Inglath Cooper - The Lost Daughter Of Pigeon Hollow

The band hit the last note of the song and promised to be back in fifteen minutes. A jukebox started up at a volume that did not rattle the eardrums.

“Did you think I’d run when I saw the monster trucks parked outside?”

“I thought the local color might test your resolve.”

He smiled. “Did I pass?”

“So far.”

“Good.”

The waitress arrived with their beer and waffle fries. He poured her a glass from the icy pitcher, then handed her a plate, waited as she put some fries on it. He filled his own glass, loaded his plate and dug in.

She stared.

He looked up, eyebrows raised. “Is something wrong?”

“I—no. You just don’t seem like the waffle-fries type.”

He took a sip of his beer. “So what do you think my type is?”

She shrugged, buying time.

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “No, really. Go ahead.”

She wrapped both hands around her glass, giving it some consideration. “Let’s see. You play some sport like squash. Or maybe golf. You have a connection to the horse-racing industry. You drink port and smoke skinny cigars.”

Owen laughed, a real laugh that came from somewhere deep inside him. “You got one of them right anyway. How’d you figure out the horse connection?”

“We get a lot of that passing through here.” She smiled. “And you’ve got a decal on the back of your truck.”

He grinned. “My turn.”

Willa wasn’t at all sure she wanted to hear the conclusions he’d drawn about her so far.

“So noted you’re a reader,” he said. “You think TV is the drain through which all modern intelligence is leaking. NPR is secretly programmed on your FM dial. You normally frown on the kind of food sitting in front of us.” He hesitated, rubbed his chin, then added, “There’s some reason why you’re not married. Some obligation you’re meeting because a woman like you should have been snatched up long ago. And you’ve already assigned me a spot in your Okay, so I was right about him file. How did I do?”

She studied him through narrowed eyes. “Did Judy put you up to this?”

He laughed again, one elbow on the table. “Fairly well, I take it.”

The band started up with a sudden blast.

Owen leaned over close to her ear. “Since talking is out of the question, how about a dance?”

No was the obvious answer. Again, passing through. Clearly, a one-night thing. And she wasn’t a one-night kind of girl.

Intrigued, though? That, she had to admit.

One dance. What could it hurt?

There was a crowd on the parquet floor, making closeness essential. He was a good dancer; she noticed as much right away. Not like he’d had lessons or anything. He just moved with the kind of fluid ease that said the rhythm came naturally.

The frosted-blond singer belted out another Top 40 hit with a lively beat, her gaze set on Owen. Laser set.

Willa didn’t think it was her imagination that the woman’s hips gyrated with more deliberation every time Owen glanced at the stage.

She couldn’t resist. She leaned in and with a straight face, said, “I can duck out. Leave her a clear playing field.”

“Do, and I’ll stage a food-poisoning picket outside your diner.”

“Low.”

He smiled. And it hit Willa then that they were flirting with each other. Or maybe she had flirted with him, and he had flirted back. Whatever the sequence of it, she was enjoying herself. Imagine that.

THEY FINISHED THAT SET, and while the band took another break, Willa excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.

Owen watched her disappear around the corner. What was he doing? He was supposed to give her the letter. That was all.

He’d asked her to dinner for that purpose alone, and somewhere between the parking lot and that last dance, he’d gotten off track. Way off.

The cell phone in his pocket rang. He pulled it out, hit Send. “Hello.”

“Owen.”

He looked up at the ceiling. “Pamela.”

“Cline said you were going to be out of town for a couple of days,” she said, a clear note of dissatisfaction lining her voice.

“Yeah,” he said. “Kind of unexpected.”

“Is everything all right?” The question tentative, as if she were afraid to ask too much.

“Yes,” he said.

“When will you be home?”

“A day or so.”

There was a long pause, and then she said, “I’m not really sure how to say this, so I’ll just out with it. I haven’t made any secret of my hopes for our relationship, Owen. I’m not naive. I realize that if you wanted to marry me, you would already have asked me. So let’s just bring this to vote, okay? Propose when you get back, or I’ll fade out of the picture. Fair enough?”

“Pamela—”

“You don’t need to explain anything. But I can’t sit on the fence any longer. That’s all.” And she hung up.

He sat for a moment, then popped the phone back into his pocket, acknowledging a wash of guilt for the way he had treated her. She didn’t deserve it. And she was right. He’d kept her hanging on.

He had come here to do an old friend a favor. Maybe clear his head in the process. And yet he couldn’t deny he saw Willa Addison in a light that did nothing to promote either of those agendas.

SHE FELT THE CHANGE as soon as she arrived back at the table. Saw it in the set of his ridiculously well-cut jaw.

Second thoughts.

That was fast.

She glanced down at the top button she’d undone in front of the restroom mirror, her face flushing with instant embarrassment. Initial gut feeling. Always trust it. She’d known this had nowhere to go.

She pasted on a smile, one hand at the neck of her blouse. “It’s late. I have to get going.”

He stood, threw some bills on the table and said, “Let’s go.”

She decided to wait until they were outside to clarify that she would be leaving alone.

But as soon as they hit the parking lot, he said, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

She gave him a smile that had to look as forced as it felt. “Look, Owen. It was fun to this point. But we both know anything more would just be an exercise in why bother. So—”

He leaned in and kissed her, quick and thorough.

At first, Willa was too stunned to respond. But he softened his approach, and anything that might have rallied as outrage collapsed like so much false bravado.

And she responded.

The man knew how to kiss.

She had a moment to catalogue impressions. The very faint scent of expensive cologne. The rough stubble on his chin in direct contrast to his mouth, lips smooth and full. The hand cupping her jaw insistent, but somehow letting her know at the same time, he would stop whenever she wanted.

Never would be just fine.

She finally latched on to enough will to pull back and hope she looked offended. “Why did you do that?”

“Because you’re so sure you’re right about me.”