In an enchanting new romance from USA TODAY bestselling author Christie Ridgway, love comes home to Blue Arrow Lake when childhood sweethearts get an unexpected second chance...

Mackenzie Walker has everything a single girl needs in her California mountain hometown. Family, friends, a thriving business...and memories of Zan Elliott, whose touch—and betrayal—she’s never forgotten. Now, ten years after he left town, Zan returns to manage his late grandfather’s estate...and flip Mac’s life upside down.

Documentary filmmaking has taken Zan all over the globe, yet nowhere was far enough away to make him forget Mac. Seeing her reignites their incredible chemistry. Mac’s trust won’t be easily won, especially when Zan’s inheritance jeopardizes her family’s hard-earned dreams. But every moment together is challenging Zan to stop living life through a lens and dare to let his guard down for a chance at forever...

Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Christie Ridgway

“Equally passionate and emotional, this tale will quicken pulses and firmly tug on the heartstrings… An excellent story that you hope won’t ever end!”

—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick) on Can’t Fight This Feeling

“[E]verything romance readers love.”

—BookPage on Can’t Fight This Feeling

“Ridgway’s writing is impeccable.”

—RT Book Reviews on Make Me Lose Control

“This sexy page-turner [is] a stellar kick-off to Ridgway’s latest humor-drenched series.”

—Library Journal on Take My Breath Away

“Emotional and powerful…everything a romance reader could hope for.”

—Publishers Weekly on Bungalow Nights (starred review)

“Kick off your shoes and escape to endless summer. This is romance at its best.”

—Emily March, New York Times bestselling author of Nightingale Way, on Bungalow Nights

“Sexy and addictive—Ridgway will keep you up all night!”

—New York Times bestselling author Susan Andersen on Beach House No. 9

“Pure romance, delightfully warm and funny.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jennifer Crusie

“Christie Ridgway writes with the perfect combination of humor and heart. This funny, sexy story is as fresh and breezy as its Southern California setting. An irresistible read!”

—New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs on How to Knit a Wild Bikini

Keep on Loving You
Christie Ridgway

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my readers. Thanks for enjoying the books—I keep on loving you!

Dear Reader,

We’re returning to Blue Arrow Lake, where high peaks, tall evergreens and deep waters are in great contrast to the Southern California cities and beaches just a couple of hours away. Mackenzie “Mac” Walker, the second of the mountain-born-and-bred Walker siblings, is the last of them single, too...and it’s starting to wear a little. Everybody believes she’s still hung up on her first love, but he’s been incommunicado for a decade, except for postcards that have continually arrived from all over the world.

And then one night, a familiar stranger shows up at a family celebration...

Zan Elliott returns to the place of his childhood that never quite felt like home. He has a job to do—handle his grandfather’s estate—and then he presumes he’ll return to his globe-trotting lifestyle. But the girl he’s never forgotten has now grown up, and their connection is as strong as ever. Can he risk attaching himself to this woman when he knows how tenuous life and love can be?

I’ve been excited about telling the story of Mac and Zan from the beginning of the Cabin Fever series. Their young love is a legend around the region—I hope you find their second take just as epic. Grab your ticket and join me on another emotional, sexy journey. Destination...romance!

Christie

People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.

—Anton Chekhov

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

Dear Reader

Quote

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THAT CRISP JANUARY night Mackenzie Walker couldn’t help but notice the beauty of the bride and the handsomeness of the groom. All the family and friends at the reception glowed, too, reveling in the couple’s obvious happiness.

The whole lot of them was giddy with gladness, with just one exception.

The maid of honor—Mac herself—was miserable.

Not that she’d allow anyone to guess that. Instead, she smiled and laughed and responded gaily to every question thrown her way.

Wasn’t her new sister-in-law’s gown lovely? Of course it was, Mac agreed. Who would deny it? The ivory-colored dress clung to Angelica’s figure, her golden skin showing through spangled chiffon sleeves that began just off the shoulder and ended at her wrists.

Didn’t Brett Walker appear just as comfortable in his charcoal suit and silvery-gray tie as he did in his usual uniform of jeans and work boots? No doubt, Mac responded. Her big brother rocked the formal wear.

And what a bridesmaid dress! one of Mac’s cousins exclaimed. Everybody knew those could be dreadful. Hers was not, Mac had to concur. The pale blue was the color of her eyes and it had a flattering, sweetheart neckline with sheer sleeves dotted with crystals just like the bride’s.

Yes, her attire was lovely. That wasn’t the source of Mac’s low mood.

On that thought, she made her way to the bar at Mr. Frank’s, an old-fashioned restaurant and bar with red vinyl booths and dark paneling in the village of Blue Arrow Lake. The lake itself was private and the surrounding lavish homes beyond pricey, because Southern Californians could find stupendous mountain scenery and four real seasons just a couple of hours away from urban centers and sand and surf.

This was a vacation spot for them, but locals lived—much more modestly, of course—in the area, too. Mac’s family, the Walkers, had been here for over one hundred and fifty years, part of the first wave of pioneers who labored up the mountain with their oxen for lumber opportunities and stayed because they fell in love with the land.

She slid onto a bar stool and sketched a wave at the bartender. “Hey, Jim.” His white shirt was starched and his red vest well pressed. “Looking good.”

He beamed, his fiftysomething face lighting up. “Nothing but the best for your brother and his bride. We were only too happy to close the place for the reception.”

Though Brett and Angelica had actually run off to Vegas and done the deed in October, they’d decided to celebrate the tying of the knot with all the trimmings once the holidays had passed. It had been a bit of trouble getting the dresses in a timely fashion, but the rest had fallen into place.

“What can I get you?” Jim asked.

“Um...”

While she pondered, his gaze wandered over her shoulder. “They sure are a picture.”

Mac glanced back and took in the sight of the bride and groom surrounded by the rest of the bridal party: her two sisters, their fiancés and five-year-old Mason, Mac’s nephew, who had also stood up with the groom. When her stomach tightened, she told herself it was wrong of her to let her own feelings darken even a moment of these happy hours.

“You’re the last single Walker now, eh?”

Except there was that unavoidable truth. Of her four siblings, Mac alone was single.

Single. Alone.

Suppressing a sigh, she decided on her order. “A tequila shot, please.”

Jim didn’t remark on the out-of-character request, though Mac rarely took her spirits straight. Instead, he plunked down a napkin and then a shot glass filled to the brim with a golden liquid. “Top shelf for you,” he said.

Because he was sorry for her, just as she feared everybody she knew was sorry for her, just as she was a little bit sorry for herself.

Single. Alone.

She threw back the liquor, choked, coughed, then slammed the empty glass back on the bar. Heat coursed through her, hot enough, she hoped, to burn off the uncomfortable sense of being the odd woman out in her own family. Just months ago, the Walker siblings had been hardworking singletons. Now three of the four were still hardworking, yet exuberantly happy people paired off, leaving Mac the odd wheel.

Honestly, that wouldn’t be so bad if—

“There you are!”

She slid her gaze to the side, taking in her date for the evening, Kent Valdez. “I’ll have what she just gulped down,” he said to Jim.

Mac showed the bartender two fingers, indicating another tequila shot was in order for herself. “Having fun, Kent?” she asked, forcing herself to sound pleasant. Not that there was anything wrong with the man or anything wrong with the obvious good time he’d been having. But she’d invited him to be her date and he’d been whooping it up with the other guests instead of hanging at her elbow, doing his part to assure everyone that Mac had a full and very satisfying romantic life.

Because the other downer she’d been dealing with lately was the astonishing and irritating revelation that her entire community still believed her to be hung up on her first love.

Who had left her and the mountains ten years before.

In order to correct that group delusion, she’d hit upon the scheme to attend each of the Walker matrimonial events—all happening in the next few weeks—with a different eligible bachelor.

She’d show everyone in the vicinity of Blue Arrow Lake that the last single Walker standing was happy and heart-whole.

The recollection of that goal plus the burn of the second tequila shot got her off the bar stool. Tugging on Kent’s hand, she towed him toward the dance floor, just as a line dance was forming. Thrusting both arms in the air, she let out a loud “Woo-hoo!” and took her place beside Angelica, who shared a grin. Then the bride stuck out her tongue at the groom, who stood on the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest and a smug half smile curving his mouth, his gaze never leaving his beautiful new wife. She laughed and blew him a kiss that he pretended to catch. Then Brett clapped his hand to his heart.

Mac froze, stricken by the romantic gesture coming from her usually reserved older brother. But when the music ramped up, she drove off the melancholy by throwing herself into the moves, hoping the old fake-it-until-you-make-it adage would blow away her doldrums.

And it worked.

Not for one instant did she leave the dance floor, finding partners for the slower dances and gyrating with her girlfriends during the fast numbers. Kent did his part, and when he begged for a breather she waved him off with her blessing and a smile. When the DJ segued into another romantic ballad, Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud,” she sidled into a shadowy corner to enjoy the song and the sight of Brett and Angelica wrapped in each other’s arms, their foreheads touching, their mouths a millimeter apart.

Closing her eyes, she tried ignoring the pang in her heart.

But the sudden sensation of a male body behind her and muscled arms crossing her waist couldn’t be disregarded. She started, but his hold tightened and a hard jaw pressed against her temple as a low voice whispered in her ear. “Just enjoy the moment.”

Only slightly swaying to the beat, he drew her closer to his solid warmth.

Goose bumps rolled down Mac’s body, hot chills of sexual response. Her breath caught in her throat. Who...?

Not Kent, because through the dancers she could glimpse him at the bar talking to Jim. Anyway, she already knew he didn’t draw this kind of reaction from her. As the sweet notes of the song wrapped around them, curiosity prodded her to turn and confront her partner, but another part of her didn’t want to disturb the strange and strangely compelling bindings that seemed to be lashing their bodies together.

His heart beat against her back.

Hers sent an urgent message to her brain. This is something special.

Mac didn’t dare disturb the magic created by the sensation of his exhalations stirring her hair. Breathing deep of his scent, she felt both bold and safe enough to lean into his strength, going so far as to wrap her fingers around his forearms covered in the fine wool of an expensive jacket.

Enjoy the moment.

She couldn’t recall the last time she’d done that. Walkers worked hard to keep their place on the mountain and she was no exception, doing everything from washing windows to sending out invoices as the proprietor of Maids by Mac. Housework wasn’t a glamorous career, but she’d never wanted anything more than to be her own woman.

Except when you longed to be Zan’s woman, a devil whispered in her head.

She kicked away the thought of Alexander Elliott. He didn’t belong in this sweet bubble of possibility. Closing her eyes again, she allowed herself to bask in the man’s scent and in the man’s heat and mused that maybe Mac Walker wasn’t destined to be single and alone, after all.

Lost in that, she missed the ending of the song until the loud shriek of the mic yanked her out of her reverie. The DJ began speaking and she dropped her hold on the stranger behind her. But just as she turned to look at him, her sister Shay’s stepdaughter-to-be, London, grabbed Mac’s hand and hauled her onto the dance floor.

“Wait!” Mac glanced around, trying to find her partner, but she was already surrounded by a bevy of other women. “What’s going on?”

“The bouquet toss, silly,” London said in an excited voice, having lost her usual teenage insouciance somewhere after the I do’s.

Mac groaned. The tradition was embarrassing and one she did her best to avoid. But London had begged Angelica to include the custom and the kid had Mac’s wrist in a viselike grip. She tried tugging free. “Why don’t I get Shay and Poppy out here,” she suggested, naming her two engaged sisters. Once away from the teenager, she’d actually go on the hunt for her sexy stranger.

“They already have rings on their fingers,” London said. “This is for us.”

“You’re too young to get married,” Mac replied. “And I’m too...”

Hung up on Zan Elliott, the devil murmured again.

Instead of shrieking in frustration, Mac gave up. The absurd ritual couldn’t take long, right? Then she’d find the stranger and do...what?

Throw herself at him?

Maybe, she decided, reliving the sensation of him surrounding her. Reliving that so unusual—for her—trust she’d felt leaning against his larger body.

The women around her were chattering and the DJ was making noises into the mic, but Mac ignored the sounds, her thoughts focused on that man. Movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention and she turned her head.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened in complete surprise.

There, beyond the tight clutch of women, a figure stood in profile. A figure she hadn’t seen in ten years and who was more muscled than when he’d left, but one she’d recognize anywhere.

And one she should have known when he stepped up behind her to whisper in her ear.

Just enjoy the moment.

Heat rose from her chest and flamed up her throat to her face as she recalled how quickly she’d relaxed in his hold. What did he think of that? And why would he have...have ambushed her in that way at this important event?

As if sensing her regard, his head turned, too, and their gazes met. His mouth quirked, stopping somewhere between a smirk and a smile.

Her temper kindled. What gall! What gall to show up so suddenly and without even a word of warning.

Just as she made to break out of the female circle in order to challenge her unexpected and unwelcome blast from the past, something soft and fragrant struck the side of her face. Instinct had her putting up her hands as a cheer sounded throughout the room.

Mac looked down at what was now cradled in her arms, trying to come to terms with the fact that she’d caught the bridal bouquet—and that Zan Elliott was back in town.

* * *

THE FRAGRANCE OF roses and lavender wafted up from the flowers. She gulped in a breath of it, then peered over the women gathered around her in congratulation, once again seeking out Zan.

He’d moved from where he’d been moments before...if he’d really been there moments before. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air. Could it be possible she’d imagined him?

Angelica broke through the ring of celebrants and beamed at Mac. Really, she was breathtakingly beautiful with her shiny brunette hair and dark eyes. She and Brett were going to make beautiful babies, and proud Auntie Mac would dote on them from her comfortable spinsterhood, unless Zan—

“I’m so glad you caught the flowers!” Angelica said, leaning in to kiss Mac’s cheek. “I know you consider the tradition barbaric, but I thought it was fun.”

She pretended to scowl at her new sister-in-law. “How come there’s no garter toss if you find tradition so great?”

“That’s because your brother’s a caveman. He said he didn’t want me baring my legs for all the wedding guests to see.”

Speaking of wedding guests... Mac took a quick look around the room, then leaned in to whisper in her sister-in-law’s ear. “Have you seen Zan?”

Angelica pulled back, her eyes going wide. “Zan? Your Zan?”

“He’s not my Zan,” Mac said quickly. “But I...I thought I caught a glimpse of him a minute ago.” I thought I felt his arms around me. I thought maybe my heart would beat out of my chest as we swayed to the music. “Did he call Brett or something and say he was coming back to town?”

The bride shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

“But did you see—”

“I wouldn’t recognize him, right? We’ve never met.”

“Oh.” Mac felt another flush climb up her neck. The man—whoever he was—had her so flustered she wasn’t thinking clearly. “Never mind, then. I’ll just, uh, go put the bouquet down at my place at the table.”

Then she hurried off the dance floor, keeping a lookout for a dark-haired, hazel-eyed ten-year-gone guy. But when she didn’t see him, she began to wonder about her sanity. Perhaps the night before she’d stayed up too late boxing the chocolates that were going to the guests as party favors. Maybe she needed to gulp down a large cup of hot coffee and get her wits back in place.

“There you are!” Her sisters, Poppy and Shay, approached, their long skirts swishing about their legs. They wore gowns identical to Mac’s, only different in color. Poppy’s was pink, while Shay’s was a subtle peach.

“Nice catch,” Poppy said, nodding to the bouquet.

Mac rolled her eyes. “You saw what happened. It hit me in the head.”

“Maybe you’ll be better prepared when I throw mine at my reception in two weeks,” Shay said.

“No,” Mac groaned the word. “Not you, too?”

“London is insisting.”

“I’ll hide out in the bathroom, then,” Mac said. “Promise you’ll give me the high sign?”

“Absolutely,” her youngest sister said.

Mac narrowed her gaze. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m not even going to pretend I won’t make you be in the gaggle of bachelorettes when it’s my turn,” Poppy put in. “But, anyway, did you see—”

“I did.” Mac’s heart jumped, then started to race. “I thought maybe I imagined it, but if you saw Zan, too...” She broke off at the puzzlement on her sister’s face.

“Zan?” Poppy said. “I was going to ask if you’d seen Mason dancing with the little McDonald girl.”

“Um, no, I didn’t,” Mac mumbled, feeling stupid. “Never mind—”

“Zan is here?” Shay asked. “Zan Elliott?”

“I don’t know. Probably not. It was just a glimpse,” Mac said.

Her two sisters exchanged glances. “How much have you had to drink?” Poppy asked.

No way would Mac mention the two tequila shots. “Never mind. I’m sure I was mistaken.”

Her sisters looked at each other again. “Oh, Mac,” Poppy said in a concerned voice.

Mac winced. Poppy had the gooiest heart of any of the Walkers, and right now she was clearly oozing pity for her poor, unattached sister who had delusions about the return of her very first boyfriend, her very first love. “It’s nothing,” she told her sister in a firm voice. “Like I said, a mistake.”

“But—”

“Look, they’re about to cut the cake.” Mac pointed toward the other end of the room. “We’d better get over there.”

Thankfully, that distracted her sisters, and Mac followed slowly in their wake. Could she really have mistaken some stranger for Zan?

In her mind’s eye, she saw him as he’d looked his second-to-last day in the mountains. She’d been eighteen, he’d just turned twenty-one, and they’d been a couple for two years. That afternoon they’d taken his boat to a secluded cove, where they’d spread a blanket and a picnic. Her intention had been to tough it out and not allow her belly-hollowing longing for him and her aching sadness at his imminent departure to ruin those final warm, sunny hours.

They’d made love for the last time, the wide shoulders of his rangy body blocking the sun so that she couldn’t read the expression in his hazel eyes as he’d entered her. But her legs had wound around his hips, tight, like two vines that could bind him to her forever.

He’d cupped her face in his hands. One hot tear had leaked from her eye and he’d brushed it away with his thumb, the stroke slow and tender. “Mackenzie Walker,” he’d whispered. Just that, as if memorizing her name.

Maybe he no longer even remembered it. Maybe he’d never thought of that girl again, who’d given him her body and who’d wanted to give him everything else: her heart, her soul, her whole life.

She grimaced, thinking of that green and unguarded young woman. Likely Zan had headed down the mountains and never thought of her again.

Except that didn’t explain the postcards that had come to her regularly over the past decade. On their fronts were photos of places like Oslo and Algiers and Singapore. On the other side, a single-letter message, three bold strokes that made up the letter Z.

No other thought. No return address. Just a pointed reminder of the young man who’d left her behind.

Mac was older now, but maybe no wiser if she truly thought for even a second that Zan might return to the place he’d always sworn to leave.

Standing near the table at the far end of the room, she watched Angelica and Brett feed each other bites of cake with the tidiest of manners. When her brother brushed an errant crumb from his bride’s bottom lip, a hot press of tears burned at the back of Mac’s eyes, which she ruthlessly held back.

God, how was she going to make it through two more of these darn events?

Poppy was the family crier, but Mac was on perilous ground herself and thanked God she was recruited to pass out slices of cake. A diversion was necessary. Moving among the guests wasn’t as much of a reprieve as she’d hoped, however. It was easy to agree about the bride’s beaming smile and the groom’s clear dedication to his new wife. But other comments weren’t so simple to smile through.

When will we see you married, Mac?

Why hasn’t some man finally put a wedding band on your finger?

Whatever happened to that boy of yours...that Zan Elliott?

At this last, she stopped short, staring down at tiny Carmen Lind, who had to be closing in on ninety and wore her silver hair braided in a crown on top of her head. “What made you think of him, Mrs. Lind?” Mac asked, through a suddenly tight throat.

The little lady dug into her cake with relish. “Who, dear?”

“You mentioned Zan.”

“Who?”

Mac smiled a little. “Zan Elliott. You just brought up his name.”

“Oh, yes. Such a good-looking young man. But he got into a lot of trouble, I recall. Those bad boys always catch a girl’s eye, don’t they?”

At nine years old, Mac’s big brother had brought Zan around one day, and she’d tagged after the two boys until Brett knocked her down into a pile of pine needles. Already she’d been too stubborn to cry or complain. Instead, she’d thrown a pinecone at Brett in retaliation and her bad aim meant it nailed Zan in the butt. He’d whirled, laughter glittering in his eyes, then leaped on her to “shampoo” her hair with a handful of dusty needles.

Red-faced and sneezing, she’d handed her heart over to him.

It had been that fast. That simple.

Mrs. Lind glanced around, her fork in midair. “You know, I thought I saw him a few minutes ago. Did he come to congratulate your brother?”

Brett. Mac whipped her head around, searching out the groom. If Zan had returned, surely he would have spoken with Brett.

It wasn’t easy getting a quiet moment with the groom, though. The reception was wrapping up and it seemed that each guest needed to pause on their way out the door for a short word with the new couple. She hung in their periphery, intent upon swooping in as soon as her brother was free.

Finally, the only people left in Mr. Frank’s were the bridal party and the bartender. While her sisters went to a back room to help Angelica out of her gown and into something warmer for the ride home, Mac snagged her brother by the sleeve.

“Hey, I’ve got to ask you something.”

“Me first,” Brett said. “I’m going to drive the car around. In about five minutes, when you hear me honk the horn, bring my bride outside, okay?”

“Okay. But—”

“No time, Mac. I want this to go perfectly.” Then he strode away.

Vexed, Mac huffed out a sigh. But then Angelica came back into the main room, still managing to look bridal in a pair of leggings and an off-white winter coat, the hood lined in pale pink fleece. Her cheeks matched the color and her obvious happiness couldn’t help but spill over on everyone within ten feet.

Mac exchanged smiles with her sisters. “Lucky brother,” she said, then hooked her arm in Angelica’s. “Lucky us to get such a wonderful new sister.”

Tears swam in the bride’s eyes.

“None of that now,” Mac admonished. “I’m determined to keep my composure.”

Poppy’s fiancé, Ryan, had already handed Poppy his handkerchief. Shay was digging through her man Jace’s suit pocket for his.

“C’mon, guys,” Mac scolded. “This is a celebration.” Then she heard the sound of a car horn. “That’s our cue.”

Angelica didn’t resist as Mac pulled her toward the front door. When Mac threw it open, they stood in the doorway, silenced by the sight in front of them.

A sturdy SUV stood angled at the curb, a vehicle made for the mountains with its heavy-duty snow tires. But instead of being the usual black or silver or white, the paint job was a profusion of flowers in pink and green and yellow and blue.

Jace cleared his throat. “Check out the license plate.”

Mac redirected her attention. Seven letters spelled out WLKRWIF.

“Walker wife,” Angelica whispered, then hiccuped a sob.

“Oh, jeez,” Mac said, even though her heart was being squeezed like a sponge. “You’ve turned sappy, bro.”

But Brett only grinned as he pulled his bride into his arms. “You’re a real mountain girl now,” he told her.

“I’m your mountain wife,” Angelica said, pressing her cheek to his chest. She let out her breath in a shuddering sigh. “You know what I need.”

“I do.” He kissed the top of her hair. “And I’ll always do my very best to give it to you.”

Angelica looked back at the car, smiled. “What made you think of spring on four wheels?”

“Because you’re every season of my heart.”

On the brink of losing control of her own sentiments, Mac walked away, pushing past Shay and Jace and Poppy and Ryan, both couples moved by the moment into their own hugs and kisses. The closeness of the pairs was cutting her to the bone and another moment witnessing their happiness might have her bawling like a baby. Single. Alone.

Who would have thought Brett had such a grand gesture in him? The SUV symbolized that Angelica had carved her place as a Walker in their mountains. But he’d made it all her own by painting it to please his bride’s very feminine side.

“Mom always said,” she murmured to the empty room, as she went in to collect her belongings, “there’s something irresistible and utterly grand about a grand gesture.”

Reaching her place at the long table where the bridal party had sat, she snatched up her coat from the back of the chair and tucked her tiny evening purse in the outside pocket. Then she looked at the bouquet. Maybe she’d leave it there.

But that might hurt Angelica’s feelings. So she scooped it up and brought the cool petals of the roses to her nose. As she drew in their sweet fragrance, her gaze landed on the cocktail napkin that had been tucked beneath them.

Emotions bombarded her. Elation. Anticipation. Thrill. Then the lessons learned through heartache had her locking down on those feelings. The older and wiser Mac was no longer the naive girl who’d been left behind. Experience had taught her to protect herself by curbing flights of fancy and avoiding bouts of what-could-have-been.

Still, that didn’t stop her from dropping her hand to the soft paper surface, where she ran a fingertip over the three distinctive ink slashes that etched a single letter.

Z.

CHAPTER TWO

ZAN ELLIOTT PUSHED open the door of Oscar’s Coffee, situated smack-dab in the middle of the village of Blue Arrow Lake. Already chilled by the short walk from his car, the inside heat hit him like a slap, and a shudder racked his body. He clutched the jamb as the world tilted for a moment. When it righted again, he shrugged off the brief disorientation.

A caffeine deficit, most likely. Or it could be that the altitude was getting to him. Though he’d traveled to higher elevations in the past ten years, it had been that long since he’d visited these particular mountains.

He was surprised by how...not odd it was to be back.

That befuddled him, too. He’d never considered the environs of Blue Arrow Lake truly home—that had been the beach house where he’d lived with his parents and siblings until he was nine—yet coming back four days ago he’d experienced an unexpected settling of his restless soul.

It should worry him a little, he thought, as he stepped up to the register and gave the order for his drink. Christ, did it mean he was getting old?

Then he moved toward the pickup counter, his gaze landing on the man standing directly in front of him—and suddenly he was a boy again.

Aware of the grin stretching his mouth, he clapped his hand on Brett Walker’s shoulder. “So you’re a husband now. It boggles the mind.”

Brett turned, and his familiar gray eyes widened, then narrowed. “Zan.”

“In the flesh.” He rocked back on his heels, studying his old friend. While he’d seen Brett at a distance when he’d crashed the wedding reception, he hadn’t been near enough to completely register the changes the years had wrought. The other man’s hair was shorter now, and scars slashed his eyebrow and across the bridge of his nose. He’d probably gained thirty pounds of pure muscle. “I’m not sure I’d beat you at arm wrestling like I used to.”

“That’s revisionist memory, pal,” Brett said, then turned back when the barista called his name. Swiping up his drink, he didn’t give Zan a second glance before strolling around a corner to the seating area.

“Well,” Zan said to the empty space around him, “thanks for the effusive welcome. It’s great to see you again, too.” Not sure if he should be amused or affronted, Zan shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Apparently Brett wasn’t interested in hashing over old times.

Not that Zan mulled over them very often himself. He wasn’t a person who liked to look back, and it didn’t take a genius to understand it stemmed from the family tragedy he wanted to forget. Still, he’d had many good times with Brett. He’d been living with his grandfather just a few weeks when after school one day the towheaded oldest Walker had casually asked him, “You fish?”

Zan had lied, of course, and said yes. Little time passed before they were fishing buddies, and biking buddies, and, later, chasing-after-girls buddies. Nearly inseparable, though their temperaments were not completely aligned. When Zan had proposed trouble, Brett had counseled caution. Zan ran red lights, Brett took note of stale yellows. During the execution of Zan’s wildest pranks, Brett had participated only as lookout.

But they’d both had a dogged determination, so when his own tall Americano was ready, he took the same path as his old friend. He really wanted to have a conversation with the other man. What was the story about his wife and marriage? How were the rest of the Walkers faring?

Sue him, but he was curious about what Poppy and Shay had been up to during the past ten years.

Not to mention their older sister.

Turning the corner into the seating area, he caught sight of Brett in the far corner at one of the brightly painted picnic tables set on the scarred cement floor. Across from him sat dark-haired, blue-eyed Mackenzie Walker.

Zan’s world spun again as a thousand memories assaulted him.

Cheeky little-girl Mac, with her gamine grin and her resolve to do anything and everything along with her big brother and his best friend. Like Brett, he’d ignored her, teased her and even went to great lengths to ditch her until her pouting lower lip would melt his will.

Coltish preteen Mac, all skinny arms and legs and big eyes that followed his every movement. She’d had dark mutterings about every high school girl who caught his and Brett’s attention freshman year.

Then she’d been in high school, too, and other boys were fixating on her. For a time, he’d fooled himself that his own interest in Mac was merely brotherly—and that the eye daggers he threw at the guys who hit on her were because he only had her best interests at heart. Then one summer afternoon, a playful wrestling match rocked his world when he flipped her to her back and found himself hovering over her, his hips between her spread legs.

This is Mac, he’d tried telling himself. Mac, who in winter had a habit of shoving snow down the back collar of his jacket. Mac, who’d once pretended to have a leg cramp while swimming in the lake so he’d jump in to save her—wearing his favorite leather boots. Mac, who’d hidden his car keys when he was sixteen so he was late to pick up Hot Body Harmonie Ross the night he was her date to her senior prom.

Mac, he’d thought, as he’d lowered his head and kissed her.

She’d tasted like cinnamon candy and paradise. Sweet, burning heaven.

He and Brett had gone a round or two about the change in circumstances until Mac herself waded in and made clear—with a fist to her big brother’s gut—that being with Zan was her choice. And no one was fiercer about getting what she wanted than Mackenzie Marie Walker.

They’d been together as a couple for two years while he finished up his college degree. After fulfilling that promise to his grandfather, he’d left town, hell-bent on quenching his wanderlust.

A decade had passed since he’d held her in his arms...until the night of the wedding reception. Impulse had directed him to slip behind her and pull her against him. He’d breathed in her scent and enjoyed the slight weight of her against the frame of his bigger body.

But he’d resisted allowing her to look at him then.

And now, as if she sensed his presence and his thoughts, her head shifted slightly and her gaze left her brother’s face for his.

He went dizzy and for a moment she wavered in his line of sight like a mirage.

When his vision cleared, his pulse was going too fast and there was a clammy sweat on the back of his neck. He hauled in a steadying breath and reminded himself that this beautiful woman was the same old Mac of his youth.

At the wedding, she’d naturally looked different in her bridesmaid getup and her hair in a fancy twist. But he hadn’t taken the opportunity to notice other changes. Now they were all he could see.

Without thinking, he walked slowly toward her, drawn to the fine-boned elegance of a face that, in the past decade, had lost all remnants of childhood. Her cheekbones were etched, her nose straight and small, her lashes and her mouth lush. Her blue eyes, he saw, were the icy shade of water beneath the thin frozen surface of a mountain lake.

And he didn’t remember them ever looking so cold.

Brett must have noticed his sister’s switch in attention, because he glanced over his shoulder as Zan approached their table. When Zan put his cup on the table, the other man didn’t say anything, but he did slide along the bench to allow Zan space beside him.

The movement was begrudging and Mac’s stare still so very chilly.

“Is this any way to greet the guy who knows your deepest, darkest secret?” he joked, settling into place.

When they didn’t answer, he tried out a smile. “The hollowed-out log near the cabins? The secret compartment to keep hidden treasures?”

Brett’s mouth twitched. “God, what must be in there? Mac, didn’t you stash that unicorn Beanie Baby in the hole, sure it would be worth a mint in a few years?”

She made a face.

Brett pointed at Zan. “And it’s where you hid your Molotov-cocktail supplies, so they’d escape your grandfather’s detection.” His expression turned serious. “Hey, about that. Condolences on his passing.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Zan stared into his cup of dark brew. “And the same to you for the loss of your mother.” Though Dell Walker had passed about two years before Zan left, his wife hadn’t died until after Zan had been gone from the mountains. It was the Walker parents who had provided the warm influence an orphan needed in the earliest years, though to be fair, his grandfather had never complained about the kid foisted on him late in life.

When he’d left the mountains he hadn’t parted harshly from the elderly man, but they’d kept in touch only on a semiregular basis. While they’d actually met up a few times, twice in London, and then in Prague and Lisbon as well, Zan hadn’t been at his side when he’d died.

Nor had he returned directly upon the man’s passing, when he might have managed to stop his cousin from running amok. “You heard about Vaughn?”

Brett flicked a glance at his sister. “Actually, my wife and I were involved in his capture.”

His attorney had shared that the old man’s will had left a lot of furniture and memorabilia to the Mountain Historical Society, which had auctioned off the items in a very successful fund-raising effort. But Vaughn Elliott, bitter that he hadn’t been named in the document, had taken it upon himself to recoup the “lost” objects by stealing them from the winning bidders.

Zan frowned, thinking that over. “God, I’m sorry. Grandfather left his entire estate to me, and Vaughn didn’t take it well.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you won’t be offended that I’ve retained good defense counsel for him.”

“Out of your own pocket, I suppose,” Brett said.

“It appears Vaughn ran through his own monies a few years back.”

His old friend shrugged. “I understand. Angelica and I weren’t injured in the incident... As a matter of fact, you could say it brought us together.”

“Your Angelica?”

“That’s right,” Brett said, his mouth curving in a satisfied smile. “Angelica Walker.”

Zan glanced over at the silent Mac. “What about you? Husband?” At that wedding reception, had he cuddled close to a married person? The nights since, had he been spinning little fantasies—and he had, no point in pretending otherwise—about some other man’s woman? His stomach churned at the thought and a chill rolled over him. He pushed his coffee away, no longer interested in it. “Well?”

Mac held up both bare hands, clearly showing she wore no rings, wedding or otherwise.

His world tilted again... Christ, was that really relief? Before he could convince himself otherwise, Brett had his own question. “So, back in town, huh?”

“Yeah. And I’d sure like to spend a little time with my favorite mountain family. Not to mention meet your wife.” He glanced over at Mac. “I confess I crashed your wedding reception for a few minutes.”

“What? You should have spoken to me.”

“I didn’t want to draw attention to myself on someone else’s special day. But I’m surprised Mac didn’t mention it to you. We, uh, had a moment.”

Brett’s brows rose. “I’m surprised she didn’t mention it to me, either.”

“I forgot all about it,” the woman said. “I was there with Kent Valdez, remember? He occupied my thoughts.”

“Kent Valdez?” Zan could remember the guy. “Wasn’t he president of the Future Pig Farmers of America or something in high school?”

Color washed up Mac’s beautiful face, and for the first time her blue eyes looked heated. “Are you really going there?”

Zan felt woozy again, but that didn’t stop him from running his mouth. “C’mon. He was a head shorter than you and harassed all of us as the self-appointed hall monitor.”

Mac glared. “The only one who is small right now is you.”

Had they ever argued when they were together? Maybe she was mad about that little surprise move he’d made on her at the wedding. “Take it easy,” he muttered. Why was his head pounding so?

Mac’s spine straightened. “Take it easy? Pl—”

“Maybe we should save this for another day,” Brett put in hastily.

“I don’t know why.” Zan pressed his fingers to his temple. “I’m only trying to catch up with old friends, for God’s sake.”

“That’s why you’re back, to catch up?” Mac asked.

Her image was wavering again. “I’m here to manage some details of Grandfather’s estate. It should take a week or two. Then I’ll be gone again.”

“Of course you will.”

There was subtext to the four words that couldn’t penetrate the throbbing in his head. His skin flashed hot then cold and the roots of his hair began to hurt. He rose to his feet, one hand on the tabletop to keep him steady.

“Zan?” Brett questioned. “Are you all right? You don’t look so good.”

He didn’t feel so good, either. “Uh...” The room was revolving around him.

“Do you need—”

“Just some fresh air,” he said, trying to shake off the dizziness. “I’ll see you later.”

Then he began to walk away, all the pleasure he’d felt in seeing the Walkers again tarnished, but he couldn’t figure out why.

He glanced back at Mac. She was watching him leave, but the expression on her lovely face didn’t exactly shout warm welcome, that was sure.

They said a person could never go home again... Apparently he couldn’t even go back to the place that had been the next best thing.

Or to the girl who had once been the first in his heart.

* * *

ONE MOMENT MAC was watching Zan thread his way through the tables toward the exit and the next she found herself on her feet.

“What are you doing?” her brother asked.

“I’m not going to miss this opportunity to give him a piece of my mind,” she said. “You heard him. He doesn’t plan to be around long.”

“Now, Mac, is this about him crashing the reception? Because—”

“Don’t ‘Now, Mac’ me,” she said. She wasn’t going to share with her brother about that “moment” they’d had on his big night, but it still embarrassed her to recall how readily she’d responded to Zan’s encircling arms. Not that she intended to get into that with Zan—but she had other things to say to the confounding man. “Have you forgotten on his way down the hill ten years ago he warned other guys to stay away from me?”

Brett rubbed his hand over his mouth as if to wipe away a sudden grin. “Who would take that seriously?”

“Maybe my perfect man!”

This time her brother laughed out loud. “How would he be perfect for you, then?”

She ignored his logic. “And what about those postcards? Ten years of finding reminders of him in my mail, with that Z as the only message. Don’t I deserve an explanation for that?”

Now she looked toward Zan, noting he’d been stopped by a middle-aged couple at a table on the other side of the room. The Robbinses had recently began living full-time in the mountains and were clients of her Maids by Mac business.

Without another word to her brother, she headed in that direction, prepared to engage Zan when he wrapped up his conversation with the pair. And she didn’t feel the least bit guilty over eavesdropping in the meantime.

“Ash came home exhausted but exhilarated from his experience with your documentary crew,” Veronica Robbins was saying.

Documentary crew? Ash was the Robbinses’ twentysomething son, and she’d heard the woman mention him spending time traveling since an internship ended in the fall.

“When will we get to see Earth Unfiltered?” she asked.

“It’s in postproduction now, but the IMAX theater dates should be nailed down fairly soon.”

“Nine years in the making,” Veronica gushed. “Footage from the remotest locations in the world.”

“I’ve been lucky to be a part of it,” Zan said.

From the corner of her eye, Mac studied him. Was he a documentary filmmaker? Really? That would mean that while she’d stayed home and cleaned up other people’s messes, he’d been traveling the world, gaining sophistication and savoir faire.

Not that he looked all that urbane at the moment. He was paler than he’d appeared when he first arrived. Her brother was right, Zan didn’t look so good. Was he sick?

Not that she should care. And she didn’t care that building a business in Blue Arrow Lake likely wouldn’t impress one of the creators of some IMAX theater-bound film called Earth Unfiltered. Zan had been born to a world of privilege but she’d been born to the mountains and considered that the best advantage of all.

She wasn’t afraid of hard work and she wasn’t impressed by material wealth. As a matter of fact, the Walkers and other longtime locals were quite suspicious of the moneyed flatlanders who moved up the hill. Zan’s grandfather had turned his vacation place into his permanent retirement home, but even though the luxury estate had been in the Elliott family since the early 1900s, he’d never achieved homegrown status in the eyes of the full-time mountain residents.

“I’ll see you later,” she heard Zan say to the couple, and then he was again on his way to the exit.

She hurried after him, frowning when he bumped into a table and then into the newspaper stand. Its metal frame rocked back and forth and Zan himself seemed ready to topple. Her hand shot out reflexively, and she grabbed his arm to steady him.

Slowly, he swung about, then stared down at her, blinking as if surprised to see her.

He wore dark jeans and a cashmere sweater that clung to his wide shoulders and broad chest. How had he gotten so big? Maybe he’d grown taller after leaving Blue Arrow Lake. She couldn’t remember his exact height then, but surely he hadn’t made her feel so...feminine. So fragile.

She shook off the thought. Feminine and fragile sounded like weak and wussy, and no man was going to make Mackenzie Walker that way. Especially not the guy who had left her—and left a warning behind for the other guys in town. “I have a few things to say to you, Zan.”

“God, you’re beautiful. More beautiful than ever.”

The words instantly flustered her. “Well...” She rubbed her hands down the legs of her ancient jeans, suddenly aware she was dressed for work in threadbare denim and a sweatshirt with pilled ribbing around her hips and at the bottom of the sleeves.

“You were gorgeous as a girl and took my breath away dressed as a bridesmaid,” he said. “But now, like this...” His hand waved to indicate her figure.

Mac gaped, supremely aware she was dressed like a ragamuffin. “Are you blind or are you making fun of me?”

He blinked again. “Remember that day at the hot springs?”

She barely resisted squirming. “The time I had to come get you and Brett because the both of you had downed too many beers and weren’t sober enough to drive? When Missy Waters puked out the car window on the way home and I threatened to make you clean it up with your tongue?”

He winced. “Not that time. Our time. Your first time.”

“Shh!” She glanced around. “We’re not talking about that.”

“I dream about it sometimes. Do you?”

Gah! The man was making it hard to hold on to her mad. “I never think of it,” she said. Oh, but she did. Wouldn’t every woman remember her first time? Summer again, both of them in bathing suits at the remote hot springs that could only be reached by starting from the Walkers’ private land.

Upon becoming a couple, they hadn’t discussed the day, or if there ever would be a day, when she’d give him her virginity. But the knowledge that she wanted to be with him like that had hovered over her for weeks. Months. Years. Even when he’d seen her only as his best friend’s pesky younger sister.

Maybe she’d not had all the details of that kind of intimacy quite worked out when she was a girl, but anything she’d had then, she’d wanted to be Zan’s.

She’d been so gone for him.

Just as she’d been that lazy afternoon at the hot springs when she was seventeen. They’d had a cooler containing green grapes, a plastic container of chocolate chip cookies she’d baked from scratch and a thermos of iced tea. They’d immersed themselves in a spring, and then, when they were too hot to stay in a second more, they’d stretched out on double-wide-striped beach towels and let the afternoon breeze cool their skin.

Propped on an elbow, she’d fed him grapes, her breast pressing against his bronzed biceps, her nipple pebbled to a tight bead at the contact. He’d let his fingertip drift over the bumps of her spine until it touched the bow of her bikini strap at the middle of her back.

His gaze never left hers as he slowly picked up the end of one damp string and pulled it free. Her breath ragged, she’d sat up and loosened the top bow herself. The scraps of fabric had fallen into her lap.

Second base, as she’d still referred to it then, hadn’t been new to them. But it was the first time he’d played with her breasts when the only other item she wore was a tiny pair of bottoms. Even now, she could remember the brush of his wet hair on her skin as he sucked on her nipples. She’d clutched the heavy bone of his shoulders, her breath shuddering in her lungs.

There didn’t seem to be any air to pull into them right now. Shoving the memory away, she folded her arms across her chest and tried to get a handle on the conversation. “Are you really a documentary filmmaker?” she heard herself ask. “Never mind,” she added hastily. “I want you to know that—”

“I wish I had that moment on film,” he said, his voice low and whisper-rough. “But I can close my eyes and see it in Technicolor. You had a sunburn on your nose and you bit your bottom lip when I—”

“Zan!” She felt her whole body flush. “Please. Stop.”

He smiled. “That’s not what you said then. Well, not the ‘stop’ part, anyway.”

“You’re a beast,” she whispered. “Now quit embarrassing me. I already have a bone to pick with you.”

“Yeah?” He seemed unconcerned as he reached out a hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear. The gesture was too familiar and even more so when he stroked his fingertips slowly down her cheek.

Chills tumbled across her skin and she batted his hand away, but his fingers tangled with hers and he lifted them toward his face, rubbing her knuckles against the rasp of his whiskered jaw.

She tried tugging free, but he tightened his hold. “Zan Elliott, what are you doing?” she said through her teeth.

There was a feverish light in his eyes. “Remembering how good we were together.”

She tried gathering her mad again. “Well, I’m remembering that you rode out of town, but not before apparently informing the male half of our community that I was still somehow yours.”

The corners of his mouth curled up. “But you were.”

“Zan! You left.”

He stroked the back of her hand against his face once again. He was hot, she realized. His skin burning up.

She frowned. “Are you feeling all right?”

“Better seeing you. Always better around you. It’s been a long ten years.”

Something definitely wasn’t okay with him. Where he’d been pale before, now he had a definite flush and his lips looked too dry. As she watched, a fine tremor racked his body.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“I—”

“Oh. My. God. Zan Elliott,” someone called.

Mac closed her eyes. Hell.

“And with Mac Walker.” There was glee in the voice of the biggest gossip in the mountains. Missy Waters, she of the puking incident, who had never forgiven Mac for having “stolen” Zan—when the other woman had never had him to begin with.

“Hey, Missy,” Mac said, resigned to be the star of a story for the rest of the week.

“Missy...” Zan said, as if trying to place the name.

Irritation flashed across the woman’s face, then smoothed out. “I’d not heard you’d come back to town,” she said to him, her gaze dropping to their hands, still joined. “Or that you two have picked up right where you left off.”

Crap. “That hasn’t happened. That’s never going to happen,” Mac said, trying to free herself from him.

He had a grip like an octopus. “Missy!” he said, his memory obviously clearing. “Didn’t your hair used to be dark?”

It was platinum now, and Missy’s pride and joy. She fluffed it with her fingers and beamed at him. “Thank you for noticing. I went blond and have never looked back. Unlike Mac, I should say, who everyone knows is stuck in the past.”

“What?” He shifted his glance from Missy to Mac. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing,” Mac said firmly. Desperately. “Missy, did you hear about Angelica’s new car? Brett gave her the sweetest ride as a wedding gift.”

“Really?” For a moment she was diverted. Then her attention went back to Zan’s fingers, still wrapped around Mac’s. “Zan, you haven’t let go of Mac.”

He followed her gaze, executed one of those odd blinks that seemed to suggest he was having trouble focusing. “No, I haven’t let go of Mac.”

This was getting out of control. At this point, she was willing to give up on the big tell-off she’d had planned for the man if only she could end this odd conversation. “I’ve got to get to work.”

When he didn’t release her, she jiggled their joined hands. “Work, do you hear me? That thing I do that allows me to put gas in my car and food in my belly.”

“I’ll do that,” Zan said. “Go out to dinner with me tonight.”

“I will not.”

Missy was following the exchange with unconcealed curiosity. “You should, Mac. It’s not like you have a steady guy or anything. Nobody thinks you’ll ever stick with anyone because—”

“Do you mind, Missy?” Mac asked, done with politeness. “This is a private conversation.”

“In Oscar’s?” she questioned. “I’m not the only one watching Zan stake his claim.”

“Good God.” Mac felt as if the walls were closing in on her. “That’s not happening. I’ll never be his to claim.”

“Wrong, Mackenzie Marie.” Zan’s cheeks were flushed even redder, and his eyes glittered feverishly. “You’ll always be mine.”

That was it. I’m done with this.

As she lifted her free hand to slap some sense into him, however, he collapsed. Catching him in her arms, she staggered, the two of them crashing into the nearby wall before sliding to the floor.

CHAPTER THREE

MAC HAD LOST the round of rock-paper-scissors. She tried convincing Brett to make it two out of three, but he squeezed his “paper” hand over her “rock” fist and promised to call later to see if she needed him to spell her at the end of his workday. However, she knew he had an evening meeting scheduled with a client who wanted him to design a landscape—something her brother was now finally seriously pursuing after years building up a mowing-and-blowing business. She wouldn’t allow him to put that off, nor did she want to compromise her pride by admitting she was the least bit anxious about being left alone with Zan Elliott.

Which meant Mac was on her own dealing with the one sick puppy that he seemed to be.

At Oscar’s she and her brother had wrestled Zan into her car—with little help from him and with a lot of senseless, feverish mumbling. Brett had followed her to the Elliott estate and fished for the keys from his buddy’s pocket himself. Then they’d propelled him to the master bedroom, where he was obviously staying.

Spotting the bed, Zan had stumbled to it and then fallen on it face-first.

She’d gnawed her bottom lip. “Are you sure we shouldn’t take him to see a doctor?” she said, voicing the same concern she had at Oscar’s before they decided to bring him here.

At that, Zan had roused a little. “Don’t want a doctor,” he’d muttered, turning over to look at them. “Just wanna sleep.”

“Zan...” she’d started.

“Just wanna sleep,” he’d repeated.

At that, Brett had advised a wait-and-see approach, and she’d reluctantly agreed, even though Zan resembled a giant sugar pine felled in the forest. So her brother had gone off to work and she’d reached for her cell phone to rearrange her day.

It took only two calls. One, to ensure it was okay to clean her afternoon house the next day. The second was to her most reliable employee, Tilda Smith, who was happy to up her hours for the week by doing the windows and floors at the home Mac had planned to work at that morning.

Then she phoned her sister Poppy.

“What’s going on?” the younger woman asked, cheery as always.

“Are you alone?” Mac asked in a low voice.

Automatically, Poppy’s went quieter, too. “Yeah. Ryan dropped off Mason at school and then had to go down the hill for a meeting in LA. Is there a problem?”

“I’m in the Elliott mansion.”

Poppy gasped. “We’ve wanted to get inside there for years! How did you do it? Why did you do it? Does this have something to do with your supposed sighting of Zan at the wedding reception?”

“No ‘supposed’ about it,” Mac said. “Guess who showed up at Oscar’s this morning while Brett and I were having coffee?”

Another audible gasp sounded through the phone. “No!”

“Yes.”

“And he brought you home with him?” Poppy’s voice filled with glee. “Mac, have you already gone to bed with Zan Elliott?”

Pulling the phone away from her ear, Mac frowned at it, then put it back. “Of course not. I’m never going to bed with Zan Elliott.”

Her sister snorted.

“I’m serious!”

“I’ll believe you if you tell me he hasn’t aged well. Is there a bald spot? A paunch? Did he turn out to be one of those men who rejects personal hygiene?”

“He looks gorgeous, you ninny, and he seems freshly showered to me...but he’s sick.”

Poppy went quiet. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Did he come home to die?”

Mac rolled her eyes. “My God. You’ve got too active an imagination. No, he didn’t come home to die. He came down with a flu bug or something, and Brett and I had to drive him here. I’m, uh, staying awhile just to make sure he doesn’t need medical attention.”

“Oh. That’s nice of you.” She paused. “Can I come over and snoop around the house?”

“Poppy—”

“Please? You know we’ve always wanted to get in there.”

“Zan never invited us.”

“Which only made it all the more enticing. Say yes.”

Maybe she’d called her sister for just that reason. But it seemed a little sneaky. “What if Zan wakes up, suddenly better, and finds us wandering around his house?”

“Pfft,” Poppy said, dismissing the objection. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. I’ll be there before you know it.”

Mac tiptoed back to the master, pulled a throw over Zan’s unmoving figure and shut the bedroom door. By the time she went back down the stairs, her sister was trucking up the walkway, all big eyes and flushed cheeks.

“Have you seen any ghosts?” Poppy asked. “You know, the kind with knives dripping blood, who hold their severed heads under their arms?”

That had always been rumor when they were kids. That the French château–inspired Elliott manse was peopled with specters and spooks. Mac held open the door and gestured her sister inside. “Have a look.”

Poppy’s shoulders slumped as she ventured into the foyer. “What? No suits of armor?”

“Maybe they were auctioned off by the Mountain Historical Society.” Many items from the house had been bequeathed to the organization and then sold for fund-raising purposes at a black-tie event the summer before. Mac hadn’t attended, but her sister and her fiancé had bought a few antiques.

“No, I didn’t see anything like that,” Poppy said, now moving into the large living area with its slate floors, paneled walls and huge marble-wrapped fireplace. “The views of the lake are spectacular.”

“Your windows open onto the same thing.”

“On the other side of the lake,” Poppy said, running her hand over the moss green velvet of the massive couch. “This place has been here forever, too—I heard it’s on the National Register of Historic Places.”

Mac trailed her sister into the kitchen. “Doesn’t look historic in here.”

“No.” Poppy turned a circle. “It’s completely updated.”

They wandered together from room to room, admiring the details of the massive staircase, the ridgeline or water views from every window, the carefully detailed bathrooms. Even the smallest bedroom had a fireplace.

“Oh, I do love it in here,” Poppy said, peeking into a room with built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases that included a ladder that rolled along rails. Her hand trailed along the spines of old books that smelled like leather and lavender. “Maybe there are ghost stories.”

“Pretty different than where we grew up,” Mac said, recalling the ramshackle house where she’d lived with her brother and sisters. Their father had been terrible with money, causing problems in the marriage when Brett, Mac and Poppy were small. Dell Walker had even left for a time, during which his wife had an affair and became pregnant with Shay.

But he’d returned and patched things up with Lorna, which included embracing Shay as his own. From then on, the Walkers had lived rich in family and love for the mountains, despite the meager state of their bank accounts.

Walking back into the hallway with its plush Oriental carpet, Mac’s younger sister made a face. “No headless ghouls. I’m so disappointed,” she said, crossing to another door and reaching for the knob.

Mac lunged for her sister’s hand. “Wait—”

But she was too late. Poppy stood, framed by the jamb. “Oh,” she said. “Maybe not so disappointed, after all.”

Mac peeked around her shoulder and into the master bedroom, then swallowed her groan.

Zan still lay on the mattress of the massive four-poster bed, but sometime since she’d checked on him last, he’d shed his shoes. And his clothes.

All of them.

Facedown once again, he was naked, a pillow clutched in his arms like a lover.

“I’m going all tingly,” Poppy whispered.

“You’re engaged!” Mac said, elbowing her ribs.

“That doesn’t mean I’m blind. And I definitely can’t unsee that.” She pointed. “I don’t want to unsee that.”

Mac didn’t, either. Her gaze meandered over the wealth of skin on display, from the heavy bulges of his biceps, to the intriguing contours of his back on either side of the long furrow of his spine, to the muscled rise of his ass. “Um...”

“He’s aged well,” Poppy offered.

“Really, really well.” Mac’s skin prickled beneath her clothes and even her eyeballs felt hot. “This is bad.” Bad for me.

Poppy nodded. “We should leave.”

They both didn’t move. Then he did, in a restless stretch drawing up one knee to reveal—

Poppy yanked Mac back into the hall and shut the door.

“Hey,” Mac protested.

“If you’re never going to sleep with him again,” her sister said, suddenly all prim and proper, “then ogling’s inappropriate.”

“Fine,” Mac said, hoping it didn’t sound as if she was sulking. She glanced around the hall. “Looks like there’s one more chance to find us something spooky.” Nodding her head, she indicated the final closed door on the second floor.

Poppy didn’t hesitate to throw it open. Then she froze. “Speaking of ghosts...”

It was a young man’s room. Ratty sports equipment on a bookshelf along with tattered copies of mystery novels. A fishing pole propped in a nearby corner. A king-size bed covered with a navy blue duvet. On the bedside table...

Pain ripped through Mac’s chest as her heart gave a vicious twist.

“Didn’t you give him that photo?” Poppy asked.

Speech was beyond Mac. She nodded. It was taken the last summer he’d been in the mountains. They were sunburned and barefoot, her back to his chest. How young they looked. Her neck was twisted so she could smile up at him. His eyes were on her face and alight with...

Whatever feelings he’d had for her that had allowed him to walk away—and leave the keepsake behind.

Swallowing hard, she drew her sister away and shut the bedroom door, dismissing the sharp jab of disappointment. It was silly of her to have even for a second imagined he would have carried it—her, them—with him on his travels. He’d moved on.

And so had she.

Poppy was staring at her, her expression concerned. “Do you want me to take over nursemaid duties?”

Mac moved toward the stairs. “Of course not. I can do this.”

“But—”

She glanced back at her sister. “I’m over him. I have been since the minute he left here and drove down the hill.”

“Um...I remember it differently.”

Squeezing shut her eyes, Mac stopped. The truth was, she’d been a lovelorn mess after he’d gone. For the first weeks she’d wandered around aimlessly like one of the ghosts they’d expected to find at the Elliott estate, causing everyone around her to wring their hands and utter helpless noises. But then she’d realized the sympathy they offered only served to make her softer—powerless and weak.

Not to mention that her family had also been suffering, not only from their own loss of Zan, but also because their dad had died less than two years before. Her unhappiness, she’d realized, was only doubling down their own.

So she’d straightened her spine and elected to stop her wallowing. Tossing out the used tissues cluttering her room, she’d decided to get on with her life—which became the impetus to begin building a business instead of drowning in the misery of lost love.

“But I did get over him eventually,” she said, striding for the stairs again. “You know I did.”

“Okay.” Poppy followed on her heels as she sped down the steps. “Still, it might bother—”

“Nothing bothers me,” Mac declared, wanting the discussion to end. “Now, don’t you have to go home and make Mason an after-school snack or something?”

Poppy sighed. “If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure. Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got it.” Her nod was decisive. “Absolutely.”

Once she heard her sister motor off, she breathed a little easier. Poppy was so damn sentimental, thinking it might hurt Mac to see Zan through this sickness.

She didn’t need to shirk this task she’d taken on—especially when doing so would only underscore her sister’s mistaken idea that she’d never gotten the man out of her heart. Sure, walking away from him now might have proved her indifference, too, but there was more to Zan than the man who’d left her.

Being able to remember that was part of the proof that she was over the guy.

Before that time as her lover, he’d been the boy who’d fixed the chain on her bike innumerable times. The guy who’d helped her with her Spanish homework in middle school—he was aces with languages. The very same person who’d jollied her out of her doldrums when the boy she’d liked between eighth grade and high school had left her for some summer girl.

She could safely perform a favor for someone who was no longer anything more to her than an old family friend, right?

With that still at the forefront of her mind, she made her way back into the master bedroom as evening darkened the sky. Upon a little exploring, she figured out how to start the gas fireplace across from the bed. Then she managed to get Zan under the covers...keeping her gaze trained away from anyplace intimate.

Soup and crackers didn’t interest him, but though he at first batted away her hands she was able to get some water and pain relievers down his throat. His eyes were half-open and dull through the process. If he knew who tended to him, or had an opinion about it, he didn’t comment.

When she tired of watching TV downstairs, she headed back to his room. The gas fireplace was simple enough to turn on and made her spot on the couch beneath the windows even more cozy. She was plenty comfortable with the blanket and pillow she’d spied on a shelf in the closet and wearing a flannel shirt she’d found hanging there as a nightgown.

With light from the flames in the fireplace flickering against the plaster walls, she snuggled into the cushions. Unused to a day without much physical activity, she thought she might have trouble finding sleep, but with Zan’s breathing as her lullaby, she drifted off.

To jerk awake at the sound of his strangled voice.

“No. God, no.” Zan thrashed, fighting with the covers.

Mac jackknifed up and struggled out of the blanket wrapped around her legs. The wool rug was soft against her bare feet as she made for the bed.

“Simone,” he said, stopping Mac’s headlong rush. “Please, baby. Simone.”

Simone? She ignored the new twist of her heart. “Zan,” she said, keeping her voice soft. “You’re having a dream.”

“Don’t leave me,” he begged.

Licking her lips, she crept closer to the bed. “It’s me, Mac,” she said. “You’re at the lake house. In the mountains.”

“Noo,” he moaned again.

In the light from the fireplace, she could see that his eyes were pinched tightly shut. “Zan.” She reached out a tentative hand, brushed his hair from his warm forehead. “It’s all right.”

“Simone.” He sounded urgent, anxious, and his head turned in her direction. His eyes opened, but they stared at Mac, unseeing. “Come back, baby. You’ve got to come back.”

“Shh.” She stroked his hair again. “You’re having a dream.”

“Didn’t happen?” His eyes closed again and his body seemed to relax.

“Didn’t happen,” she whispered.

When he seemed to slip back into slumber, she leaned over the bed to straighten the sheets and duvet around him. In a quick movement, he snatched her off her feet and yanked her into his body.

“Zan—”

“Shh,” he said, echoing her from moments before. Tucking himself around her, he pinned her to him with a heavy arm across her waist. “Sleep now,” he muttered. “Go to sleep.”

Wriggling away was futile. Every time she tried to move, he mumbled into her hair and tightened his grip. Just a few minutes, she told herself, relaxing into his hold, even as she registered the dangerous sense of rightness she felt with his body curled around hers. Once he returned to deep sleep, she’d slide away.

Leave him alone with his memories of Simone.

Simone, baby. Had Mac stiffened? Because he nuzzled her hair now. “Shh, shh, shh,” he said, his voice low, slumberous.

The sound of it was mesmerizing, yet there was still that alertness inside of her, her guarded heart keeping its barriers high and strong. But as time passed and he breathed deeply and slowly behind her, it was impossible not to melt a little against his heat.

His mind is on another woman, she reminded herself, which sent her wiggling again.

Zan’s arm hitched her closer and his breath tickled her ear, raising goose bumps along her neck. “Rest, Mackenzie Marie,” he said. “Rest.”

Mackenzie Marie? Zan knew it was her he held?

He knew it was her. But the thought didn’t give her any ease at all. Because as she lay wrapped in his arms, a new, uncomfortable awareness grew. Someone else was most definitely sharing the bed with them—and it wasn’t Simone.

Instead, it was the ghost of her past love for him.

Her breath caught. Oh, how she wished it wasn’t true, but there was something here beyond the tepid remains of a former friendship. Though she had recovered from his leaving her ten years before, though she was sure she was telling the truth when she asserted she was over Zan, with him pressed close to her back and his arm tucked under her breasts, her heart beat in an erratic rhythm and her skin felt both tender and much too warm.

What they’d once had no longer could be dismissed from her mind and memory. With his return, it was resurrected as a renewed, palpable presence in her life.

She swallowed a humorless chuckle. It turned out the Elliott mansion—or perhaps just Mac herself?—was haunted, after all.

She could only hope the ghost would disappear when Zan once again went away.

* * *

ZAN CAME AWAKE by degrees, with each passing moment a new muscle screaming at him, protesting that he was conscious, that he was breathing. Had he been hit by a truck? He’d seen the aftermath of such an accident, but—

Something stirred in his arms.

He blinked, wincing at the pain in his eyelids, and took in the back of a woman’s head. Her dark hair. Inhaling, he breathed in her scent.

Mac.

What the hell?

Snippets came back to him. Running into her and Brett at Oscar’s. His own pleasure at the meeting. Her frosty attitude.

The antagonism had disappointed him. The only good thing he’d considered about coming back to Blue Arrow Lake under the circumstances was the chance to reconnect with the Walkers. If he had to be bound to someplace for a couple of weeks, at least it was where the companions of his childhood were firmly rooted.

But Brett, and then Mac, hadn’t been particularly welcoming.

Yeah, it had stung.

So he’d stood to leave, and then... It went blurry after that. He remembered the dizziness, the sudden heat followed by the sudden cold. Mac again, grabbing him before he could get out the door.

I have a few things to say to you.

But it went mostly blank after that, so he could only suppose he’d looked sick enough that even a hostile Mac took pity on him...and somehow ended up in bed with him.

Now, at the thought, another muscle was making itself known. A morning erection was nothing new, of course, but this one was starting to ache like a sore tooth. With his body curved around Mac’s, if he didn’t take a stern stand with himself he’d be grinding into her most excellent ass at any moment.

A fine way to reestablish a friendship with her...not.

Willing himself not to move, he shifted his gaze out the window, where he could see the blue sky and an even bluer lake, surrounded by peaks bristling with dark evergreens. In his mind’s eye he saw the day he’d first arrived here, a boy trudging up the steps beside the grandfather he knew, but not well. In a just-the-facts style, the man had pointed out the amenities—the billiards room, the in-home theater, the Olympic-size pool in its glass capsule a few steps from the main house. Then there’d been the boathouse and docks. The speedboat he’d be able to drive at twelve, the small sailboat he could learn to maneuver straightaway, the paddleboat they could buy if Zan wanted one.

He’d wanted nothing but to return to the house at the beach. It had been spacious but not showy. The ocean views grand, as had been the life he’d led as the youngest of three kids. He’d skateboarded with his big sister and boogie-boarded with his older brother, and his mother had made cookies and his father had good-naturedly cursed the grill that seemed to burn everything he’d laid upon it.

The community of Blue Arrow Lake had seemed as alien as the moon to him, as void of warmth, until that boy in his class at school had said, “You fish?” and Zan had found a way to hang on.

And people to hang on to until he finally surrendered to his itchy feet and restless soul and turned his truck down the mountain.

The woman in his arms stirred now.

Zan kept himself completely still, though he was supremely aware of the softness of her breasts just above the band of the arm he’d flung over her.

Then she froze, too, as if suddenly aware of their positions. He was naked and she looked as if she was wearing his flannel shirt, but their bare legs were tangled and their position was almost as intimate as two lovers’ could be.

“Zan?” she whispered, her head still turned away from his.

“You crawl into other ill men’s beds often enough that you don’t know?”

In an instant, she’d flipped over to face him, her expression indignant. “I didn’t crawl, I’ll have you know! You manhandled me onto the mattress.”

His smile even hurt, but that didn’t stop it from spreading. “Sorry. I hope I’m not contagious. But if so, I promise to take off all your clothes and—”

“You did that yourself, too!” she said, scowling at him. Then she put her cool hand against his forehead. “Fever’s gone.”

He caught her fingers in his, kissed the back of her hand. “Yeah. Thanks. I’m not a hundred percent, but I know where I am now. Who I’m with.”

Her gaze shifting away from him, she tugged her hand from his clasp. “Um...”

“This is a first,” he said. “We never woke up beside each other, did we?” While they’d made love dozens of times, they’d never had the luxury of spending an entire night together. Maybe he should have coaxed her down the hill at some point and booked a hotel room, he thought, frowning. Why hadn’t he done that?

“I beg to differ,” Mac said now. “I recall several times waking up with you in that old tent we pitched in our backyard.”

He nodded, conceding the point. “When we were kids. All of us packed in there, Brett, you, Poppy, Shay and me. It smelled like mildew and Poppy screeched at every critter scurry.”

“Our scaredy-cat.”

“When we finally stumbled into your kitchen in the morning your mom would make cheesy scrambled eggs and bacon. I’ve had some good meals in my life, but those breakfasts were the best.”

“Yeah,” Mac said, reaching out to brush his hair back. Then her eyes went wide, as if bothered by her own offhand, clearly unplanned intimacy. “Um...why don’t I make those for you now? Could you eat?”

His stomach growled in response. “What do you think?” And he watched her roll off the bed. He was sad to see her go, but happy to have one of his oldest friends heading down to the kitchen, where they would share a meal.

By the time he got down there himself, however, freshly showered and shaved and feeling somewhat close to human, Mac had that chip squarely rebalanced on her shoulder; he could tell by the wary way she eyed him as he entered the room, her cell phone to her ear. “He’s here now, Brett. We’ll eat some breakfast, and then I’ll be off to work.”

After ending the call, she slid her phone into her pocket and turned toward the pan on the stove. “Cheesy eggs,” she said, spooning them onto plates. “OJ and bacon out already.”

He glanced over to see the small breakfast table in the nook had been set. Taking both plates from her, he carried them over himself. Once they were settled on the place mats, he pulled out her chair for her.

Mac’s brows shot up in surprise. “Manners?”

Showing her he had them might dull her at-the-ready thorns and render her a little more approachable. He was serious about wanting to reconnect with the Walkers, if only for his short time in their mountains.

Noting the two pain reliever tablets set by one of the glasses of orange juice, he smiled a little. “Taking care of me some more?” he asked, scooping them up. “Is that what you do—nursing?”

She made a face. “Hardly.”

Odd that she didn’t elaborate. “Well? Should I guess?” He cast his mind back to her childhood ambitions. “Snake charmer? Fortune-teller?”

At her snort, he tilted his head, considered the lovely angles of her face and the crystalline quality of her blue eyes. “Fashion model?”

She rolled them. “No.”

He waggled his brows. “Lingerie model?”

A flush pinkened her face. “I clean houses.”

“Clean houses.”

“Yes! There’s nothing wrong with honest work, you know.”

“I never said there was.” Jeez, she was so touchy now. “You clean houses. Good for you.”

“I run my own business,” she mumbled, gaze on her plate. “Maids by Mac.”

“I’m not surprised, Mackenzie Marie.”

Her head came up, her eyes narrowed. “What? That I clean up other people’s messes for a living?”

“That you’re a businessperson. That you’re in charge.”

“Oh,” she said, her expression evening out.

“You always were a bossy little thing,” he added.

“Oh!” She tossed her balled-up paper napkin at him.

He laughed. “Tell me everything about everyone. About Brett and Poppy and Shay. And anyone else I used to know.”

“Does that mean you’ve missed us?”

“I...” Christ, had he?

Instead of waiting for him to answer, she began to talk. It was grudging at first, he decided, but soon her voice warmed as she filled him in on her brother and sisters. In a few minutes he knew about Brett’s landscape business and his wife, Angelica, about Shay with a stepdaughter-to-be and the builder she was about to marry. Finally, he heard about Poppy, her little boy, Mason, and Ryan Hamilton, former actor-turned-producer whose bride she would become in a few weeks.

“How could all this have happened?” he wondered aloud.

“Ten years,” Mac said, her demeanor cooling again. “It’s been ten years. Maybe if you’d bothered to stay in contact, none of this would come as such a shock.”

He hadn’t wanted to stay in contact. At the time, it had seemed smartest to leave without backward glances.

“So...you?” Mac gathered up their plates and took them to the sink.

“Let me do that,” he protested, but she ignored him.

“Pay me back,” she said. “Your last ten years?”

Exciting. Challenging. Wearying.

“Something about a documentary?”

At his puzzled glance, she explained. “I heard you talking to Mr. and Mrs. Robbins at Oscar’s yesterday. Earth Unfiltered?”

“Oh. Yeah. In my travels, I stumbled upon the crew in their early days. Joined them. Learned a hell of a lot, at first from just humping shit from place to place, then I did more. Research, camera work, a little writing.”

“Wow.”

It had been wow so much of the time. But there’d been arduous treks, long delays, bad reactions to strange foods...and, finally, a pervasive sense of dissatisfaction. “Traveling to remote corners of the world has a way of making one feel small. And unconnected.”

Mac was looking at him funny. He tried to make a joke of it. “Did I just say that out loud?”

“A person can feel alone anywhere,” she said, then turned her back to put the plates and utensils in the dishwasher.

A weird vibe entered the room. Zan rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to dissipate the sense of needle-toed fairies dancing over his skin. Christ, he’d thought conversation would get him comfortable with Mac, bring them back to friendly footing. But so far...

“Who’s Simone?” she suddenly asked.

“What?” It came out like a squawk.

“Simone. You talked about her in your sleep last night.”

Simone. Zan squeezed shut his eyes, saw her golden tan, her wild, streaky hair, heard her throaty laugh. They’d been two of a kind, each recognizing the other instantly. Wanderers. Adventurers. Nomads.

People tied to no one.

“Zan?”

He cleared his throat. “She was part of the documentary crew the last couple of years. We were...coworkers.”

“Lovers.” She didn’t say it like a question.

“For a time we shared a bed on occasion.” He glanced up at Mac, but her back was still to him. “For a very short time. Neither one of us was interested in anything remotely permanent.”

Mac’s head bobbed in a nod. “Where is she now?”

He hesitated.

“You wanted her to come back.” She shut the dishwasher door with a clack. “That’s what you said last night, anyway.”

Oh, shit.

“She can’t. She died.” He winced, hearing the bald way he’d said the words when Mac stiffened. “I’m sorry to put it like that. It’s just...”

Mac turned and leaned back against the counter, regarding him with serious eyes. “It’s just...what?”

“It was such a random thing. The act of a moment.” Zan scrubbed his hand over his face. “We’d been to the Russian steppes and the Sahara Desert and the Solomon Islands. Cozied up to tribal warlords and run from violent warthogs. Scaled slippery waterfalls and explored deep, bat-filled caves. We ate things that make my belly cringe thinking about, not wanting to offend our hosts. Any one of those things could have ended in death.”

Mac reached for a fresh glass, filled it with water, then brought it over to him. Grateful, he took a long swallow. “It was in Berlin. We were walking to lunch, the lot of us. Simone was trailing behind, looking at her phone, checking the weather for our next day’s flight. As mundane as that.”

“And?”

“And she stepped off a curb without looking. A truck took her out. The driver couldn’t stop in time—there was no time.” He closed his eyes. “No time left for Simone.”

“I’m sorry.” Mac’s voice was low. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He was sorry that Simone was gone, too. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

And how sorry was it that he wanted to turn into Mac’s body so badly. Bury his head between her breasts and bury his sadness in the familiarity of her body. Lose himself in his lust for her that apparently hadn’t dissipated in ten years.

Hold her as if she was more than just an old, old friend.

CHAPTER FOUR

AS SHE CLIMBED out of her shabby sedan, Tilda Smith glared up at the gathering clouds, hoping a challenging stare would stave off the predicted rain...at least for the time it would take her to collect the groceries stored in the backseat and cart them up the walkway and steps that led to the fancy house.

She took another quick peek at the place, exhorting herself not to be intimidated by its amazing lakefront location, its immense size, the wealth that it testified to. The area surrounding Blue Arrow Lake had been home her entire life and the divide between the haves and have-nots something she’d breathed in like the clean mountain air.

Most locals didn’t resent the rich who had homes on the choicest coves or the most stupendous mountainsides. Without them, what jobs would they have? The way things were, there was a need for grocers and Realtors and restaurateurs to serve the needs of the affluent who came up the hill with their inherited fortunes or with the money they made from TV or tech or investing other loaded peoples’ dollars.

Most locals didn’t feel the least bit used by the well-heeled whose lawns they tended, whose food they prepared, whose houses they cleaned.

A few locals, though, ended up providing services of an entirely different nature. And to Tilda’s mind, they were used.

She pushed that thought away, along with the pang of grief that accompanied it. Neither were productive and she didn’t have the time or energy for anything beyond what would keep her solvent—making her rent, filling her gas tank, filling her belly and paying for the online courses that were her only way of getting an education beyond her high school diploma.

At twenty-one, she was on track for getting her degree in biology in another six years.

Shoving a long swathe of her wavy brown hair off her shoulder, she bent to scoop up the grocery bags. Her boss at Maids by Mac, Mackenzie Walker—whom Tilda also counted as a friend—had passed over a list and the cash to pay for the items. She understood that Tilda didn’t have the extra to float the purchases until getting back to the office and handing over the receipt.

She shut the back door of her car with her hip and gave a cursory glance at the upscale vehicle she’d parked beside. Only two things interested her about automobiles: Did they run or didn’t they? But it was hard not to admire the gleaming black finish and tinted, smoky windows of the luxury ride. By comparison, her dented two-door with its faded paint looked like something that had been abandoned in a weedy, empty lot for an untold number of years.

Exactly what Roger Roper had claimed when he sold it to her, as a way to account for the astonishingly low mileage.

Tilda had known he was lying—she figured he’d fooled with the odometer—but the price had been right, and so far it had been kind to her.

Unlike the weather. As she moved toward the front door, big, cold drops shook out of the overhead clouds, leaving fat dots on her ragged jeans and on her faded green long-sleeved T-shirt. It read Blue Arrow Lake down one arm and the hem was unraveling, but it was good enough for her work as a maid.

Sometimes, if the homeowner was present, or if she took on a side job for a local caterer, she wore black pants and a white blouse as a “uniform.” But her helping with food service was irregular and the places she cleaned for Mac were usually empty during the week and used only on the weekends. So most often when working, Tilda dressed just one stage above rags, to prevent an errant product spill or a particularly grungy task from ruining a choicer piece of her meager wardrobe.

Now rain found the hole in her right sneaker, the one over her big toe.

An expert at ignoring things that caused her discomfort—from mere nuisances to actual anguish—she continued on, not even wishing she’d selected her other pair of work shoes for the day.

At the front door, she juggled the bags to free a finger and press the bell. It started up an intricate set of bonging notes, a classical tune, she supposed, that someone might learn to recognize in a college music appreciation class or even through the speakers in an elevator.

But Tilda would never register for a course so impractical.

And she’d never been in an elevator in her life.

It was weird, that, but true. She tried not to think it was because she wasn’t born to rise above her station.

Then the door swung open and her mind fogged.

Her expectation was to find on the other side an old friend of Mac’s who also was a former flame. He was recovering from the flu, she’d said. His cupboards were nearly bare. Tilda’s job had been to do a bit of marketing and to deliver it to the man—whose name was Zan Elliott.

But the person on the other side of the threshold wasn’t him.

Ash Robbins, her inner voice spoke in an appalled whisper. You weren’t ever supposed to see him again.

In her head, the fog cleared and playing cards—each an image of their one night together—were dealt across its surface. But she ruthlessly swept them away even as her skin flashed hot-cold-hot. It would be almost a relief to imagine she might be getting the flu, as well.

But what she was really getting was another look at Ash Robbins. Oh, God. A tidal wave of shame washed over her.

“Tilda!” He said her name and his handsome face split into a wide, white, perfect smile. As if he was happy to see her. How could he be happy to see her? “My God, this is amazing.”

Amazing? It was awful.

And so surprising that she stood like a stone, just staring.

His smile died. A faint pink stain spread across his cheeks. “Uh...” He swallowed. “Remember me? From that night, um, last May? Ash Robbins.”

Wow. She’d rattled golden-boy Ash Robbins, who was twenty-two and the apple of his filthy-rich parents’ eyes. They’d met right after his college graduation and the night before he left for an impressive summer internship in international banking.

She bobbed her head and said, “Ash,” as if he were, like his name, nothing more than a smudge of gray dust on her memory banks. Then she glanced down at the groceries, back up at him. “Can I come in for a moment?”

“Of course, of course. God, you must think I’m a moron.”

No, only the most attractive guy I’ve ever seen. That’s what had caught her attention at first, the night of her twenty-first birthday. His good looks. Only later, when he’d had the waitress deliver a drink and she’d smiled in return had he wandered to her table and introduced himself. His name had let loose her worst impulses.

“Let me take those,” he said now, bending a bit at the knees so he could get his arms under hers. His wrists brushed the undersides of her breasts and an answering shiver rolled down her back.

His gaze jumped to hers. “Sorry.”

“About what?” she asked vaguely, releasing the bags. Let him think his touch was nothing she remembered. That it didn’t affect her in the least.

Ash turned and she shut the door behind them, then followed him across gleaming floors to a state-of-the-art kitchen. Her apartment had a microwave and a single burner she and her roommates plugged into an electrical outlet. But thanks to the job that took her into many of the priciest homes in the area, she recognized the upmarket appliances and their functions.

He set the bags on the island and peered into them. “Uh...”

“I’ll put the things away,” she offered. His privilege probably meant he didn’t know if canned soup belonged in the pantry or the refrigerator. “I am at the correct house, right? This is Zan Elliott’s place?”

“Yeah.” Ash ran his hand through his hair, rumpling the golden-blond waves. “He’s taking a shower. But he knows his friend—Mac, isn’t it?—was sending someone by with groceries.”

“That’s me...not Mac, but the someone with the groceries.”

He smiled, a dimple digging deep in his cheek. Outside, the rain began in earnest, coming down in sheets.

Ash’s dimple. Heavy rain.

It only needed a flat tire to cap out a really crappy day.

“How have you been?” Ash said, as she moved toward the pantry, the soup and a box of crackers in her hands.

“Um, fine.” Small talk? After what had happened that night he wanted to chat?

“I’ve been fine, too—though I’ve thought about you again and again, hoping I didn’t leave you with a bad impression.”

Her head whipped around. “What?”

“I didn’t even wake up to say goodbye.”

It was actually she who’d left without a word while he was sleeping, sneaking out to do the Walk of Shame at dawn—and boy, had she been ashamed. Of course, there had been no getting away from her own conscience, but once the hotel door had locked behind her, second thoughts had been useless.

“No big deal,” she said.

“I wished I’d found a minute to make contact before I left.”

“You had a plane to catch that morning.”

“Yeah.” Once she returned to the bags, he spoke again. “But I also wasn’t my best the night before.”

As if she’d been a saint.

“I don’t...” He cleared his throat. “After a certain point I don’t really remember too much about it.”

Now she turned her head to stare at him. Could it be true?

His hands dived into his pockets and he hunched his shoulders, appearing as uncomfortable as a rich, handsome young man with the world at his feet could look. “Possibly it was that last bottle of champagne I ordered from room service.”

As she continued staring, he shrugged.

“I don’t recall paying for it. I only know I must have seriously overtipped the server who delivered it.”

A new surge of heat rushed up her neck. “I should have—”

“Nothing’s your fault,” he said quickly. “It’s just...it was a great night and I feel like I let it end on a sour note.”

Swallowing, Tilda made herself return her attention to the items in the bags. Her hand found the carton of eggs. “It doesn’t matter. That was a long time ago.”

And then Ash was at her back. She turned, to see that all the awkwardness had fallen away. He looked rich and smart and...confident. Smiling, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

The touch pierced skin, bone, marrow. She froze.

“I planned to find you, you know,” he said. “It’s a good omen that you appeared on the doorstep my first full day back in Blue Arrow Lake.”

Her eyes rounded. “You’re staying here?”

“For a few weeks. Then I’m off to England.”

“You were in Europe before.”

He nodded. “All over it, all over everywhere, actually. After my internship ended, I caught up with Zan Elliott and worked with him and a documentary crew for a couple months. But I’ve got a job in London waiting for me.”

He had a job in London waiting for him.

There were some toilets waiting for her and a scrub brush.

She decided to abandon the rest of the groceries and get on with her life. Ash or this Zan character could figure out what to do with the rest. “I’ve got to go.”

“Not yet.”

She was bound by his words, by her memories, by guilt over what she’d done and why she’d done it. Her mouth dried. “What?”

“You’ve got to let me make it up to you.”

Him make it up to her? She’d wronged him in ways she hoped he’d never discover. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Another night together.” His smile flashed, so disarming it was dangerous. “Just a date, Tilda. To get to know you better.”

Meaning, I’m not expecting you to jump back into the sack with me.

Yeah, that dangerous, because didn’t every woman—particularly one like Tilda—hope to find a man just like Ash Robbins who wanted to get to know her better...and not just get her into bed?

But truly, he wouldn’t at all appreciate what he’d find out about Tilda.

He had a job in London. She had a job cleaning litter boxes and kitchen sinks.

Even if they could forget about that one night they’d already shared—and she could not—the divide between them was much too wide.

* * *

MAC LOVED HER small office situated on a side street just off the main road that bisected the village of Blue Arrow Lake. It wasn’t much, primarily a main room divided by a counter between the entry door and her desk. Behind the central space was a large closet that held supplies, a small restroom and a back door that led to a tiny courtyard. That was a fine place to grab some lunch in good weather.

Sometimes she felt a bit embarrassed by the pride she felt sitting at the secondhand desk she’d found at a local thrift shop. But growing up, on rainy and snowy days her sister Shay had played school, Poppy had played with dolls and Mac had imagined herself in command of schedules and a staff.

You always were a bossy little thing.

What Zan had said was true, but her drive to own her own business was likely less to do with her temperament than to an early memory. When she was little, she’d been in line at the bank with her mother when Miss Cherie, the owner of the local beauty shop, had come in to stand behind them.

“A good week?” her mom had said, nodding at the money pouch the other woman carried.

“Very good,” Miss Cherie had said, hefting the bulging zippered bag.

When Miss Cherie had stepped up to the teller beside the one helping her mother, Mac’s eyes had gone wide at the stacks of money and checks she withdrew from the pouch. How much could the total have been? she wondered now. A few hundred dollars, she supposed.

It had looked like the contents of a leprechaun’s pot of gold to one of the Walker family, whose finances had always been precarious.

So she loved being in charge of her own bottom line as well as being in charge of herself.

On the one hand, she was single and alone. On the other, she had her well-valued independence.

The front door pushed open and Tilda Smith came inside. You had to love the girl—not just because she was an eager employee, never saying no to extra hours or extras tasks, but also because she was a by-her-bootstraps kind of person. She’d been raised by a single mom who’d scraped by as a barmaid at various establishments—a single mom who hadn’t always made the best emotional choices for herself. At the woman’s sudden death several months before, Tilda had kept on marching, though, moving into a tiny apartment with two other girls and working for Mac and occasionally for one of the caterers in town as well as picking up any other odd job that she could.

Like dropping off groceries for Zan Elliott.

“Hey, Tilda,” she called out in greeting. “I’ve got the cleaning caddy all ready for you.” One day a week Mac devoted to paperwork, so the young woman was going to be cleaning a four-bedroom luxury lake-view condo on her own.

“Thanks.” The girl seemed a little distracted as she approached, binding her wealth of long, wavy hair in a rubber band at the same time. Shadows beneath her green eyes only made them appear more jewel-toned. Ah, youth.

“Are you okay?” Mac asked, studying her with new concern.

Their relationship went beyond employer-employee. Not just because she recognized a like soul—they both were tough-skinned survivors—but they’d shared a lot about themselves when they worked together. Polishing two dozen place settings of silver or scrubbing a kitchen sized for an army turned out to be natural times to trade confidences.

They began with how best to stretch a dollar and which bank had the most generous overdraft protection, then moved on to the more personal.

Tilda had revealed her mother’s history of affairs with married men as well as her own lackluster attempts at romance.

Mac had talked about the three times she’d attempted commitment in her early twenties—all awkward failures that had left her believing she was better off being alone. She’d even explained about the postcards that arrived at the office from around the world...and about what their sender had once been to her.

“I’m okay,” Tilda said now. “Fine.” She pushed through the swinging door cut into the counter. “Any special instructions?” she asked, first snatching up the keys to one of two small sedans with the Maids by Mac signage on the side. Second, she scooped up the plastic holder that contained gloves, cloths and their preferred cleaning products. It would take another trip for her to retrieve the vacuum cleaner and mops and stow them into the car’s trunk.

Mac narrowed her gaze, taking a closer look at the younger woman’s face. “You’re not coming down with something, are you? Did Zan pass along the same flu that flattened him when you delivered the groceries?” That had been two days ago, long enough for illness to incubate.

“I didn’t even see him then,” Tilda said.

“Really?” Mac frowned. “But he sent me a text, thanking me for the delivery. How did you get into the house?”

“Ash Robbins was there.”

“Ah. John and Veronica Robbins’ kid.” The couple’s home was on a regular rotation for Mac’s cleaning service now that they’d retired to the mountains. While she didn’t know them well, it was clear they loved their son. “According to his mother and father, the boy can do no wrong.”

Tilda flushed. “He’s not a boy. He’s a man.”

O-kay. Mac knew Tilda didn’t have much to do with boys—uh, men. Keeping oneself financially afloat took a lot of time and energy—at least that had been Mac’s excuse the past several years. “I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

“We don’t, not really.” The girl lifted a shoulder. “We ran across each other last May. But we’re not in the same league.”

“What?” Mac bristled. “Is that what he said?”

She shrugged again. “Imagine what his father’s opinion of me would be.”

His father? What would his father have to do with anything? She frowned. “Til—”

“I need to get going,” the girl said, spinning around to head out.

Mac bustled into the back room to grab up the mops and wheel the vacuum toward the street. Before she reached the front door, Tilda had returned. “I’ve got this,” she said, taking over.

Frowning again, Mac put her hands on her hips. “I can help.”

The girl shook her head. “I don’t want to get used to that.”

Mac let her go but continued to watch as she exited. Clearly Tilda valued her autonomy, and her boss could appreciate that, but as a friend it worried her.

Then the door reopened, letting in a blast of winter air and someone she’d been thinking about since the moment she left him alone at his house two days before. She allowed herself a single assessing glance at Zan, then deciding he looked back in good health—and as handsome as always—she turned and pushed through the swinging panel to put the countertop between them.

Stacking the papers on her desk, she threw him a polite smile. “Hey, there.”

“Hey back,” Zan said, looking curiously about the room. “This is nice.”

“It’s small.” Truthfully, she could have run Maids by Mac from her duplex, but it seemed more...businesslike to have a dedicated office space. The rent didn’t kill because the office was, indeed, Lilliputian-sized. And with Zan’s broad shoulders and long legs between the four walls, it felt just that much more crowded.

No wonder she could hardly breathe.

Mac took another peek at him. He wore dark denim and a high-end, high-tech-looking winter jacket with a wealth of pockets that probably cost more than her monthly profit margin. “Did you need something?”

“To say thanks for the groceries. They kept me fed and indoors for another twenty-four hours, which allowed me to kick the bug for good.”

“Awesome.” She rubbed at the touch pad of her laptop, bringing the screen to life so she could focus on the spreadsheet there instead of the man and his big...presence.

“I also hoped to talk you into coffee with me.”

“I’m too busy to go...” she began, the words automatic, but they trailed off as he placed two paper cups on the counter. So eager to avoid looking at him too long, she’d neglected to notice what he’d carried.

“From Oscar’s,” he said, pushing one of the beverages her way. “They told me your favorite order.”

“I...” She was forced to leave the desk to retrieve it. Refusing seemed too rude, even though she’d decided the safest way to deal with Zan and all the memories his presence invoked was to keep her distance. Instead of rattling those bones she wanted to pick with him, she’d decided to let them settle. That would, she figured, keep the unwelcome Ghost of Love Gone By as undisturbed and inactive as possible. “Uh, thanks.”

Watching her, he shook his head as she took her first sip. “I can’t get over the fact that you drink coffee. When I left you wouldn’t touch the stuff.”

“People change.” Some traveled the world. Took lovers named Simone. “I learned to like coffee.”

He leaned against the counter as he picked up his own beverage. “The village and the mountains are much the same, though.”

“Still beautiful.”

With a smile, he toasted her with his coffee. “Present company included.”

She ignored the stupid flutter in her middle. “Well, see, you’re much the same, too. Still a charmer.”

He only smiled again at that, so she moved back to her desk and fiddled with a pencil. “This is my paperwork day, so...”

“Oh, you won’t get rid of me so easily.”

Well, that didn’t seem fair when he’d left the mountains so easily before, she thought, frowning at her cup. Not to mention that he’d left without even taking the photo of them she’d presented him with before he’d packed his truck and driven it down the hill. That knowledge, she had to admit, still rankled.

She had a matching picture herself, now relegated to the dark corner in her chest of drawers under the single socks she was too cheap to throw away.

Hey, you never knew when their partner might show up again.

After all, hadn’t Zan returned?

Not that they were parts of a pair or anything.

Annoyed at her train of thought, she squared her shoulders, took a bracing swallow of espresso and steamed milk, and told herself, rude or not, it was time to show him out.

Of her office.

Of her could-have-been file, too.

Clearing her throat, she met his gaze. “Zan—”

“I brought you something else.”

The expression on his face gave her sudden pause. It was half guarded and half pleased. Exactly how he’d looked when he’d presented her with her eighteenth birthday present—the receipt for four brand-new tires for her battered baby SUV.

I know it’s not romantic, he’d said.

Then she’d thrown herself into his arms, grateful, touched to the bone because those tires would keep her safe on the mountain roads for years to come. He’d known pride would never have allowed her to accept them as charity, but as a birthday gift...yes.

She thought of what Angelica had said to Brett the night of their wedding reception. You know what I need.

But the way of those memories lay danger and not the distance she’d decided upon, so she returned to the moment at hand. “A croissant? One of Oscar’s cinnamon buns? I warn you, I don’t like the lemon cake.”

He grinned. “I recall your aversion to citrus paired with sweets.”

It took effort to pretend that didn’t stab. He remembered? “That’s right. No lemon bars. No key lime tarts.”

“But you indulged my love of peach pie.”

Mac’s body froze. Had he really said that? Peach pie? Um, sexual innuendo, much?

But before she could think of how to respond, he pulled something out of one of his many coat pockets and set it on the counter. The item was about the size of a large baked potato. Which turned out to be a very weird first impression of the actual object.

Her gaze glued to it, she moved forward, unable to stifle her curiosity.

“It’s a Russian nesting doll.”

Her fingertip stroked the smooth surface. More than that, it was a work of art. On the carved hourglass shape, a woman’s face and figure decorated the pale wood. Dark-haired, blue-eyed, she was delicate and so, so lovely.

“I watched the artist paint her,” Zan said. He cleared his throat. “She, uh, makes them by request.”

Her head shot up. It didn’t take a genius to realize the rendered woman had her coloring...even, perhaps, her features. Mac put her hands behind her back. “It’s wonderful.”

His mouth quirked. “I thought so.” Then he picked it up and twisted.

A bleat of protest escaped her mouth.

He laughed. “Watch.”

It was a work of moments. Inside, were five other figurines, each one opening to reveal a smaller figure, similarly painted, until the smallest was revealed, the size of a thimble.

Mac stared at them, noting that each had the same features and each wore a beautiful blue gown, highlighted with what looked like gold leaf. So exquisite. Inhaling a breath, she shifted her gaze to Zan again. “For me? Really?”

One of his long fingers brushed the painted hair of the largest of the dolls and his gaze tracked the stroke. “Yeah. I’ll miss her, though. She’s been with me a long time.”

Like the long time he’d been gone. Ignoring the hot pressure behind her eyes, she watched him renest the dolls into one.

Then he cradled it in his hands like a kitten, bringing it close to his face. “We had many the long, dark-night conversations, didn’t we, girl?” he asked, addressing the piece.

Oh, man. That burn intensified behind Mac’s eyes and she felt a traitorous twinge in her chest. On long dark nights, had he needed a friend? During those lonely hours, had he been talking to a surrogate for her?

She curled her hands into fists to keep herself from reaching out to him. You need to keep your distance, she reminded herself. You need to keep up your guard.

But when he offered the object to Mac, she couldn’t help but lean closer to take it from him. As her fingers neared, he lifted it just out of reach. “Now, what am I going to get in return for this little pretty?” he asked with a roguish glint in his eye.

It was charming as heck, so the look she sent him was stern. “A simple ‘thank you’ won’t do?”

“Surely you can do better than that. Think of the miles I’ve traveled to bring her to you. The terrain I’ve overcome! The dangers I’ve braved!”

“The bullshit you’ve dished out along the way,” she said drily.

His lips twitched. It drew her attention, reminding her of kisses, hours of them, that mouth on hers, taking her to new and heated places. That mouth, exploring new and heated places.

Peach pie. She felt a blush rush up her neck and cursed the persistent memories.

“I think you’ve turned into a cruel and cold woman,” Zan declared.

She latched on to that. “And don’t you forget it.”

“But still,” he said, in that teasing tone, “one small kiss doesn’t seem too much to ask.” His fingertip tapped the edge of his jaw. “And then I’ll be on my way.”

And then she’d be safe from him, her space once more her own. And yet... “Zan...”

He wiggled the doll back and forth. “Please?” His smile was boyish and friendly. “With sugar on top?”

“Good God,” she muttered but found herself giving in to his ridiculous request. Bellying up to the counter, she closed the gap between them. Then she fisted her hand in the lapel of his jacket, drew his face close and rose onto her tiptoes. “Thank you,” she grumbled.

And moved her lips to his cheek.

At the same instant that he turned his mouth to meet hers.

CHAPTER FIVE

WHEN THE DOOR to the lakefront, Mediterranean-style villa swung open, Zan’s gaze dropped to find a smiling, gap-toothed little kid, and Zan’s already good mood bobbed even higher. “You must be Poppy’s boy,” he said. The family resemblance was strong.

“Mason Walker. Almost Mason Walker Hamilton.” The boy talked as if he was fifteen instead of five or so. “I’m a best man.”

“Yep,” Zan agreed. “You strike me as a good kind of guy.”

“He means he’s my best man...when I marry Poppy.” A dark-haired grown person strode up behind the kid and held out his hand. “Ryan Hamilton.”

“Zan Elliott.” He cocked his head, taking in the other man’s famous face as he passed him a bottle of wine. “I heard it through the grapevine, but it’s hard to believe Poppy Walker snagged one of Hollywood’s most entrenched bachelors.”

“Has me wrapped around her little finger.” He looked cheerful about it.

Then Poppy herself crowded into the doorway, and Zan was reminded of how wrapped around her finger he used to be. “Hah,” she said to Ryan. “You knew I was behind you when you said that.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”

She sent her fiancé an indulgent look, then grabbed Zan’s arm and tugged him into the foyer. “Come in, it’s cold out there.” His hands were in her small ones as she took a long look at him. Her brilliant smile was as warm as the hug that ensued after.

“I’m so glad you could come to dinner,” she said against his chest, squeezing hard.

He returned the embrace, charmed by her all over again. “Not mad that I practically invited myself?”

“Practically?” She leaned back and grinned at him. “You did invite yourself.”

A big dog pushed between them. “Who’s this?” he asked.

Mason ran his hand over the canine’s big head. “Our dog, Grimm.”

“So domesticated, Pop,” Zan said, his gaze lingering on her. When he’d left she’d been a teenager, coltish and sweet as candy. “It looks good on you. Beautiful, actually.”

Ryan’s brows rose. “Uh-oh. Do I have to take you out?”

“Oh, you,” she said to her man, then grabbed Zan’s hand again and began towing him forward. “Though I did have a wild crush on him when I was a girl.”

“You did?” he asked, as she pushed him onto a stool drawn up to the granite island in a spacious kitchen with views of the lake. “How come I didn’t see that?”

“Because you only had eyes for Mac, of course.”

What could he say? But he was glad he was spared from answering when Ryan pressed a cold bottle of beer in his hand. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem—”

The peal of the front doorbell interrupted him. Grimm barked and the Walker-Hamilton household inhabitants rushed for the foyer again. Zan slugged down a mouthful of beer before they came back, ushering people in front of them.

Zan got to his feet, prepared for more introductions and greetings.

Shay Walker, who had turned chic on him, squealed like the young girl she used to be when she caught sight of him. He caught her up, whirled her around, and then they grinned at each other. “Wow, you grew up good,” she said.

“Back atcha.” Then he turned and held out his hand to a big man with wide shoulders and a sturdy build. “Jace, right?”

The other man’s grip was strong. “Nice to meet you.” He indicated a teenager a step behind him. “My daughter, London.”

She sketched a wave. Zan followed suit.

Then Brett was in his face. “You live. And you’re here, once again mooching a Walker meal.”

“Some things never change.” Except others did, because then he was meeting the man’s wife, Angelica, an exotic brunette with a smile that could melt steel. He glanced at his old friend. “I’m speechless.”

Brett smiled, slow, his gaze resting on his bride’s face. “I’m a lucky SOB.”

But Zan would swear that was him as the chatter rose around him. When he’d called Poppy to say hello, she’d mentioned a family dinner and, as she’d said, he’d invited himself. So once again he was in the midst of chatter and laughter and teasing, just as if he’d never left. Their warmth and camaraderie had always been on loan, of course; he wasn’t really part of their clan, but he fell right into the comfort of it, like a big feather bed.

Okay, he might have experienced a brief pang of melancholy when he compared this convivial atmosphere to the mausoleum-ish air of his grandfather’s house, knowing he’d have to return to it at evening’s end, but then somebody handed him another beer. Following that, Poppy passed him a small plate of appetizers—including little tiny hot dogs covered in puff pastry that a man would have to be dead not to appreciate—and then another presence strode into the kitchen.

Mackenzie.

Mason claimed her attention first, followed by Grimm. She bent to kiss the boy’s head and followed up by petting the dog. Then she straightened, and he swallowed, hard. For some reason his throat felt tight.

A big, ivory-colored sweater swallowed her slim frame. It had a lace inset at the neck, making it nearly transparent from her collarbone to her cleavage. Ruffles of the stuff hung from the knitted hem. Denim clung to her legs and she wore tall leather boots that strode across the floor as she moved among her family members, dispensing hugs and kisses.

Then she turned toward the island, where he sat, and the crowd shifted.

Their eyes met.

A chill washed over his skin as her gaze turned icy.

Whoops. She was still mad about that kiss. He popped off the stool and reached for the open wine bottle nearby. A free glass sat beside it and he poured out a healthy dose, then took it to Mac like a peace offering. “How was your day?” he asked, pressing the stem into her hand.

“Why are you here?”

“To eat dinner,” Poppy called out, fortunately leaving out the part where he’d invited himself. “And it’s time.” She removed a huge casserole dish from the oven.

The exodus from the kitchen to the dining room and its long table covered over any further Zan-Mac awkwardness. She ended up across from him and a couple of seats down, but that was all right. If she and her temper needed space after their lip-lock in her office a couple of days before, so be it.

Okay, maybe he was a little ticked that she was ticked. It wasn’t as if it had been intentional.

Lie.

But he hadn’t intended it to happen, that was true. The opportunity had just presented itself as she moved her lips toward him, coming in for a cheek-swipe. Instead of offering up the side of his face, he’d cheated just a little and provided his mouth instead.

Sue him.

He hadn’t even tried any tongue.

But still, the kiss had been electric. Zing. Hiss. Wowza.

Mac had panicked, jerking away and staring at him through accusatory eyes. That won’t happen again, she’d said.

He’d responded with a shrug and left as he’d promised, happy enough that it had happened once. Not that he’d explained any of that. But why wouldn’t he be pleased that the old black magic had set off a spark? It only went to prove that his memory had not overelaborated all the sputter and steam that had been kissing Mac.

The flames and the burn that had been bedding Mac.

Best not to think about that now, though. He applied himself instead to helpings of an excellent lasagna, green salad and garlic bread. As the meal wound down, he tuned into the talk around the table. Then he had to turn to the woman on his right, Angelica, Brett’s wife.

“What cabins?” he asked in an undertone.

“Do you know about the mountain, the fire?”

He nodded. The Walkers owned a tract of land, the last from what their ancestors had purchased when they’d first arrived to log the mountains 150 years before. A small ski resort had been situated there, run by the family, which had burned to the ground when they were kids. “They’re rebuilding?”

“Can’t,” Angelica reported. “Their dad sold off the top of the mountain—”

“To a man who refuses to speak with us,” her husband said from the other side of the table. He must have caught the drift of Zan’s conversation with Angelica. “Victor Fremont.”

“No spitting,” Ryan put in, holding up a hand.

While no actual saliva was involved, the siblings turned their heads to the side and pretended to spit on the rug at their feet. Four shoes rubbed there and then four fingers made crosses over their respective hearts.

“May his days be cursed,” Poppy muttered.

Zan didn’t bother to suppress a grin. This was such a Walker thing. They were a ferocious band, and he’d reveled being associated with them when he’d lived here. Still, the explanation wasn’t completely clear. “Cabins?”

From her place at the end of the table, Poppy—hostess, mother, almost-wife, it still boggled the mind—leaned his way. “Don’t you remember? There are a dozen of them—now eleven—that have been sitting empty all these years. I came up with the brilliant idea to refurbish them and rent them out.”

High-end seclusion, she went on to explain. No Wi-Fi. Rustic surroundings with luxury bedding. Gourmet food and drink available for delivery.

“Sounds good to me,” Zan said.

“I know.” Poppy beamed. “We’re all on board—and excited.”

Near the other end of the table, Mac raised her hand. “Voice of reason calling.”

Poppy groaned and Shay and Brett frowned at her.

“Voice of pessimism,” Poppy grumbled.

Which was weird, Zan thought, as Mac talked about advertising and discoverability and maintenance costs—all communicating her clear doubts. Truly, as Poppy said, very pessimistic, which wasn’t like the old Mac at all. The old Mac had been full-speed-ahead, we-can-do-anything, let’s-put-on-a-show.

This Mac was... Maybe it was just maturity.

Angelica leaned close, speaking under the general conversation. “I wish they could find a way to regain the mountaintop property and rebuild the ski resort,” she said. “Let me show you the drawing that Brett did in college for a lodge.”

Pulling out her phone, she called up a photo on the screen, then passed the device over. Zan gazed down at the image, his fingers tightening on the pink plastic case. It brought him back. The three amigos—Brett, Mac and himself—lying in the grasses on the mountain peak, dreaming up a vacation destination from which families could hike or bike in the summer, spring and fall, and ski and sled in the winter months. They’d argued and debated and refined their idea time after time.

Brett had drawn it just as Zan remembered.

Maybe better than he’d imagined.

Pain radiated from his chest, and his throat felt strangled again. Shit, was he getting sentimental in his old age?

Feeling eyes on him, he looked up to see Mac was staring.

She abruptly stood, stacking a few plates, and headed to the kitchen with them. Without thinking, Zan followed with more dishes. There was some protest around the table, Poppy telling him he was a guest, but he just announced that he and Mac had the dishes.

Her back to him, she was already rinsing and putting items in the dishwasher. He saw her spine stiffen as he came up behind her.

Sheesh. So damn prickly, he thought, feeling another echo of that earlier pain. Where had his Mac gone, that fun-loving girl full of enthusiasm and zest for life? He wanted to find her inside this new hard shell.

As he put his dishes onto the counter, an idea came to him on the fly. “Hey, I have a proposition for you.”

“No.”

“A business proposition.” Which he immediately realized was how he should have couched it. And it was a sensible idea, really. If she complied, then he’d be able to dispatch his obligations here that much more quickly and get on with...whatever he was going to do next.

“No,” she said again.

Brat. “You don’t even know what it is yet.” And the more he considered it, the more necessary it was to him.

In the distance, he could hear the Walkers still talking around the dining room table. Arguing, really, and the kids were even getting into it. The sound of the good-natured squabble made him grin. He couldn’t let go of these people quite yet.

Walking out of here tonight might mean not seeing them again. But if he could get to Mac, that would get him a small toehold into their lives. Temporarily, yes, but he’d take it.

“I need some help at my grandfather’s place,” he said to her. “Clearing out belongings, sorting things, cleaning up so the house is ready to be put on the market.”

She’d gone still. “I suppose I could send over Tilda or one of my other employees...”

“Oh, it has to be you.”

Over her shoulder, she sent him a narrow-eyed glance.

He hoped he looked innocent. “I need your good advice on what should stay, what should go. You’d be good at that, since you’re in and out of other people’s homes around here all the time.”

She’d yet to reply when Shay came into the room, followed by teenager London. They halted, their gazes going between him and Mac, as if they sensed the tension between them.

“Um, everything okay?” Shay asked.

“Sure,” Zan said, all casual attitude. “I just presented a business opportunity to your sister and she’s mulling it over.”

“Mac’s mulling over a chance to make money?” Shay asked, in obvious surprise.

“It involves my grandfather’s house. I think she’s afraid—”

“I’m not afraid of anything!” Mac retorted.

“Then I guess that means yes,” Zan said, on a smile.

It didn’t die until Shay brushed past him. “Dude,” she murmured. “You should be careful what you wish for.”

* * *

ASH ROBBINS HAD a few terms he liked to think described himself. Well educated was one, and he believed just about anyone would agree it fit, thanks to his parents’ money and his own pride in achievement. His name and hardworking had been mentioned in tandem more than once, and he’d also been taught to never stand on others to get ahead. He strove to be kind to everyone, small children and animals in particular.

His parents, successful and respectable John and Veronica Robbins, for twenty-two years by word and through example had raised their only son to become an upstanding, decent man.

He could only imagine their disappointment if they knew he was also a latent stalker.

Still, Ash’s gaze stayed glued to the back of Tilda Smith’s hair. Its waves bounced against her thin jacket. He frowned at that. While it was sunny today and the last weather event here in Blue Arrow Lake had been rain, there was snow on the higher peaks. It glistened between the evergreens on the mountainsides, and the breeze wafted like frosty breath across his face.

Tilda should be dressed more warmly.

She turned a corner and he hurried, instinct pushing him to keep her in sight while still maintaining distance. Something about the girl was like floating dandelion fluff, a rainbow-hued bubble passing in the air, that great idea hovering at the edge of your mind that you’d lose if you reached for it too quickly or grasped too greedily once your fingers closed around it.

If he wanted her, he had to take great care.

And yeah, he wanted her.

Again.

From across the street, he saw her slip inside a little hole-in-the wall eatery. The place looked to be nothing more than a counter and a few molded plastic tables, chairs bolted to their metal legs like student desks in a classroom. Aware too much aggression might spook her, he didn’t follow her in immediately. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and watched as she ordered, then passed a couple of bills to a ponytailed girl.

Next she took a seat at one of the tables, her back to the window. After a few minutes she stood to retrieve what appeared to be a cup of soup and a few packets of crackers.

“You need something, pal?”

Ash jerked his attention from Tilda. Another guy, about his age, was giving him a suspicious stare. His unremarkable jeans, navy watch cap and battered boots proclaimed him a local. Vacationers and the day-pass boarders who visited the area dressed in garishly colored winter resort gear and footwear that looked right out of the box.

“I’m thinking about lunch,” Ash lied. He tilted his head to indicate the eatery. “That place any good?”

“No sushi, no sweet potato fries, nothing made with kale,” the stranger said. “For that you need the cafés on the main drag.”

“Burger? Shake?”

The other guy’s gaze flicked over Ash, clearly skeptical that he was after something so prosaic. He stood his ground under the scrutiny. Until he’d wandered into an old-school restaurant in the village last May, he hadn’t been aware of the decided separation between the mountain visitors and the mountain natives. That night, he’d caught the raised eyebrows and the distrustful glances and realized he’d crossed a gulch without an invitation. He might have gotten the shit kicked out of him by a knot of young drunks, but he’d sent a drink to Tilda before he’d fully realized the danger.

Then she’d taken a shine to him. Once he’d slipped into a chair at the table with her and her girl pals, he’d been safe.

The man taking stock of him now might well have been one of the toughs who’d wanted to kick his ass from their hangout. “You had your eyes on Tilda,” the guy said now.

Ash shrugged. What was the point of denying it? “You know her?”

“Only since kindergarten.”

“I met her last May,” Ash said.

“Yeah? That was a rough time for her. Lost her mom in April.”

Hell. Ash frowned. She hadn’t told him that. She hadn’t told him much of anything about herself, except it was her twenty-first birthday. That had prompted him to order the first bottle of champagne. And then another, later, when they were alone.

He’d thought perhaps she considered him a birthday present to herself.

But maybe it had been something else altogether. A way to numb her pain?

Then he’d gone all smooth operator on her—ha—by passing out in bed so that she’d left him without a goodbye.

“Order the patty melt,” the stranger said, then touched his cap with two fingers in a goodbye salute.

Leaving Ash alone with his second thoughts.

After all, she’d not exactly thrown herself into his arms at Zan’s the other day. When he’d asked her out, she hadn’t said yes.

She’d told him she was running late and had to be on her way.

But that meant she hadn’t refused him, either.

It was enough to get him on the move again, and he slowly crossed the street. It gave him time to consider why he was so bent on taking that night they’d shared out of the serendipitous column.

One answer: he hadn’t felt right about the single shag aspect. His father always emphasized treating the opposite sex with the utmost respect, and buying a girl some birthday drinks, then sweet-talking her into a hotel room, and then basically going near-cadaver on her after the deed was done didn’t feel very honorable.

Another answer: because something told him any subsequent nights with her might just be stupendous.

It was that simple.

Or not. Because when he opened the diner’s door, Tilda stood in the frame, clearly on her way out. God, their timing sucked.

They both sidestepped to avoid a collision of their bodies—but they sidestepped in the same direction, their actions becoming a dance move.

That night, back in May, she’d taught him how to two-step.

In sixth grade his mother had sent him to Mr. Preston’s School of Manners. Honest to God, they called it that. Boys and girls had to put on fancy clothes and learn to address each other as if they were people from the era of Mad Men. Boys wore stiff shoes. The girls wore gloves.

There, he’d learned to fox-trot and waltz, keeping his body a precise number of inches from his partner—and his elbow ached just remembering the required angle necessary to keep that precise distance. The music had come out of an old-fashioned boom box and not once after that sixteen-week experience had he ever danced again. At the dances after football games in high school he’d lounged at the back of the gym with his buddies.

In college, on Friday nights he’d hung in his dorm room or apartment and got buzzed on beer like every other normal student.

So last May, when she’d pulled him onto the dance floor he’d been two left feet and very little rhythm.

But her laugh had distracted him—delighted him—and it hadn’t taken him long to get the hang of quick-quick, slow slow. They’d moved together counterclockwise around the dance floor and he’d not thought about his feet or the hokey country ballad or his odd outsider status.

He’d only thought about getting closer to Tilda.

The same urge overtook him now.

As he moved closer, she moved back—dancing again!—and the door swung shut behind him.

Ash stared into her beautiful face, her cheeks just the slightest bit pink, making her green eyes stand out all the more. Her lashes were long and curly and her mouth... Oh, God, he remembered how soft and sweet it was to kiss.

The memory muddled his good sense.

All his life he’d been taught to use his head by the man he esteemed above all others. Think things through, Ash! his father always warned. Consider first, talk second had been drummed into him from an early age.

Strategizing had become second nature. But when it came to Tilda, he wanted only to obey his instincts.

Be with me. The words were on the tip of his tongue. Be mine.

But he curled his fingers into fists and exhorted himself to take it slow and not overwhelm the girl. Go out with me. He’d start with that.

“Tilda—”

“I never expected to see you again,” she said in a rush, preempting him. “Especially not now—in winter. Guys like you...they’re summer guys.”

“Summer guys?”

She shrugged. “Temporary. Vacationers.”

“My parents had a place here they primarily used in the warmer months. But upon retiring, last spring they bought a new house, and they’ve moved here permanently. My mom loves the mountains.”

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