Read the book: «Small-Town Homecoming»

Chapter One

Curt Graham pulled Old Green up to the curb in front of the Sweetheart Inn, cut the engine and climbed out of the pickup. He breathed deep, enjoying the familiar salty tang in the ocean air. Given he’d left Moonlight Cove in disgrace ten years ago, it was hard to believe he was back where he’d grown up. Hopefully for good, although he had no illusions about the difficult road he’d chosen by returning.

He paused for a moment and looked up at the puffy clouds scudding across the late-afternoon sky.

Please, Lord, help me to continue in my recovery by making good choices, and give me the strength to face the many mistakes I made in the past.

He stepped forward and opened the iron gate guarding the front yard, casting his gaze over the white Victorian-style home, noting that the place was in need of a new coat of paint and fresh gingerbread window trim. But the house was beautiful, and if he remembered correctly, had been run by an old couple since long before he’d been born.

He closed the gate and headed up the concrete pathway that led to the front steps of the Sweetheart, his gaze lingering on the bright red roses still blooming in the front yard. Summer typically came late to the Washington Coast, if at all, really, and many flowers were still in bloom, even in mid-September.

As he went up the wooden stairs, he saw that a wide front porch wrapped around the front of the house and a gliding rocker sat at an angle in one corner, flanked by two padded outdoor chairs. Red flowers in pots sat clustered by the painted railing. Looked like a good place to relax, although with the temperatures dropping as summer gave way to fall, hanging out on the porch in the evening would be mighty chilly very soon.

Just as Curt hit the top of the stairs, the wide wooden front door flew open and a dark-haired boy of about six, maybe seven, blasted out, full speed ahead. Luckily he saw Curt and deftly dodged him before he trucked down the stairs without missing a step.

A feminine voice rang out from the house. “Sam Waters, come back here this instant!”

Giggling, the boy kept going when he reached the bottom of the stairs and ran around the front corner of the house.

Curt paused by the porch railing and debated going after the kid, but before he could get in gear to do so, the front door banged open again and a pretty young woman with curly red hair came barreling out.

She put on the brakes when she saw Curt, windmilling her arms, and barely managing to stop before she ran fully into him.

“Oh. Sorry. Um...” She cast her gaze around, then looked at him with flashing green eyes. “Did you see where he went?”

“Around the corner,” Curt said, pointing in the direction the kid had gone.

“Okay, thanks,” she said, bestowing him a crooked smile. “I’ll be right back.”

He watched her go, admiring her slender curves as she quickly descended the stairs and took off in the direction Sam had gone.

“Sam, don’t do this again,” she called, her voice ringing with frustration. “Remember we talked about this after yesterday’s incident? You promised you wouldn’t misbehave today.”

Curt stood by the railing, listening, then slowly went down the stairs, curious about what was going on with the boy and the attractive young woman.

Just as he reached the grass, she screamed, “Don’t you dare!”

That sounded serious. His protective instincts—and curiosity—surging, Curt took off, rounded the corner of the house and ran into the backyard.

His gaze zeroed in on them, facing off in the far back corner. Sam held the end of a nozzled garden hose in one hand and was pointing the “weapon” toward the young woman, who had one hand out as she inched closer to Sam in a half crouch.

“I mean it, Sam....” she said.

Sam’s face was lit by a mischievous smile that, in Curt’s opinion as a formerly ill-behaved boy, didn’t bode well for her. Nope.

Figuring he could diffuse the situation—somehow—Curt kept moving toward the dueling duo, noting as he did that Sam wasn’t fazed in the least, and was moving forward, hose held out in front of him.

Curt turned his attention to her again. She shook a rigid finger at Sam. “Do. Not. Spray. Me. With. That. Hose.”

“Hey, bud,” Curt shouted, waving his arms. “Put down the hose, okay?”

Curt drew alongside the woman. She threw him a grateful look.

“Who’re you?” Sam called, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m Curt Graham.”

The boy shrugged as if to say, “Big deal, your name means nothing to me.”

“I’m checking in here,” Curt said by way of an explanation. Maybe he could distract the boy by talking long enough to nab him.

The woman threw him an apologetic look. “Jumping right into the fun stuff, huh?”

“Right.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Curt saw Sam moving closer, presumably to strike, up close and personal. Curt turned to face the threat; he could take this kid, no problem. Working out was part of his recovery, so he was fitter than he’d ever been, right? This little kid was no match for him.

Curt held up his hands. “Sam—”

Before he could get any more words out, Sam raised the hose and pointed it directly at the woman’s face. Curt was sure he saw the kid’s finger tighten on the nozzle trigger.

Instinctively Curt pushed the woman behind him and then he rushed Sam, hoping to catch him and wrest the hose away before he could inflict any liquid damage. Only to be met with an icy-cold blast of hose water right in the kisser.

* * *

Jenna Flaherty widened her eyes and squawked as her handsome, dark-haired new guest took a hard spray of water intended for her directly in the face. But the torrent of water didn’t seem to deter Mr. Graham. He just kept moving toward Sam, his arms in front of him, trying to dodge the spray.

Sam shrieked and kept backing up, wildly shooting water as he went, holding the hose with both hands.

She watched in an odd kind of fascination as her rescuer determinedly picked up the pace, putting his long legs to work. Sam’s eyes widened and his feet got tangled up in each other, and he stumbled and lost ground, fast. But his finger somehow kept pressing the nozzle trigger and the water kept pummeling Mr. Graham. Jenna had no idea how he wasn’t inhaling oodles of water.

With a growl, Mr. Graham lunged at Sam, who dropped the hose as he tried, too late, to escape the much larger, stronger man. Mr. Graham managed to catch Sam around the waist and haul him up against his wide chest.

Sam flailed his legs. “Put me down!” he screamed.

“Not happening,” Mr. Graham said, his coffee-colored eyes glinting in the sun. He shook the water out of his face as he hugged Sam against him to keep control of the squirming boy. “No way am I taking more water up my nose.”

Mortified, Jenna ran forward. “Sam, stop this nonsense at once!”

Sam had trouble with impulse control—a hallmark symptom of his ADHD—so his behavior didn’t surprise her. Especially since she’d been his after-school day-care provider for almost a year, and was well aware of the challenges Sam faced, what with his dad in prison and his mom juggling two jobs to make ends meet.

But the last thing she needed was to lose a client because of Sam’s behavior. Business was down at the Sweetheart, and with her bank account depleted by the costly repairs Grams had put off and that were now Jenna’s responsibility, she needed every penny of income she could get just to keep the place afloat.

Mr. Graham looked at her over Sam’s head, then jerked his chin toward the hose. “You might want to get that thing while you can.”

“Oh, yeah.” She went over to the hose bib and turned the water off at the source. Picking up the nozzle, she dragged the hose over and put it under a large rhododendron bush, where Sam would have a harder time getting to it.

“Let me go,” Sam whined, trying in vain to pry Mr. Graham’s well-muscled arm loose from its seemingly iron grip around Sam’s waist.

Setting her jaw, she headed in their direction. As she neared, she couldn’t help noticing that being blasted by a torrent of water hadn’t detracted from Mr. Graham’s good looks one bit. His short dark hair stood on end, but with his tall build, lean but muscular physique and matching dark eyes, he was one good-looking guy, indeed.

She shoved that rogue thought aside, her ire at Sam rising again. But she tamped it down, reminding herself that she needed to be firm yet loving with the boy. Sam was going through a rough time and needed levelheaded discipline like nobody’s business.

“Mr. Graham will put you down as soon as you calm yourself, Sammy.” She looked at Mr. Graham, nodding slightly. “Right?”

He nodded back, clearly getting her drift. “Right. But no more funny stuff, bud. This kind of behavior isn’t cool.”

Sam quit squirming and went still in Mr. Graham’s arms. “Yeah, I guess.”

Mr. Graham lowered him to the ground, but kept his hands on the boy’s narrow shoulders while he leaned sideways to look him in the eye. “I want a promise that you’re going to behave.”

“All right, I promise,” Sam grudgingly said.

“Good deal.” Mr. Graham let go of Sam’s shoulders and stepped back as he wiped the water from his face, though he’d probably have to change clothes, Jenna thought. His short-sleeved light blue polo shirt and jeans were soaked.

Sam skittered sideways, out of the man’s reach, but otherwise stayed put and kept his promise. For now. She knew better than anyone that Sam had a hard time staying out of trouble.

Relieved that the garden hose crisis had passed, Jenna stepped forward and extended her hand to Mr. Graham. “Belatedly, I’m Jenna Flaherty, owner of the Sweetheart Inn.”

He wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out, engulfing her hand in his large grip. “Yes, we talked last week. Nice to meet you. As I said before, I’m Curt Graham.”

“I recognize you,” she said, details coming together in her mind.

He cocked his head to the side. “Really?”

“Yes, you used to live in Moonlight Cove, right? I spent summers here at the Sweetheart with my grandmother and grandfather, Jean and Silas Marton.” Every teenage girl in town had been aware of the Graham brothers. Though she was a few years younger than Curt, she’d eventually been old enough to appreciate him when she’d seen him in town during the summer. Of course, she’d been much too shy and awkward to ever speak to him.

“I remember your grandparents,” Curt said, nodding slowly. “Your grandpa drove a big black Caddy, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. He loved that car.” It had just about killed Jenna to have to sell it to a collector a year ago to pay for a new roof for the inn.

“They ran this place for years, didn’t they?”

She nodded. “They started it back in the sixties.” They’d put years of hard work and sweat into running the inn. Her chest clutched a bit. “My grandpa died three years ago, and I moved down here to help Grandma with the place.” A massive heart attack had killed Gramps instantly. Grams had never really been the same—losing her partner after so many idyllic years of marriage had devastated her.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How’s your grandma doing?”

“Not so well.” Jenna sighed shakily. “She has some pretty severe dementia, and I had to move her into a nursing home three months ago.” The horrific disease had robbed Grams of the ability to care for herself, and with the inn to run, Jenna had had no choice but to move her to a skilled-care facility.

“Oh, that’s rough,” Curt said, his eyes soft. “My grandpa died of complications from Alzheimer’s.”

“So you know how difficult it is.” Putting her grandma in a home had been the hardest thing Jenna had ever had to do. “But she’s happy there, and gets excellent care. I visit every Sunday.” Thankfully, due to Gramps’s careful investing, Grams had the money to pay for her care. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the head or the heart for maintaining the inn in the past few years, so that responsibility had fallen to Jenna when Grams had signed over the deed to the inn a little over a year ago.

“I’m sure you did the right thing.”

“Thanks.” Jenna wasn’t so sure, but she was trying to deal with all that had happened, and was determined to make a success of the Sweetheart.

Shifting gears, she moved her gaze to Sam, who stood nearby, fidgeting. She gave him a stern look. “Sam, is there something you need to do?”

Sam blinked, looked around, then glanced down at his wet T-shirt. “Change clothes?”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “How about you apologize to Mr. Graham?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam hunched his shoulders and looked at the grass at Curt’s feet. “Sorry I got you wet.”

“You need to look him in the eye when you apologize,” she reminded Sam. She did her best to instill manners and respect in Sam.

He huffed but complied, looking up—way up—at Curt. “I’m sorry I got you wet.”

“Mr. Graham,” Jenna reminded.

“Who else would I be talking to?” Sam said.

Jenna held on to her patience with a thin thread. “No, you need to say, ‘I’m sorry I got you wet, Mr. Graham.’”

Sam rolled his eyes, then stopped himself and looked at Curt again, a smidgen of contrition shining through. “I’m sorry I got you wet, Mr. Graham.”

Curt smoothed his damp hair back. “Well, I was a boy your age once, so I know all about being wild.” He smiled at Sam. “And a little water never hurt anyone. But you need to listen to your mom when she talks to you, okay?”

Sam scrunched his face up. “She’s not my mom.”

Jenna stepped forward. “I take care of Sam after school.”

“Ah, I see,” Curt said.

“Why don’t we go inside, and you two can change and we can get you checked in, Mr. Graham.”

“Call me Curt.”

“Okay.” She gestured to the house. “If you guys want a snack, you can have a slice of— Oh, no! My pies!”

She took off at a run, went up the back stairs and flung open the screen door that led to the kitchen. The second she entered the house, a burning smell drifted her way.

She raced across the kitchen, noting that the oven timer had gone off while she was out on garden hose patrol. Praying she could salvage the desserts, she grabbed an oven mitt off the counter and yanked the oven open. Hot, acrid smoke wafted out.

With a muttered exclamation, she pulled out the rack. The trio of pies sat on the cookie sheet she’d baked them on, only they looked more like blackened lumps of dough than anything remotely edible. She should have known better than to leave the ancient oven unmonitored. The appliance was touchy about maintaining an even temperature, and until she could afford to replace it with a newer, more reliable model, she had to keep a close eye on everything she baked. And a new-model oven would come after a new porch, fresh exterior paint and a new furnace. The list was endless. The money was not.

Sighing, she set the cookie sheet on the stove. She regarded the ruined pastry, shaking her head. She’d followed Grams’s dog-eared recipe to a T, and had wanted these to be as sigh-worthy as Grams’s pies had always been. Instead, Jenna had ended up with ugly blobs of black dough that were far from the ideal she wanted to uphold.

Her grams’s pies always turned out bakery perfect.

She threw the mitt on the counter, then turned and saw Sam and Curt heading into the kitchen, Sam in the lead.

Curt’s eyes went to the pies. “Oh, wow.” He came over and stood next to her, gazing at the burned mess, his hands on his narrow hips. “Guess you didn’t catch them in time.”

“Nope,” she replied, trying to ignore how his damp hair was drying all wavy and touchable. “They’re ruined. Guess I have some more baking to do.”

He furrowed his brow. “They look fine to me. Nicely browned, in fact. That just adds flavor. I’d eat them, no problem.”

“You would?”

“Sure,” he said, shrugging. “Pie is pie.”

She liked his laissez-faire attitude, but too much was at stake for her to share his outlook. “While I appreciate your willingness to eat burned dough, these aren’t up to snuff.” She sighed.

He regarded her, his long-lashed brown eyes steady.

Her heartbeat skipped and she stepped back automatically.

“Hmm. I know what we have here,” he said with a tiny smile.

“You do?” Somehow she was able to make her voice steady when her pulse was going through the roof.

“A perfectionist, perhaps?”

Sam chimed in. “Yeah, Miss Jenna likes everything to be just right.” He frowned. “She makes me redo my homework all the time.”

“Yes, I’m a real slave driver in the homework department,” she said, infusing some dry levity into her voice.

“What’s a slave driver?” Sam asked, his nose scrunched up.

“Someone who makes little kids do homework,” Jenna explained. She’d majored in education, and knew that if Sam fell behind now because of his focus issues, he might never catch up. Early elementary education set the groundwork for the rest of a child’s schooling.

“Sounds like Miss Jenna is just trying to help you out,” Curt said. “And that’s good for you. School is important.”

“Exactly,” Jenna said, giving Curt a grateful look. “And sometimes striving for high ideals is necessary.” She’d know, being the only unperfect person in a family of perfect people, the one who’d always had to work harder for everything.

“I think Miss Jenna should take all the time she needs to make the pies up to her standards.” Curt turned dark eyes her way.

“Thank you. And I need these to be perfect because two of them will be for a wedding reception I’m catering here tomorrow. I have to remake them.” She made all of her dough from scratch, so the process wasn’t as quick as unrolling premade store-bought crust. “I’ll do that later tonight.”

“Remember, I have the play at my school tonight,” Sam piped in, plopping down in one of the kitchen chairs next to the small table set in one corner. “You promised you’d come.”

She arranged her face in a serene expression; she had forgotten about the play, not that she’d let Sam know that. “And I never break my promises, so I’ll be there.” It would be a late night. Unless... She looked at her watch. Still relatively early. “Maybe I could get them done now, before dinner.”

“I thought we were going to work on my model car,” Sam said, his voice bordering on a whine.

Where was her brain? “Oh, yeah, we were. No problem.” She wasn’t about to flake out on Sam, not when so many other adults in his life had done so. Even if it meant staying up late to remake her pies. “Go get it out of your backpack, and we’ll get right on it.”

Curt looked back and forth between them, both brows raised. “Model car?”

“Yeah!” Sam said, jumping from the chair. He puffed out his chest. “I bought it with my own money.”

Jenna smiled. Sam had saved for months to buy the model kit.

“Cool, dude,” Curt said, nodding. “I built a few models in my day.”

Sam’s eyes went wide. “You did?”

“You bet. I’ve always been into cars.”

“You wanna help me?” Sam said.

Jenna held out a hand. “Sam, Mr. Graham just arrived. I’m sure he has other things to do.”

Curt turned his long-lashed eyes her way.

She forced herself not to stare.

“Actually, I don’t start work at the Sports Shack until tomorrow,” Curt said. “So after I get changed, I’ll have plenty of time to help him.”

She blinked, a bit taken aback by his offer. “He just sprayed you in the face with a garden hose.”

Curt shrugged one broad shoulder. “No harm, no foul.” He scruffed Sam’s head. “Besides, he apologized. So no hard feelings.”

Wow. What a generous offer. “Well...”

“And if I help him with the model,” Curt said, continuing, “you’ll have time to get your pies in the oven, and everyone’s happy.”

“I don’t want to impose,” she said, holding back out of courtesy, even though letting him take over with the model car project would help her out. She had a lot on her plate these days. Actually, her plate was overflowing. But she’d deal. She’d promised Grams she’d keep the inn going, and she would, no matter what.

Besides, Flahertys never failed.

“It isn’t an imposition.” Curt looked at Sam. “It’ll be fun. I haven’t built one of those models in years.”

“Are you sure?” Jenna asked, touched by his generosity. “Because I can fit the pies in later tonight.” She was used to working odd hours.

“I’m sure.”

“Please, Miss Jenna,” Sam said, bouncing up and down. “I really want someone who knows what they’re doing to help me.”

Her resolve frittered away. How could she refuse Sam, especially when she knew he’d craved interaction with adult men ever since his dad had gone to prison? Sam needed a role model, for sure.

Of course, she was assuming a lot about Curt Graham being an appropriate role model, and, obviously, she didn’t know him at all. But she knew his brother Seth, and he was a good man. A great man, actually, with a wonderful family of his own. Besides, Sam and Curt would be right here with her the whole time. She could supervise.

“All right, then,” she capitulated. “I’ll bake while you guys work on the model.”

Sam whooped. “Yippee! I’ll go get it.”

“Hold on, cowboy. You need to go change your clothes first,” she reminded the boy. “Do you remember where we put your change of clothes, in the closet down the hall?”

“I remember.” Grinning, Sam ran out of the kitchen, then skidded to a halt and turned in the arched doorway that led to the formal dining room and living room. “I’ll meet you back here, Mr. Graham, okay?”

Curt saluted. “Okay. See you back here in a few.”

Sam took off again, and Jenna heard his footsteps clomping on the hardwood hallway that led to the closet.

She turned her gaze to Curt. “Are you sure about this? You must be tired after driving in from...” Oh. She had no idea where he’d come from.

“L.A., but I overnighted in Portland, so I only drove a couple hours today. And I’m not tired at all. But I am wet,” he said, gesturing down to his damp clothes. “I’ll go grab my stuff and get changed, and then Sam and I can get busy on his project.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth, bemoaning her absent brain again. “Oh, goodness, I’m so sorry. I kept you in here, talking, in wet clothes.”

He shook his head, his brown eyes glinting. “No worries. I’m tough.”

Yes, she could see that. Tall. Strong-looking. Tough for sure. And handsome with his dark curly hair and café au lait eyes. Something fluttered in her chest and she recognized the feeling for what it was—she was attracted to Curt Graham. No doubt about it.

She cleared her throat, a bit dismayed by her reaction. “Well, thank you for your offer. I really appreciate it, and I’m sure Sam does, too.”

Curt pointed toward the front of the house. “Let me go get my luggage. Where should I take it?”

Oh, yes, another detail forgotten. Curt Graham had her flustered, indeed. “I’ll meet you at the front door and take you up to the Carnation Room.”

“Great,” he said, heading out the same archway Sam had gone through. “I’ll be right back.”

Jenna watched Curt go, appreciating his lean yet broad-shouldered frame and his decidedly masculine, confident way of moving. He definitely was nice to look at. She shook her head and tried to reel her interest in, forcing herself to recall her last relationship during her senior year in college.

Garrett had had the same kind of confidence as Curt, and had been fun-loving and thoughtful, too. She’d gone with her heart 100 percent and had flung herself into a relationship with him. But she’d been wrong in the end about him. And she’d come away with a broken heart and one more reason to believe that she wasn’t good enough.

She’d learned then and there that she needed to be cautious in love. Thoughtful. Picky. She wholeheartedly believed in the romantic gold standard she saw in her parents’, brother’s and grandparents’ marriages. She wanted what they had. Desperately.

She headed out to the foyer, reiterating her mantra: when I fall in love, I will not settle for anything less than a man who will make all my dreams come true. Curt seemed good at a glance, but only time would tell the story about him she needed to hear.

Until then, she had to keep her interest in him under tight control. And her gaze away from those gorgeous brown eyes of his.