RaeAnne Thayne - Willowleaf Lane

“It’s grown, hasn’t it. Will you excuse me?”

Hoping she didn’t pass out, she shifted in the direction of her house. The thirty feet between them seemed insurmountable, as tough as the 10K she ran with Alex in the spring.

She took a step away from him but made it no farther and would have fallen again if he hadn’t rushed forward and absorbed her weight into his solid bulk.

“You need to see a doctor for that.”

He was warm. Incredibly warm. And how was it possible he still smelled good after jogging? She caught a hint of laundry soap from his T-shirt and some kind of sexy citrus and musk aftershave.

“I only twisted an ankle. Not the first time. Once I ice it and take some weight off, it will be fine.”

She hoped. She did not have time for this. She managed to extricate herself from his arms and hobbled another step. By sheer force of will, she managed to remain upright, though it took every ounce of strength.

She made it maybe four steps before she heard a muffled curse.

“You’re as stubborn as ever, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.

“I’m talking about the girl who once insisted on going on a six-mile bike ride with Dylan and me, not once mentioning she had walking pneumonia.”

“I don’t remember that,” she lied.

“Funny, I have a vivid memory of it. You just about passed out before the end of it.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have time to stand around reminiscing with you but I’ve got to change and get to work. See you later.”

She gave what she hoped looked like a jaunty wave and not a dyspeptic robotic one and started toward her house, willing down the pain with every step and trying to figure out how she would squeeze in an appointment with Dr. Harris that morning.

After just a few more steps, her ankle gave out, and she had to grab hold of a convenient aspen sapling for support.

Next moment, Spence swore again under his breath—a surprisingly mild oath for a man who had spent ten years as a professional athlete. Suddenly her feet were swept out from under her, and she was lifted into the air quite effortlessly.

Oh, fudge. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, cradled tight between hard arms and an even more solid chest, but she did her best to gather the scattered corners of her brain.

“Put me down! This is ridiculous. I can walk.”

“Maybe. But I would hate to see you do more damage to that ankle by putting weight on it if you’ve seriously injured it.”

He wasn’t even breathing hard. Eighty pounds ago, he probably would have needed a couple teammates to help carry her down the street.

“I’m not going to hurt my ankle. Please. Put me down.”

He smelled even better up close. Some small, stupid part of her wanted to lean her head on his shoulder and just inhale his warm neck, right there below his rugged jawline.

“You’re tight as a drum. Relax. I’m not going to drop you.”

“So you say,” she muttered. Her insides seemed to flutter and dance and everything girlie inside her hummed to life.

How could she possibly be attracted to him, after everything? It completely belied logic. It was only situational attraction, she told herself. He was big and muscled and she couldn’t help being aware of the heat and scent of him.

Nobody except her brothers had ever lifted her up, and even they hadn’t done it in years.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked in a conversational tone, as if they were sitting on counter stools at the café passing the time.

She really, really hoped none of her neighbors were awake and gazing out their window at the morning view. This wouldn’t exactly be easy to explain, how she found herself in the arms of the town’s most notorious former denizen.

On the other hand, she would look even more foolish if she put up a fuss and tried to wriggle out of his arms, onto legs she wasn’t entirely certain would support her.

Only two more houses to go and then she would be home.

“Three years,” she finally answered.

She ought to leave it at that—her life was none of his concern, thank you very much—but with nerves bubbling through her like fine champagne, she couldn’t seem to keep from jabbering.

Maybe it was the way the sunlight glinted gold in his hair or the play of those muscles against her, but her voice sounded husky and strained.

“After I graduated from Colorado State, I came back to town with a degree in business and a master plan of taking over the café from my dad eventually. I tried working as his manager but he wasn’t in a big rush to retire, and I discovered I wanted to build something of my own.”

“You have,” he answered. “I had a piece of your peanut butter fudge last night. It was just about the best thing that’s ever crossed my lips.”

She knew perfectly well she shouldn’t have this little burst of pride at his words. What did she care what Spence thought of her store and her product?

Oh, why did her house feel like it was so far away, like they were swimming through miles and miles of melted chocolate to get there?

“Pop always told me that, when you find something you’re good at, you should throw your whole heart into it.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Good man, your dad.”

She had a vivid memory of sitting at a corner booth at the café with Spencer doing homework. She had probably been twelve, he had been sixteen, and his mom had showed up drunk for the dinner shift, as usual. This time, she started talking smack to one of the customers who complained she got his order wrong and then had turned on Dermot when he stepped in to help.

Instead of firing her, like he probably should have done years earlier, Dermot had, in his quiet, effortless way, calmed the situation with the customer, directed Billie to his office and brought her a big pot of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.

Meanwhile, Spence had sat at their booth, his head almost buried in the book he was supposed to be writing a report about, but she hadn’t missed his red ears and the tension in his shoulders.

Her father had adored Spence like one of his own boys. Just a few months after his mother had died of acute liver poisoning, Spence had signed with the Pioneers, and Dermot had been as proud and excited as if Spence were his son.

And when Spence had been embroiled in scandal and controversy, Dermot had followed the news with a baffled, hurt sort of disbelief that had broken her heart, though he had clung to baseless faith.

If she hadn’t already despised Spence by that time, she would have hated him for that alone.

The reminder helped her rein in her wayward hormones. “Okay,” she said abruptly, the moment he crossed from the sidewalk in front of her neighbor’s property to her own. “We’re here. You can put me down anytime now.”

He gave a short laugh, enough to make his chest move against her shoulder, but kept walking up the path to her porch. “Is your house locked? I can help you inside.”

She could hear a car approaching at the other end of the street, and she just wanted this to be over before someone saw. “I’m fine. Please put me down now.”

It must have been the please that finally did the trick. He carried her up the steps then lowered her gingerly to her feet. She braced one hand on the wall and with the other pulled the key out of its zippered pocket of her capris.

“Thank you,” she said shortly. She should say something more but for the life of her she couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t sound ridiculous.

“You’re welcome. Consider it my neighborly duty. Are you sure you don’t need me to help you inside, maybe tape it up for you?”

Oh, she could just imagine him kneeling at her feet, his big hands warm on her bare skin as he wrapped it. “I should be fine.”