RaeAnne Thayne - Willowleaf Lane

Peyton didn’t look thrilled about any of those offerings. “Yeah. I guess. It’s not the same as Portland. I could buy anything there.”

Charlotte wasn’t sure the shopping options were the measure of what made a good town, but she decided not to offer that particular opinion.

“The good news is, as long as you’ve got an internet connection, you can still find everything you like. And Denver’s only a few hours’ drive.”

“I guess that’s true.”

Peyton still didn’t look convinced of the wonders of Hope’s Crossing. Charlotte couldn’t blame her. Change could be tough for anyone, especially a young girl who had no control over her own circumstances.

“Thanks for the fudge,” Peyton said.

“You’re welcome. Come back anytime. Next time maybe I’ll have cinnamon fudge for you.”

“You make that? Really?”

“Sure. It’s generally something I have only around the holidays but I’ll see about a special order.”

The small cowbell hanging on the door rang out. Charlotte looked up from Peyton, donning her customary friendly smile of greeting—then the smile and everything else inside her froze when she caught sight of the man who’d just walked through.

Oh, crap.

Her stomach dived like the time she accidentally wandered into a black-diamond ski run when her older brother Dylan took her up to the resort once.

“There you are.” The man was gorgeous, with a square jawline, a slim elegant nose and hazel eyes fringed by long lashes.

Smokin’ Hot Spencer Gregory. The cameras and sports magazines had loved him, once upon a time.

“Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to leave? One minute you were there, the next I turned around and you were gone.”

The curious girl who had tasted Charlotte’s fudge with such appreciation disappeared, replaced by a sullen, angry creature who glowered at the man.

“I did,” she muttered. “I said I wanted to come in here. I said it like three times. I guess you were too busy with your phone call to notice.”

He frowned. “Pey, you can’t just wander off. I was worried about you.”

“What did you think was going to happen in this stupid town? I was going to die of boredom or something?”

Right now, Charlotte would give anything to be wearing something sultry and sleek. Black, skintight, with some strategically placed bling, maybe. Instead, after all these years she had to face him with little makeup and her hair yanked back into a ponytail, wearing jeans and a simple blue T-shirt, covered by an apron that had Sugar Rush emblazoned across the chest.

At least she wasn’t wearing the ridiculous hairnet required while making fudge. Small favors, right?

She had barely registered the thought when the full implications of the moment washed over her like molten chocolate.

Peyton. Peyton. Why hadn’t she figured it out? That’s why the name had seemed familiar—somewhere in the recesses of her brain, in the file marked Spencer Gregory that she had purposely buried as deeply as she could over the years, she suddenly remembered Spence had a twelve-year-old daughter. Named Peyton.

And the said Peyton had just mentioned that her father had taken a job in Hope’s Crossing and they were moving to town.

Oh. My. Fudge.

Spencer Gregory, the only person on the planet she could honestly say she despised, was back in Hope’s Crossing. Permanently.

Why on earth hadn’t anybody bothered to tell her this particular juicy rumor? She had to think that, by some miracle, the news hadn’t made the rounds yet. Otherwise it would have been the topic of conversation everywhere she went.

The bag with its silvery Sugar Rush logo still lay on the countertop. She picked it up and held it out.

“Here you go,” she said to Peyton. Her voice came out cold and small and she widened her smile to compensate.

“Um. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” The girl finally reached out and grabbed it and shoved it into her messenger bag.

“How much does she owe you?” Spence reached into his wallet with what one of the women’s magazines had once declared the sexiest smile in sports.

If she had known Spence Gregory would be eating some of her fudge, she might have had second thoughts about tossing it around indiscriminately.

“She said I didn’t owe her anything. It’s a gift to welcome us to town,” Peyton stated.

Spence looked just as stunned by the gesture as his daughter had. “Wow. Thanks.”

He should be astonished. Charlotte sincerely doubted anybody in town would be standing with open arms to welcome back their native son. As far as many people were concerned, Spence Gregory had taken the clean, charming image of Hope’s Crossing and, as her brothers might have said, hawked a loogie all over it.

“Wow. Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” she lied gruffly.

His smile deepened as he gazed at her without a trace of recognition. There was a certain light in those hazel eyes, something bright and warm and almost...appreciative.

The nerves in her stomach sizzled. Oh, how she would have loved to be the recipient of that kind of look from him when she was fifteen. Back then—okay, even as recently as a year ago—she never would have dreamed it was ever within the realm of possibility.

Instead of making her giddy, having Spence Gregory smile at her now, after all this time, only infuriated her.

She deliberately turned away from him to his daughter. “Peyton, come back anytime. I’ll see what I can do about the cinnamon fudge.”

The girl gave her a hesitant smile that meant far more than her father’s well-practiced one. As she did, Charlotte became aware that the browsing couple that had been in her store for what felt like hours was in the middle of a whispered argument.

Finally the husband stepped forward. “You’re Smoke Gregory, aren’t you?”

Spence stiffened, his friendly smile melting away. “Yeah,” he said tersely.

“I knew it. Didn’t I tell you I knew it?” he crowed to his wife. “And you said he wouldn’t dare show his face in public!”

“Darwin, hush!” she said, her face turning scarlet.

Spence had gone completely rigid, a hard, solid block of granite in the middle of her store.

“Well, I just want you to know, we’re big baseball fans. We love the Pioneers. We live in Pendleton and drove to Portland several times just to watch you play.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah. You were a darn good ballplayer. Shame about everything else.”

“Isn’t it?” he bit out.

“And for what it’s worth,” the woman said, her face still red, “we don’t think you killed your wife.”

Charlotte could only stare at the couple, appalled, as what little color was left in Peyton’s pale features seeped away like spring runoff.

Fury sparked in Spence’s gaze and Charlotte shivered at the heat of it. He placed a big hand on Peyton’s shoulder, who went taut.

“Good to know,” he said coldly.

“Could we have your autograph?” the woman asked in a rush. “Our grandson followed your whole career. Had a poster on his bedroom wall and everything, right up until...” Her voice trailed off at something she saw in Spence’s dark features.

After a moment, he seemed to take a deep breath. He lifted his hand from Peyton’s shoulder. To Charlotte’s astonishment, he managed to look almost calm.

“Do you have anything for me to sign?”

After an awkward pause, the husband of the couple grabbed one of Charlotte’s printed Sugar Rush napkins and thrust it at him, along with one of the pens she kept by the register in a pretty beaded canister she had made.

Spence used the countertop to sign the napkin with a flourish. From her vantage point, she managed to read the message upside down. Generic and succinct. Best wishes. Spencer Gregory. Along with the number forty-two he had famously worn through more than a decade as a starting pitcher for the Portland Pioneers.