KRISTI GOLD - The One She Left Behind

Matt looked at Savannah. “It’s way past time to have a proper reunion of the original six-pack.”

For some stupid reason, she glanced at Sam as if she needed his permission. Worse still, he sat there in silence, looking completely noncommittal.

“Talk her into it, McBriar.”

Sam’s smirk turned into a frown. “She can make up her own mind. If she doesn’t want to do something, then I sure as hell can’t make her do it.”

In Savannah’s opinion, he’d all but confirmed he would rather she not show up. That alone served as a good enough reason to attend the little soiree. She could tolerate Sam for a few hours. Besides, she truly wanted to connect with her old friends, even if she didn’t count Sam among them.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Savannah?”

She turned to find Sam leaning against the railing, arms folded across his chest. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

“It means spending an entire night with me.”

Dear Reader,

First love…

Two simple words that have the potential to evoke complicated emotions. If you’ve ever been in love, you’re bound to have one because—let’s face it—we all have to start somewhere.

Interestingly enough, I stumbled across a survey that claimed only twenty-five percent of women actually marry their first love. Maybe so, but I can almost guarantee the other seventy-five percent have never forgotten theirs. In my experience, when the subject has come up during a group discussion, I’ve noticed that some people have fond recollections, others express their foolishness and a few have even spoken of regrets. I venture a guess that every now and then many have asked themselves “What if?” What if things had been different? What if we had stayed together? What if I unexpectedly ran into him on the street? What would I say?

Those questions served as inspiration for The One She Left Behind, a story involving what once was and what possibly could be again if old recriminations can be put aside. A roller coaster ride into the past that changes two people’s perspectives on life, love and forgiveness. One of my personal favorite plots—a reunion in every sense.

I truly hope you enjoy the first book in the Delta Secrets miniseries, where you’ll meet a group of high school friends once known as the six-pack. In the meantime, I wish you fond memories, good friends and happy reading!

Kristi Gold

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Kristi Gold has always believed that love has remarkable healing powers and she feels very fortunate to be able to weave stories of love and commitment. As a bestselling author, a National Readers’ Choice winner and a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, Kristi has learned that although accolades are wonderful, the most cherished rewards come from personal stories shared by readers and networking with other authors, both published and aspiring. You may contact Kristi through her website, www.kristigold.com, on Facebook or through snail mail at P.O. Box 24197, Waco, Texas 76702 (please include an SASE for response).

In loving memory of my husband, Steve—

Husband, father, healer.

My hero

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AS THE CLASSIC COUNTRY ballad began to play, Savannah Greer’s past came tumbling back on a white-water rush of memories. The song of love and leaving brought to mind another place and another time, a bridge long since crossed, but unfortunately not quite burned.

From her perch on a barstool at the diner’s counter, she glanced over her shoulder, almost expecting to see the proverbial man from her past lounging in the back booth, weathered guitar in hand, his expression as bitter as the words he’d delivered more than a decade ago. But she only caught sight of a rotund farmer standing by the ancient jukebox, the culprit who’d unwittingly sent her imagination into overdrive with one careless selection.

Savannah turned back to the counter, took another sip of the frosted root beer and frowned. She’d never been particularly fond of the drink, or nostalgia, which left her questioning why she’d bothered to stop in at Stan’s on the way to the farm. Truth was, she’d wanted to delay dealing with the grief over losing her beloved father, and being home would simply make it all too real. She also didn’t look forward to seeing her mother again, yet prolonging the reunion would only fuel Ruth Greer’s well-established disapproval of her daughter.

With that in mind, Savannah reached inside her wallet, withdrew two dollar bills and handed them to the waitress—a fresh-faced young woman who had to be close to the same age she’d been when she’d shed this godforsaken Mississippi Delta town. The girl smiled, slid two quarters across the counter and said, “Y’all come back now.”

“Have a nice evening,” Savannah muttered, yet she wanted desperately to tell the teenager to get out of Placid while she still could, before the place sucked the life out of her.

She left the change on the counter and hurried toward the exit, craving freedom, only to face her past head-on when the door opened before she could escape.

He moved into the room like a shadow at sundown, all hard-shell insolence and towering height, his dark hair just long enough to be deemed disreputable in such a conservative community. He stared at her for a moment and when recognition dawned, a mocking smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Laughter rumbled low in his throat and crinkled the corners of his dark blue eyes, dredging up images of riotous storms and uncontrolled passion. He thumbed the brim of his baseball cap up from his brow and studied her from head to toe with all the cockiness of a seventeen-year-old jock. “Looks like Savvy’s come back to town.”

Savannah’s feet refused to move from the worn tiled floor. She couldn’t manage a step, not one step, for that meant she would again be moving toward him, not away.

You’re not a child, Savannah. Leave.

Clutching her purse to her chest, she simply said, “Goodbye, Sam,” then brushed past him and rushed out into the humid June evening.

As she strode across the gravel parking lot toward her car, she heard the all-too-familiar voice call out, “Walking away again, Savannah?”

Ignoring the condemnation in his tone, Savannah quickened her pace. But against her better judgment, she paused to take another backward glance and discovered Sam leaning against the bed of a shiny black truck parked near the entrance, arms folded across his chest, looking as if he expected her to run back to him.

When her gaze again connected with his, Savannah’s pulse beat a staccato rhythm in her ears as her nerves unraveled like an old woven rug.

What was wrong with her? She was behaving like some kid who’d gone to see the latest slasher movie, afraid to witness the terror on the screen, yet unable to resist some primitive calling to do that very thing. To face the fear. In this case, the man and the memories.

As she climbed into the safety of her sedan, Savannah attributed the unwelcome reaction to the remnants of an idealistic teenage perception of love. After all, she’d worked so hard to ignore those times when a warm breeze would blow across her face and remind her of him. She only needed to recall his parting words all those years ago to ground herself in reality.