely they could patch up the hole in the ceiling. Replace the damaged dining room tables. Get the bathtub back upstairs.
Except, with what money? She’d spent most of the bank’s loan already.
And who would she call in for help on a Sunday?
And what about their current guests? Where would they take meals?
Her hope dissolved into a puddle of questions. “What are we going to do, Harry?”
“Harrison.” He stomped his foot. “And you’re going to follow me.” He about-faced and disappeared from the doorway.
Autumn shrugged. She’d have to emerge sometime. Besides, the tempting aroma of coffee trailed through the ground floor. She could be thankful for that anyway.
Harry marched down the hallway and into the lobby. Autumn refused to glance through the opening into the dining room as she followed him to the front door. “Can I grab a cup of straight black first?”
He ignored her, pulling the door open and letting in a sheet of sunlight mixed with cold, piney air. A fresh layer of white quilted the ground. She hadn’t even noticed the snowfall last night—and she barely noticed it now. Because in the middle of the yard stood a circle of people she didn’t recognize.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know, but they look like they’re here to work.”
Exactly. They wore work boots and tool belts and stood in a circle chatting. One of the men turned, spotted Autumn, and pointed. The circle broke and then . . .
A woman walked toward her, almost-black hair pulled into a messy bun and jeans tucked into a pair of rugged-looking boots. Her grin was wide and familiar.
Harry’s gasp matched her own.
She stopped in front of them. “You must be Autumn. Hi, I’m Miranda Woodruff.”
Randi Woodruff, star of From the Ground Up, standing on her lawn. Autumn exchanged a shocked glance with Harry, then accepted the celebrity’s handshake. “Yes, I’m Autumn.”
“Sorry to just pounce on you like this. We would’ve called first, except Blaze didn’t give me your number and he’s busy rounding up the equipment we need.”
Autumn blinked, everything suddenly snapping into focus. “Blake called you.”
Randi chuckled. “He did. Last night, and he was talking so fast I could barely understand him. Crazy man. Hey, you called him Blake. Is he trying to shake the nickname or something?”
“I guess so.” Okay, she had to stop acting nervous. Being nervous. Celebrities were just people. And this was just another woman.
A strikingly beautiful woman who pretended to be married to Blake for a month.
It shouldn’t bother her so much. It’s not like she and Blake were . . .
Suddenly last night’s moment in the dining room zoomed into focus, both of them perched on the rim of the bathtub, so close she could feel the warmth of him despite the shivers tickling down her skin.
Last night’s near-kiss had been weighty with tension and desire, fragile. And when Ava had burst in and he’d pulled away, her nerves turned to broken glass.
“Autumn?”
“Sorry, um, I’m just . . . massively confused.”
Randi only smiled, and beside her, Harry cleared his throat.
“Oh, this is Harrison.”
“Love your show. Always DVR it. I’m a fan.”
Randi shook his hand. “Thanks. As for us, we’re all pretty big fans of your Blaze. He called us last night around eight, and by ten I’d pulled a crew together.”
“How’d you get here so fast?” Harry asked the same question running through Autumn’s mind.
“We hopped a private jet crazy early this morning. We’ve only got the day, but from Blake’s description of the damage, we should be able to fix you up by tonight. Mind if we go inside and take a look?”
Autumn nodded, shock still holding her tongue hostage.
Harry nudged her as the crew started filing past. “Snap out of it, Kingsley,” he hissed.
“B-but . . . money. I don’t . . .” Have any. The admission was too embarrassing to say out loud.
Randi only waved off her concern. “No worries. It’s taken care of.”
“But—”
Randi had already turned to follow her crew.
Autumn forced her voice to work. “We’ve got to let the guests know what’s happening. Maybe serve breakfast in their rooms. Or serve in the sitting room.”
Harry nodded. “Randi. Woodruff.”
She turned to him, grin taking over her face. “I know.”
“Will she think I’m ridiculous if I ask for an autograph?”
“Better yet, a photo.”
Harry’s hands clamped onto her arm. “And she’s fixing the inn. Your inn.”
He pulled her into a hug, and she nodded against his shoulder. Blake had saved the day. He’d honest-to-goodness saved the day.
“Autumn?”
She broke away from Harry at the sound of Randi’s voice. Look calm. Look professional. “Yes, uh, Rand . . . I mean, Mrs . . . Miss . . .”
“Randi is my show name,” she said, amusement playing over her face. “You can call me Miranda. I just wanted to check if it’s okay for us to go into the room the bathtub fell from. I know you’ve probably got guests in some rooms.”
Harry pushed past Autumn. “I’ll show you the way to the damaged room,” he said, eagerness punctuating his words. “We do have a few guests staying with us, but I’m sure they’ll understand. . . .”
His voice trailed as he climbed the porch steps two at a time.
“Oh, hey, here comes Blaze.” Randi waved, and Autumn turned to see Blake’s Jeep pulling into the lot, followed by a truck. “Tell him we’ll be out to unload the equipment in a minute, will you?” Randi disappeared into the inn.
Autumn crossed the yard, sunlight kissing her cheeks and haloing around Blake as he jumped out of his vehicle. He didn’t even notice her at first, signaling for the truck to bypass the parking lot and pull up in front of the inn.
But then he caught her eye. Smiled.
The truck driver followed Blake’s gesture and pulled in front of Autumn, temporarily blocking her view of him. But as soon as it zipped past, she couldn’t help it.
She launched herself at Blake, her embrace voicing the thank-you she couldn’t push out. And if she’d thought his sweatshirt smelled good . . .
His chuckle rumbled against her. “Who knew you’d be so grateful for a sweatshirt?” He said the words over her shoulder but didn’t let go.
And she’d have been lying if she said she wanted him to.
“It’s a Christmas miracle.”
Blake watched Autumn turn a slow circle in her inn’s dining room. Except for the shine of new paint on the ceiling, no one could have known that less than twelve hours ago, dust and debris and splintered wood had filled the space.
Instead, nicks and dents had been sanded from the now freshly polished floor and the broken table and porcelain bathtub removed. Miranda’s crew had repaired, insulated, and resealed the ceiling. And the bathroom upstairs had new flooring and a new tub. All the plumbing and electricity was in place.
And Red . . . She hadn’t stopped smiling all day.
“A Christmas miracle,” he agreed from the archway leading into the dining room. “Or proof that my former pretend wife never once pretended about her skills.”
Miranda had been amazing, directing the repairs while hard at work herself. She was around somewhere, making one final inspection of their day’s work. In the corner, a crewman folded up a metal ladder.
Autumn motioned Blake into the room. “Look, they didn’t just fix the hole in the ceiling. They repaired every little crack and installed new crown molding.”
Actually, he’d done the crown molding. Had followed Miranda’s instructions and fit the wood in place all around the room where wall met ceiling, the whole time thinking about those few moments last night with Autumn. And then this morning, when she’d nearly hugged the breath out of him.
He’d felt like a superhero just then. Like, for once, he’d done exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. He’d feasted on the satisfaction of it all day.
Autumn turned to him now. Sometime this morning, she’d run home and changed out of last night’s dress, replacing it with jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. But she still wore his hoodie, unzipped and loose over her shirt. It was too big for her, practically ate up her figure, but he wasn’t about to ask for it back.
Ever since she told him about her upcoming move, he’d been trying to convince himself the sparks he’d thought he felt between them were just his imagination. They were friends, nothing more. The thought that he might be falling for her was the result of spending the bulk of his time with her—that was all.