Son

Dog

Wife?

Single father Ryan Carter wants just one thing: a new beginning for his grieving son. That means decamping for small-town North Carolina, adopting a rescue dog...even proposing to the gorgeous restaurant manager he can’t stop thinking about! Amanda Sylvester knows what it’s like to need a mom in your life. But she sure isn’t the type to play pretend with her heart...

TERI WILSON is a novelist for Mills & Boon. She is the author of Unleashing Mr. Darcy, now a Hallmark Channel Original Movie. Teri is also a contributing writer at hellogiggles.com, a lifestyle and entertainment website founded by Zooey Deschanel that is now part of the People magazine, Time magazine and Entertainment Weekly family. Teri loves books, travel, animals and dancing every day. Visit Teri at teriwilson.net or on Twitter, @teriwilsonauthr.

Also by Teri Wilson

The Ballerina’s Secret

How to Romance a Runaway Bride

The Bachelor’s Baby Surprise

A Daddy by Christmas

His Ballerina Bride

The Princess Problem

It Started with a Diamond

Unmasking Juliet

Unleashing Mr. Darcy

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

How To Rescue a Family

Teri Wilson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09073-5

HOW TO RESCUE A FAMILY

© 2019 Harlequin Books S.A.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Bliss, Finn and Princess,

the very best dogs in the world.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Extract

About the Publisher

Chapter One

“He’s here.”

Amanda Sylvester looked up from the pear-and-goat-cheese puff pastry she was assembling and found Belle Ross, her head waitress, grinning at her from ear to ear.

“You know, in case you’ve decided to take a chance and actually speak to him.” Belle lifted a brow. “Just saying.”

“The lunch rush is in full swing. Shouldn’t you be waiting tables?” Amanda reached for a fresh rosemary sprig from the tiny garden she’d planted in the Grille’s sole kitchen window and placed it carefully on top of her creation. “Just saying.”

Belle leaned against the door frame. “It’s three o’clock. The lunch crowd disappeared almost an hour ago. But nice try, boss.”

“Oh.” Amanda had lost track of time—again—a common occurrence when she was experimenting with new recipes. Not that any of her new dishes ever actually turned up on the menu.

A girl could dream, though, right?

“He ordered a latte to go. I reminded him, yet again, that we’re not exactly a latte sort of establishment. We’re basically a diner, so our coffee offerings are pretty much limited to regular and decaf.” Belle shoved a paper cup at Amanda. “This is his coffee—regular, by the way. You’re giving it to him. I refuse to do it myself.”

Amanda stared at the cup. “Um.”

“Seriously, take it. This secret crush of yours is getting old.”

Amanda’s face went hot, and she defiantly plucked the coffee from Belle’s grasp. “It’s not a secret crush. I just think he’s mysterious, that’s all.”

Nor was he terrible to look at, but that was beside the point.

Mostly.

Amanda had lived in Spring Forest, North Carolina, her entire life. She’d worked at her family’s restaurant, Main Street Grille, since she was old enough to juggle more than one plate at a time. She loved it. She really did. But sometimes, it was all just a little predictable.

Which explained her fascination with the man who’d suddenly started showing up multiple times a day, looking as if he’d just walked out of the pages of GQ rather than any of the redbrick buildings in Spring Forest’s historic downtown district. Ryan Carter, the new owner and editor-in-chief of The Spring Forest Chronicle, wasn’t exactly what people might call personable, but he was certainly different. And attractive.

In a brooding sort of way.

Belle grinned. “Keep telling yourself that, boss.”

“You’re so fired,” Amanda whispered as she slipped past her, toward the dining room.

She was kidding, obviously. Belle was a ridiculously competent waitress, as well as one of Amanda’s oldest friends. But she was also delusional.

It wasn’t a crush. Amanda was a grown woman. A career woman. Twenty-nine-year-old ambitious adults didn’t have crushes.

But when she reached the counter and Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Grumpy glanced up from the iPhone in his hand, her stomach flipped in a way that could only be described as crush-tastic.

Get a grip on yourself. That’s not even a word.

She squared her shoulders, smiled and offered him the cup. “Your coffee.”

He took it. “Thank you very much.”

No smile. No indication that he thought she, herself, was crush-tastic, despite the very good hair day she was having. Nothing.

He gave her a distracted nod before turning to leave.

“You’re welcome,” she said to his back.

Rude much?

Amanda picked up the closest dish towel and scrubbed furiously at an invisible spot on the counter. She glanced back up for another glimpse of his disappearing form as he pushed through the door and strode purposefully down Main Street. He had a lovely back. Broad and strong, as if capable of shouldering the heaviest of burdens. And were those actual muscles moving beneath the elegant weave of his suit jacket? God, they were.

“How’d it go?” Belle asked.

“Disastrously.” Amanda scrubbed harder at the smooth Formica countertop. “I was confident and lovely. I smiled when I said ‘Here’s your coffee,’ and I might have even thrown in a flirty hair flip.”

“Then what happened?”

Amanda crossed her arms and sighed. “He said ‘Thank you very much,’ and left.”

“I see what you mean. Total disaster.” The corner of Belle’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Clearly the man is a monster.”

“You jest, but the fact that he didn’t smile says something about him, don’t you think?”

“Yes. It says he’s in a hurry. Or distracted. Or under-caffeinated, hence the coffee.” Belle gestured, Vanna White–style, at the coffeepot.

“Or he has no interest in me whatsoever, which is fine.” More than fine, really. She didn’t have time for a love interest. She didn’t even have time for a dog, for crying out loud. She just wanted to do her job, post her foodie pics to Instagram and admire Ryan Carter from afar. Was that really too much to ask? “He’s married, anyway. We know that much about him.”

“We do?” Belle peered out the window and squinted after him, as if she expected to spot a just-married sign taped to his back.

“Of course we do. He’s ordered two of the dinner specials to go almost every day this week. There’s a Mrs. Tall-Dark-and-Grumpy waiting for him at home.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Obviously.”

“The only thing obvious about any of this is that you’re a chicken. It’s like the tenth grade Sadie Hawkins dance all over again.”

“Don’t go there.” Sure, that humiliating experience had taken place approximately fourteen years ago, but Amanda still wasn’t over it. Not even close. “And I’m not a chicken. Need I remind you that I rode out a tornado all by myself last week?”

She’d been terrified out of her mind as she’d cowered in the bathroom of her tiny apartment above the Grille while the windows rattled and it sounded like a freight train was barreling through town. But she’d survived. On her own. The next morning, when she’d seen the storm damage, she felt kind of like Wonder Woman.

“Which reminds me.” She glanced at the vintage white-gold watch on her wrist, a keepsake from her grandmother. “I need to get out to the animal shelter. I promised Birdie and Bunny I’d walk some dogs today.”

Bernadette and Gwendolyn Whitaker, affectionately known throughout Spring Forest as Birdie and Bunny, were sisters who ran a local pet rescue where Amanda volunteered once a week. They lived in the same rambling Victorian the Whitaker family had called home for generations, and a number of years ago, they’d opened a small animal shelter on part of their property.

Belle winced. “How do things look out at Furever Paws? The tornado hit the shelter pretty hard, didn’t it?”

“Yes, from what I hear, it touched right down on the sisters’ land. They lost a lot of trees, and the shelter’s roof was pretty much demolished. I’m sure their insurance will fix it, but in the meantime, it’s a mess. I feel terrible about it. Birdie and Bunny are overwhelmed, and those poor animals have been through enough as it is.” Amanda wished for the thousandth time that she could adopt one of the dogs.

But she was hardly ever home. It didn’t seem fair, especially for a rescue dog in need of attention. In need of love.

Love.

Amanda’s throat clogged. What was wrong with her? The tornado must have rattled her more than she wanted to admit.

“Well, at least you’re getting out of here for a bit. Some time away from this place will do you good. You’ve been working since sunup.”

Actually, Amanda had dragged herself into the kitchen before sunrise, but not completely out of necessity. She’d wanted to get her food prep and other responsibilities out of the way so she could have some time to experiment with the goat cheese she’d picked up at the farmer’s market over the weekend.

“I want to take a few pictures of my pastry before I go.” She pushed her way through the swinging door, back into the kitchen. Her sanctuary, where she’d been perfectly content until she’d been distracted once again by the brooding newspaperman.

What a colossal waste of time, as evidenced by her puff pastry, which suddenly looked significantly less puffy than it had before she’d abandoned it to deliver coffee to Mr. Cranky Pants.

“Is it supposed to look like that?” Belle said, peering over Amanda’s shoulder.

“You mean sad and deflated?” Amanda slid her phone back into her pocket. She wouldn’t be posting to Instagram today, after all. “No, it’s not.”

“It might still taste good.” Ah Belle, always the optimist.

“What makes puff pastry special is its light and airy texture. I think that ship has sailed.” Amanda pinned her with a glare. “Yet another reason I shouldn’t be trying to flirt with a stranger over his takeout coffee order.”

“Spring Forest is still a relatively small town. We could check up on him, you know. Find out more about him? Perhaps we could even be hospitable and start a conversation with Ryan himself. Then he wouldn’t be a stranger anymore.”

“Yes, but my pastry would still be flat.” Amanda picked it up and dumped it unceremoniously into the nearest trash can.

“Maybe your social life wouldn’t, though,” Belle muttered.

Amanda pretended not to hear her.

She didn’t need a man. She needed a good night’s sleep. She needed a family member to step up and help out at the Grille. She needed enough Instagram followers to convince her mother she could successfully expand the restaurant into catering weddings and maybe even fancy galas in nearby Raleigh.

And right now, she needed to get to the animal shelter. Because dogs were much simpler than actual human relationships.

Dogs were loyal. They were honest, and they didn’t grow bored, change their feelings on a whim or run away when times got tough. They were possibly the best living example of unconditional love.

Sometimes Amanda wondered how they could be so gentle and sweet, because in her experience, human beings could be quite the opposite.

* * *

Ryan Carter clutched his cardboard coffee cup and pushed through the door of The Spring Forest Chronicle, reminding himself once again to slow down. Breathe. Take a look around.

He wasn’t in DC anymore. Things moved at a much slower pace in Spring Forest. That’s why he’d moved here in the first place. After the sudden and drastic upheaval in his personal life, he’d needed a fresh start. He’d needed a soft place to land, for both himself and his son.

It had taken a little over a year of searching, but he’d found it. Spring Forest was everything they needed, an oasis dripping with Southern charm. Moving here felt like falling into a soft feather bed after a long, restless season of too little sleep.

Too little joy.

He no longer needed to drop everything he was doing in order to attend a White House press briefing without notice, and the back-to-back deadlines that so often woke him up in a cold sweat were now in his past, like so much else. He didn’t even have an editor-in-chief breathing down his neck anymore. That job belonged to Ryan now.

Except The Spring Forest Chronicle wasn’t The Washington Post. Not even close.

“Hello, Mr. Carter.” Jonah Miller, Ryan’s assistant, stood and beamed at him.

“Jonah, we talked about this. Remember? You don’t need to stand every time I enter the building.” He forced a smile and aimed for an expression that somewhat resembled patience. “And I want you to call me Ryan.”

“Right. Sorry.” Jonah’s gaze dropped to Ryan’s coat and tie. “I keep forgetting.”

Ryan was going to have to stop wearing suits to the office. The Spring Forest Chronicle wasn’t exactly a formal working environment, as evidenced by the Converse sneakers on Jonah’s feet and the skinny jeans on the younger man’s legs. Old habits died hard, though, and Ryan’s closet was filled with gray flannel and pinstripes. Relics from his former life.

He made a mental note to buy some casual clothes as soon as possible. As it was, he felt more like Jonah’s dad than his boss. Impossible, considering Ryan was only thirty-three and Jonah was somewhere in his early twenties. But being around all that youthful optimism made Ryan feel ancient, and the last thing he needed at the office was a reminder of his shortcomings as a father.

“Do you have any messages for me?” He shot Jonah a hopeful glance.

As much as Ryan hated to admit it, leaving his position as the political editor at the Post to buy a small-town newspaper was more of an adjustment than he’d expected. He missed his old job—the adrenaline rush that came with chasing a breaking story, the sense of accomplishment, the prestige. Dillon was more important than any of those things, obviously. That’s why they were here.

But Ryan would have given his left arm for a story to cover—a real story with some meat on its bones. A story that didn’t involve a bake sale or the removal of a stop sign or new uniforms for the high school marching band. The only thing truly newsworthy he’d covered recently had been the tornado that swept through town.

He could have done without that particular news item. The twister had scared Dillon so badly that he’d slept in the bathtub for three straight nights afterward. Ryan had stretched out on the bathroom floor in his sleeping bag alongside the tub, unwilling to leave his frightened son alone. His lower back was a mess.

But at least he’d been there.

For once.

“Yes, actually.” Jonah tore a sheet from the pink message pad on his desk. Ryan hadn’t seen a message pad like that in years. He wondered if it was left over from the building’s banking days. “Patty Matthews from the elementary school called.”

Ryan’s jaw clenched as he stared down at the message. Mrs. Matthews was Dillon’s teacher, which meant the call had zero to do with business. Worse, it might mean that there was a problem with his son.

Jonah cleared his throat. “She said she tried to reach you on your cell, but it rolled straight to voice mail.”

“That’s because I was at the mobile store buying a new phone. It’s only been activated for a few minutes.” Ryan had been so consumed with taking care of Dillon during the storm that he’d accidentally left his cell phone plugged into its charger during the tornado. Big mistake. It had been randomly powering itself down ever since, and he couldn’t afford to miss any more news tips...

Or calls from his son’s teacher.

“Right.” Jonah nodded. “I’m sure everything’s fine, but you should probably call her back.”

“Of course.” Dread settled in the pit of Ryan’s stomach like a lead weight. Things hadn’t been fine for a long, long time.

He checked his watch.

“School gets out shortly. I think I’ll head over there instead of calling.” He glanced at Jonah. “Unless there’s something urgent I need to attend to?”

“Nope.” Jonah shrugged. “There’s not.”

Of course there wasn’t. The paper didn’t even go to press for three more days. The Spring Forest Chronicle was a weekly publication, which gave Ryan a flexible schedule. He dropped off Dillon for school every morning, and picked him up, as well. He attended the school’s aftercare program in the afternoons when Ryan was working. Before the accident, when they’d lived in DC, Ryan had never set foot inside a single one of Dillon’s classrooms.

His gut churned, and the message crumpled in his fist.

What if it was too late? What if he never managed to connect with his son? What if Dillon’s retreat into silence was permanent?

It’s not too late. It can’t be.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” Ryan scanned the room, in case anyone else on his minuscule staff looked as though they needed to speak to him. But the other three full-time employees were all bent over their desks, eyes glued to their laptops. Ryan thought he spied a computer game on at least one of the screens.

He sighed and stalked out of the building, back onto Main. Dappled sunlight drifted through the branches of the trees lining the street, warming his face as he made his way to the large public parking lot adjacent to the Granary, where he’d left his car—a small SUV. New, like nearly everything else in his life.

Sometimes he forgot what color it was or where exactly he’d parked it. Hell, sometimes he forgot he drove that to work now instead of taking the Metro.

He just needed a little time, that’s all. They both did. Eventually, this new life would feel right. It would fit, like a favorite sweater. Time heals all wounds. Isn’t that what people always said?

God, he hoped so.

But he was starting to wonder. So were Maggie’s parents, and that was a problem. A big one.

Ryan tipped his head back to down the rest of his coffee. He didn’t want to think about his overbearing in-laws right now. Thankfully, he didn’t have to. The move to Spring Forest had put nearly three hundred blissful miles between him and his late wife’s mom and dad.

I’ll drink to that.

He swallowed the dregs from his paper cup and turned to throw it in a nearby recycling bin, but as he did so he crashed into something. Or more accurately, someone. A woman.

Ooof.

She stumbled backward, and Ryan reached for her shoulders to keep her from falling. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry and wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you hurt?”

“Ouch,” she wailed. His elbow had rammed right into her nose.

The woman’s hands were covering her face, and something about her graceful fingers seemed vaguely familiar, but Ryan couldn’t imagine why. He stared at her buffed nails and the slim gold bands on her middle finger and thumb, trying to figure out where he’d seen those feminine details before.

“I’m sorry.” He swallowed, forcing himself to release his hold on her since she was standing perfectly still now.

His throat went thick, and he was suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that he hadn’t touched a woman in quite a long time. She smelled like something decadent and sweet—vanilla, maybe. And her sweater had been soft beneath his fingertips. So soft that an ache formed deep in his chest. He inhaled a ragged breath and nearly choked.

“I’m fine, but you plowed into me pretty hard. It’s okay. It’s...” she peeked up at him from between her hands “...you.”

Ryan frowned. “Me?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “You.”

Had they met before? Ryan would have remembered her. He was sure of it. She had a lovely bronze complexion, full lips and eyes the color of fine Southern bourbon.

But he’d been walking around in a fog for months now—looking without seeing. Existing without living.

“The diner,” he said as realization dawned. “You handed me my coffee before.”

Her lips curved into the smallest of smiles, and she nodded.

“It was very good, by the way.” What was he doing? Flirting?

No.

Definitely not.

Her eyes narrowed. Somewhere in their depths, Ryan spotted flecks of gold. “See, now you’re frowning again, so I don’t believe you.”

“I never lie about coffee,” he said solemnly.

She smiled again, and it sent a zing through his chest, quickly followed by a pang of guilt.

He had no business taking delight in making this beautiful woman smile. No business whatsoever. His life was a disaster, his wife was dead, and in the year since her accident, his son hadn’t uttered a word.

What would she think if she knew the ugly truth?

He didn’t want to know. “I’ve got to go.”

It came out sharper than he intended, and she flinched. But Ryan barely noticed, because he’d already begun to walk away.

Chapter Two

“Mr. Carter, I’m glad you stopped by. My teaching assistant is helping the kids pack up for the day, so we can chat for a few minutes until the bell rings.” Patty Matthews, Dillon’s teacher, shut the door of her classroom behind her and smiled up at Ryan as she stepped into the hallway.

Over her shoulder, he could see inside the room through the door’s long, slender window. The space was an explosion of color, from the brightly hued mats covering the floor to the cheery alphabet signs on the wall—A is for aardvark, B is for baboon, C is for camel and so on. The cartoon animals reminded Ryan of all the times he’d promised to take Dillon to the Smithsonian Zoo when they’d lived in Washington, DC.

Promises he’d broken.

He swallowed and forced his gaze back to his son’s teacher. “I got your message. Is something wrong?”

The teacher’s smile dimmed. “I wouldn’t necessarily say anything is wrong. Dillon is a sweet boy—very well behaved—and his mathematics level is advanced for his age, so I’m not at all concerned with his progress in that regard.”

Ryan nodded, sensing the but that was sure to come.

“But...” And there it was. “This afternoon in reading circle, he refused to read aloud when it was his turn. Did Dillon experience trouble reading at his previous school?”

Ryan’s gaze flitted to the classroom window again, where he could see Dillon sitting quietly as his desk, holding his favorite plastic dinosaur toy, while the students around him chatted and wiggled their backpacks onto their shoulders.

“As I explained when I met with the principal and registered Dillon for school, he’s had a difficult time since his mother’s death last year. He’s quiet.” Ryan cleared his throat. “Very quiet.”

“Yes, Principal Martin passed that information along to me. But I’m not sure we realized the extent of Dillon’s shyness. Exactly how quiet are we talking about?” Mrs. Matthews tilted her head and waited for Ryan to explain.

He probably should have made things clearer when Dillon started school at Spring Forest Elementary. Scratch that—he definitely should have done so. But he’d stopped short of telling the whole truth because he hadn’t wanted his boy to start off in a brand-new school with a label hanging over his head.

It had been the wrong call, obviously. Ryan should have seen this awkward conversation coming. He was a journalist, for God’s sake. Anticipating conflicts was part of what made him good at his job.

“Dillon won’t read aloud,” he finally said.

“Mr. Carter.” Mrs. Matthews lifted a brow. “Does Dillon speak at all?”

A heaviness came over Ryan all of a sudden, as if the simple act of standing required more energy than he could muster. “No, he doesn’t.”

The problem wasn’t physical. According to his pediatrician back in DC, it was just a temporary manifestation of grief. It wasn’t permanent.

It couldn’t be permanent.

“I see.” The teacher’s voice grew soft. Soothing. “It’s important for me to know exactly what’s going on so I can figure out how to best help your son.”

“Right. I’m sorry. I’d just hoped...” He’d hoped once Dillon was in a new place, with new people, he’d be ready to open up and start over. He’d hoped leaving behind the only home his son had ever known and bringing him to Spring Forest had been the right call. Most of all, he’d hoped that it wasn’t too late to be the kind of father Dillon needed.

The kind he deserved.

“I guess I thought he’d be happy here.” Even just a little bit.

“We’ll do our best to make sure he is,” she said, sounding far more certain than Ryan felt.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and glanced at the window one last time, only instead of catching another glimpse of the inside of the classroom, his gaze snagged on his own reflection in the polished glass. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago. He looked every bit as tired as he felt.

He also looked like a pompous jerk standing in the school hallway dressed in his overly formal bespoke suit and Hermès tie—a pompous jerk who had no idea how to help his own kid.

“I took him to see a therapist a few times before we moved here, and she said the most important thing we can give Dillon is patience. At home, I’ve removed all pressure for him to speak. As soon as he says a word, even if it’s just a whisper, I’m to offer him gentle encouragement. Other than that, I’m just supposed to let him know that I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. That’s the only concrete advice she could give me.”

Mrs. Matthews gave him a curt nod. “Then that’s what we’ll do here at school as well. From now on, I won’t call on him to read aloud. During reading circle, I can send him to the library where he can read quietly on his own so he won’t feel pressured in any way. And if I notice him whispering or speaking in class, I’ll be sure and reward him—nothing too over the top, so he won’t be singled out from the other kids. Maybe a sticker or a baseball card? Does this plan work for you?”

Ryan nodded. “It does. Thank you for your help. It means a lot.”

Dillon’s school in DC hadn’t been so accommodating. Ryan had considered homeschooling, but there was no way he could juggle that with his workload at the Post. Their only option had been a completely new start.

New town, new school, new life.

“Of course. If you wait here, I’ll tell him you’ve come to take him home. The bell will be ringing in just a few minutes.” The teacher turned toward the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “And Mr. Carter, try not to worry. We all want what’s best for Dillon. He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.”

Ryan nodded his thanks as a dullness spread throughout his chest, blossoming into a familiar regret.

He’s a lucky little boy to have a father like you.

If only that were true.

* * *

As soon as Amanda turned her red 1967 Chevy pickup onto Little Creek Road, dread tangled into a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. A third of the large oak trees along the old country road were down and the ones left standing had been stripped bare of their leaves. It looked like something straight out of a horror movie had come along and taken a machete to the forest, severing the top right off every white oak in sight.

Something horrific had come to their town, of course. The tornado that ravaged Spring Forest had touched down exactly a week ago.

Amanda had called to check on Bunny and Birdie the morning after the storm, so she really shouldn’t have been surprised by the extent of the damage. But hearing about it and seeing it were two entirely different things.

Her hands shook on the steering wheel as the memories of that awful night came back to her—the deafening roar as the twister spun down Main Street, the horrible way her apartment windows had rattled in their frames, the cool press of the bathtub’s porcelain against her cheek as she curled into a ball and did her best to ride out the storm. It was terrifying, and all in all, Spring Forest’s modest downtown area had fared pretty well. She couldn’t imagine how scared the Whitaker sisters must have been, not to mention the poor helpless animals in the shelter.

Her eyes filled with tears just thinking about it.

Get a grip. You’re fine. Everyone is fine.

Still, she’d feel better as soon as she got a glimpse of Tucker, her favorite dog at Furever Paws, and made sure he wasn’t traumatized. Not that she’d be able to tell, exactly. The little Chihuahua/dachshund mix—or chiweenie, as Birdie and Bunny liked to say—was notoriously standoffish. Amanda’s nickname for him was Grumpy. Which, now that she thought about it, would also be a suitable moniker for Ryan Carter.

Was it weird that she seemed to be attracted to cranky men and equally cranky dogs?

Probably. But at least she was consistent.

Consistently ridiculous. She maneuvered the truck into the shelter’s gravel parking lot, and rolled her eyes. So what if her tastes were a bit...odd? As she’d told Belle again and again, she didn’t have time for either a pet or a boyfriend, so it really didn’t matter how cranky the mysterious Mr. Carter could be. The grumpier, the better. If he looked right through her when she handed him his coffee, he’d be easier to ignore.

Except he hadn’t looked right through her on the street earlier. On the contrary, he’d focused on her with such blinding intensity it had made her head spin a little. For a minute, she’d thought he might be flirting with her. He’d even been charming, in a serious, formal sort of way.

I never lie about coffee.

Was she supposed to laugh at that? She had no idea. She only knew that all the butterflies in North Carolina had seemed to gather in her tummy at once, making her feel all fluttery and wonderful.

And then his hint of a smile had flattened into a straight line and he’d left before she could process what was happening. Perfect. Just perfect.

She climbed out of the truck and slammed the door a little harder than necessary. Why was she even thinking about Ryan Carter when Furever Paws was right in front of her looking seriously worse for wear?

The fence surrounding the property was flat on the ground, and the roof of the main shelter building looked as if the entire right side had been pried off with a can opener. The damage definitely looked worse than Birdie and Bunny had let on. Much, much worse. Even with good insurance, how long would it take before everything was fully restored?

As she stood surveying the destruction, she caught a glimpse of a gray flash out of the corner of her eye. She whipped her head around, but no longer saw anything. Just trees swaying in the breeze and branches scattered in every direction. She squinted, peering into the tree line. The other day, she could have sworn she saw a stray gray dog trotting past the window at the Grille. But when she’d gone outside to try to lure it indoors, it had been nowhere to be found. Sometimes she wondered if she was seeing things.

Amanda turned and held her breath, bracing herself as she pushed through the building’s glass double doors. Thankfully, the inside of the shelter seemed to have fared much better than the outside. Other than a few buckets placed strategically around the lobby to catch rainwater, things looked generally the same as they had when she’d shown up for her volunteer shift last week. Just damper, although the industrial-sized fan whirring in the corner seemed to be doing its best to dry things out.

“Afternoon, Amanda.” Hans Bennett, the shelter volunteer manning the front desk, waved and called out to her above the hum of the fan.

“Hi, Hans.” She waved back, and as she approached the counter, she spotted a kitten nestled in Hans’s lap.

Of course.

In the epic dogs versus cats question, the older gentleman was firmly on the side of the felines. Since he’d retired and doubled down on his volunteer hours at the shelter, he’d become a virtual hero every kitten season when the shelter was always bursting with frail, furry bodies that needed to be bottle-fed round the clock.

“Who’ve you got there?” she asked, nodding toward the little ginger tabby napping on Hans’s khakis.

“This here’s Lucille Ball.” He grinned and rubbed the tip of his pointer finger along the kitten’s tiny cheek.

“Lucille Ball? Cute. Let me guess—Birdie and Bunny let you name her.” Hans was nothing if not nostalgic for times gone by. He was the president of the Spring Forest Historical Society and had a thorough knowledge of the area’s involvement in the Underground Railroad back during the Civil War. Amanda couldn’t help having a soft spot for him.

“They did. As I’m sure you can tell, they’ve got their hands pretty full at the moment.” He cast a knowing glance at the ceiling.

Amanda followed his gaze and shook her head. “This is bad. Has the insurance company sent anyone out to take a look?”

Hans shrugged. “Not yet.”

That seemed strange. Seven days was a long time. Then again, the storm damage spread to Raleigh and beyond. The area insurance adjusters were probably working overtime. “Let’s hope they get someone out here soon. The shelter can’t go on like this indefinitely. Speaking of which, how’s Tucker? Have you seen him?”

“I have, and he’s as cantankerous as ever.” The older man rolled his eyes, then reached for the phone when it started to ring.

Amanda mouthed see you later as he launched into a conversation with someone who sounded like a potential pet parent. She breathed a little easier as she headed down the long hallway leading toward the kennel area. If Tucker was cranky, he was more than likely fine. If he’d become cuddly overnight, she’d really have something to worry about.

A few more carefully arranged buckets caught dripping water in the kennel area even though it wasn’t even raining outside, which didn’t bode well for whatever was going on in the attic. But Amanda couldn’t help but smile as all but one of the dogs darted to the front of their enclosures to greet her with yips and wagging tails.

“Hi, guys.” She greeted each pup by name until she reached the last kennel on the left, where the one holdout was tucked into a ball in the corner with his eyes closed and his head resting on his paws.

“Hello to you too, Grumpy.” She unlatched the door to Tucker’s enclosure, walked inside and crouched down in front of the stubborn little dog. “You’re not fooling me. I know you’re not asleep. Your paws always twitch when you nap for real.”

As if on cue, Tucker opened one disinterested eye.

Amanda reached into her pocket and pulled out a few crumbles of goat cheese—leftovers from her experimental puff pastry. She held them out in an open palm and whispered, “I brought you a present, but don’t tell the others.”

Tucker’s tiny nose twitched, then his other eye sprang open and he lifted his head. But in true grumpy form, he picked gently at the cheese instead of gulping it down like a normal stray dog would, as if he was doing her a favor by eating it.

“Why you’re my favorite is a mystery I’ll never understand,” Amanda muttered.

Then, much to her irritation, Ryan Carter’s perfectly irritable, perfectly handsome face popped into her consciousness. She sighed. Damn him, and damn his chiseled bone structure.

“You know what they say about women who are attracted to dark and brooding characters, don’t you?” a familiar voice behind her asked.

Amanda scooped Tucker into her arms and turned around to find Birdie Whitaker smiling blithely at her from the other side of the chain-link gate. “Hi, Birdie. And no, I don’t know that they say. But I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

Of course she was. Birdie never hesitated to speak her mind. “Scientists say it indicates a primal desire to find a strong, virile man who can give you lots of healthy babies.”

Amanda could feel tiny beads of sweat forming on her brow.

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” Beyond crazy. She didn’t have time for even one baby, much less a lot of them. “Besides, Tucker is a dog. Not a man.”

Ryan was a man, though. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, she was definitely attracted to him. But Birdie didn’t need to know that. No one did.

The older woman shrugged. “True, but you’re the only one who seems to appreciate his less-than-sparkling personality. Are you saying you wouldn’t like him if he were a human being?”

She held Tucker a little closer to her heart. “That’s not what I’m saying at all. But he’s not. He’s a dog, and I’m not ready for any children. Or a husband. So something about your scientific study must be flawed.”

“You’re probably right. What do they know? They’re just scientists.” Birdie bit back a smile. “Like Einstein and his ilk.”

Amanda rolled her eyes.

What had gotten into everyone? There hadn’t been this much interest in her nonexistent love life in...well...ever. “People are acting strange. I’m beginning to wonder if the storm blew in more than just the tornado.”

“The tornado was plenty. I think the storm might have rattled everyone.” Birdie looked around and sighed. “It sure rattled this old building.”

It had to be heartbreaking for Birdie to see the shelter in such bad shape. Neither she nor her sister had ever married. Bunny had been engaged once, years ago, but Birdie never talked about her past relationships. Every time the subject came up, she said her heart belonged to the animals at Furever Paws.

Amanda carried Tucker out of the kennel, shut the gate behind her and gave Birdie a hug with her free arm. “It’s going to be okay. As soon as the insurance money comes in, you can get someone out here to do repairs and everything will be as good as new.”

Ever stoic, Birdie nodded. “You’re right. This shelter has been here almost twenty years, and we’ve saved hundreds of animals, from dogs and cats to llamas and goats. It’s going to take more than a tornado to stop us.”

“Exactly.” Amanda nodded. “You and Bunny know I’ll help in any way I can, right?”

“Of course we do, dear.” Birdie’s gaze shifted to the dog in Amanda’s arms. “Are you going to walk that prickly little beast, or do you want to hear more about that scientific study I mentioned?”

“Nice try.” Amanda laughed. “But there’s a patch of grass with Tucker’s name on it outside.”

“See you later, sugar,” Birdie said in her Carolina drawl that Amanda knew so well, but when she smiled it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Amanda carried Tucker out back and didn’t set him down on the ground until they’d crossed the gravel lot and reached the sprawling emerald lawn that led to the old Victorian farmhouse where the Whitaker sisters had lived all their lives. Tucker didn’t like walking on gravel. Or dirt. Or pretty much anything other than soft grass. Amanda didn’t feel like playing tug-of-war with him on his leash today, so she indulged the dog once she’d put him down and let him drag her around the yard with his nose to the ground while she took in more damage from the storm.

There were a few more downed trees closer to Birdie and Bunny’s house, and the portable storage sheds behind the shelter had taken a beating. One of them was lying on its side, which probably meant that the dog food it housed had been ruined.

What a mess.

“It’ll be fine, though,” she said to Tucker. “No one got hurt. That’s the most important thing, right?”

It was like talking to a brick wall. The little dog completely ignored her, because of course he did.

Birdie was crazy if she thought that’s the kind of man Amanda wanted to end up with someday. It was one thing to willingly hang out with a standoffish dog, but marrying an actual person who acted in such a way would be insane. Take Ryan Carter, for instance. Just when he’d finally acknowledged her existence and complimented her coffee, he upped and switched back into his indifferent self and bolted. He’d practically sprinted away from her, right there on Main Street. It would have been mortifying, if she cared about how he treated her.

Which she absolutely did not.

Tucker cocked his head at her, and she must have been imagining things because she could have sworn he had a mocking little gleam in his eyes, as if he knew exactly what—or whom—she was thinking about.

She glared at him. “Don’t start.”

She needed to get him back to his kennel anyway, or else she wouldn’t have time to walk any of the other dogs before she had to return to the Grille for the dinner rush. So she scooped him into her arms and made her way back to the kennel area.

She didn’t mean to overhear Birdie and Bunny’s conversation. She really didn’t. They were speaking in such hushed tones that at first Amanda thought she was alone in the concrete room. But as she rounded the corner toward the row of enclosures where Tucker’s kennel was located, their soft, Southern drawls grew louder. More urgent.

“I don’t understand,” Bunny said. “Twenty thousand dollars? Out of our own pockets? We don’t have that kind of money.”

“We’ll just have get it somehow.” Birdie’s tone was flat. Determined.

She’d always been the more practical sister—a no-nonsense go-getter, while Bunny was more of a dreamer. Sweet as could be, but somewhat naive.

Bunny sighed. “But what about the insurance?”

Amanda cleared her throat. She needed to make her presence known before she heard something she shouldn’t. But the sisters didn’t seem to hear her, too caught up in their intense conversation.

“Oh Bunny, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Birdie’s voice cracked, and it was then that Amanda realized it was too late. Too late to interrupt. Too late to pretend she hadn’t just realized the shelter was in serious trouble. “We don’t have any insurance.”

Chapter Three

“We’re out of the pulled pork and hush puppies special,” Amanda poked her head into the dining room and announced.

“That was quick.” Belle glanced at her watch and sighed.

The Grille wasn’t scheduled to close for another two hours, and now they were down to one special—the pot roast. Slow-simmered in beef broth and smothered in onion gravy, it wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t nearly as good as the wine-based recipe Amanda had been experimenting with.

Last week she’d brought her newest creation along to Sunday dinner at her parents’ house and placed it on the table as if it were a foil-wrapped work of art, steeped in pinot noir and slender, woodsy porcini mushrooms. Her sister and brother-in-law had loved it, as had her brother, Josh. Even her nieces and nephews had given it glowing reviews. But she hadn’t been able to convince her parents that it should replace the pot roast recipe the Grille had been using for the past sixty-eight years. They’d gone on and on about tradition and down-home Southern cooking, as if she’d told them she wanted to start feeding the good people of Spring Forest foie gras. It was maddening.

Amanda was trying her best to be patient. Her mom, in particular, had been especially sensitive about changing anything at the Grille since Amanda’s grandmother passed away last year. The restaurant had become a sort of monument.

But it couldn’t stay the same forever, could it? If this was going to be Amanda’s life from here on out, she needed to be able to put her own stamp on it.

But tonight, for once, she hadn’t spent the better part of the dinner rush rewriting the Grille’s menu in her head. While she’d been busy taking tickets from Belle, calling out orders to the kitchen staff and plating one serving of pulled pork after another, her mind had been back at Furever Paws.

How was it possible that Birdie and Bunny didn’t have insurance? It didn’t make sense. Amanda was pretty sure their younger brother, Gator, took care of all the shelter’s business dealings. And Gator was a big shot investment banker or something like that. He lived in a fancy Antebellum-style mansion outside Durham, with huge white columns and a yard full of trees dripping with Spanish moss. The house was so grand it had been pictured in Southern Living a few years ago. With all of his business success, and the many investments he’d made over the years, surely he knew the importance of having property insurance.

Then again, it didn’t really matter why the shelter was uninsured. The most important thing now was finding the money elsewhere to fix the storm damage, and apparently it was going to cost twenty thousand dollars. Minimum.

She wiped her hands on a dish towel and headed to the dining room to correct the specials board with her head in a fog, trying to come up with a way to help that didn’t involve admitting to Birdie and Bunny she’d overheard their private conversation. But again, twenty thousand dollars was a lot of money. An enormous amount. If Amanda had that kind of cash just sitting around, she’d have already launched her dream catering add-on at the Grille. There was no way she could solve their problem on her own, and bringing in other people would mean sharing their secret.

At the moment, she had more pressing problems because no sooner had she climbed the step stool and swiped the eraser across the words pulled pork barbecue sandwich with hush puppies on the chalkboard hanging on the wall just to the right of the pie safe than someone behind her let out a sigh.

“Looks like I’m too late for the barbecue.”

Amanda turned to find Dr. Richard Jackson looking up at her with his arms crossed and a furrow in his brow.

“Sorry, Doc. We’re clean out.” Amanda stepped down until her feet were once again planted firmly on the Grille’s white-and-black-tiled floor. “You’re here a little later than usual, aren’t you?”

Dr. Jackson had become a regular at the Grille shortly after his wife passed away five years ago. Now he was almost like family and he usually showed up for dinner at six fifteen sharp, right after his veterinary practice closed up shop for the night.

He shrugged and did a little head tilt that made him look even more like Denzel Washington than he normally did. “I was out helping Birdie and Bunny with a sick llama.”

Amanda frowned. “Which one? Drama or Llama Bean?”

“Llama Bean.” He waved a hand. “Don’t worry—she’s going to be fine.”

“That was sweet of you.” Amanda lifted a brow.

Doc J was spending more and more time volunteering his services at Furever Paws, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was interested in one of the Whitaker sisters. She just couldn’t figure out which one. Then again, maybe the additional volunteering was only because his schedule wasn’t quite as packed as usual since his daughter, Lauren, was set to take over his practice at the end of the year.

But something about the twinkle in his eyes told her he was thinking about more than just a sick llama. “It was nothing, really. Just a mild ear infection.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure Birdie and Bunny really appreciate all you do for them. I was out there earlier today too. We must have just missed each other.”

“I guess we did. Did you see the storm damage? Such a shame.” The older man’s smile dimmed somewhat, but he still looked as handsome as ever. At sixty-seven, he was just a few years older than both Birdie and Bunny, who were ages sixty-four and sixty-three. He’d be a perfect match for either sister.

Not that she should be meddling in the Whitaker sisters’ personal lives, even though Birdie had most definitely taken an interest in Amanda’s.

“The roof needs some major repairs. I’m toying with the idea of throwing them a fundraiser. I’m just trying to get everything figured out before I talk to Birdie and Bunny about it.” She bit her lip. “I wonder how profitable a bake sale could be.”

Twenty thousand dollars translated into a massive amount of brownies and cupcakes, but so far it was the only thing she’d come up with.

“I’m sure every little bit would help.” Doc J cast a longing glance at the plateful of pulled pork on Belle’s tray as she shuffled past them. “But you might raise more money if you held a barbecue instead.”

He laughed. So did Amanda, until the wheels in her head starting turning.

She knew a lot of pit masters in the area. What if she could get a few of them together, all on the same day? They could make a real event of it. Maybe Birdie and Bunny could set up an adoption booth with some of the dogs and cats from the shelter. And maybe Amanda could ask some of the other local businesses to set up booths. She could organize a whole festival, all centered around a barbecue cook-off.

“I know you’re just kidding, but that might actually work. You’re a genius, Doc.” She beamed at him. “Tonight’s dinner is on me. Okay?”

“I’m not turning down a free dinner. Bring me whatever you recommend.” He winked and slid into a booth facing Main Street.

“One pot roast special, coming right up.” She turned toward the kitchen, mind reeling.

The more she thought about it, the more a barbecue cook-off seemed like the perfect idea for a fundraiser. Now she just needed to make some calls to the pit masters she knew—a few food truck operators in Raleigh, plus some of the college barbecue hangouts in Wilmington. Once she had at least three on board, she’d present the idea to Birdie and Bunny.

“You look awfully happy all of a sudden.” Belle looked up from assembling a to-go order on the sleek stainless steel counter just inside the kitchen’s swinging door. “Has anything in particular put that giddy expression on your face?”

“Maybe.” Amanda bit back a smile. Best not to say anything until she was certain she could pull it off.

“Since you’re in such a chipper mood, can you take these out front while I grab a pitcher of sweet tea?” Belle offered her two white paper bags, all sealed up and ready to go.

Amanda took them. “The last of the pulled pork, I presume?”

“Yes, they go to the father and son waiting by the register. He’s already paid.” Belle focused intently on the pitcher in her hands, almost as if she were afraid of dropping it. Which was something Belle never, ever did.

Odd.

But Amanda didn’t have time to figure out what was going on with Belle. They were still in the middle of the dinner rush, plus she might have a fundraiser to plan. “When you get a chance, Doc J needs an order of the pot roast. On the house.”

“I’m on it, boss,” Belle said, again without meeting her gaze.

Amanda shook her head as she pushed her way through the swinging door, but as soon as she was on the other side, the reason for Belle’s strange behavior was clear.

Ryan Carter stood waiting at the counter, presumably for the bags in Amanda’s hands. But unlike all the previous times he’d been to the Grille, he wasn’t alone. A little boy around five or six years old stood beside him, clutching a bright red dinosaur toy with one hand and Ryan’s big palm with the other. There was a sadness in the child’s eyes that made Amanda’s heart feel like it was being squeezed in a vise, a sadness that also made her think twice about the reasons behind Ryan’s ever-present scowl.

She smiled at the boy, and his gaze dropped quickly to the ground. So she had no choice but to focus on his father, standing just a few feet away and looking like the world’s most handsome single dad, scowl notwithstanding. She wished she had something to stare at other than his strong jaw and rugged face. She wished it so hard that her hands grew sweaty and the to-go bags nearly fell to the ground.

“You again.” She set the paper bags on the counter and without thinking, wiped her damp palms on her frilly gingham apron. Definitely not the most attractive move she could have made, but he’d caught her off guard. She could hardly think straight. Belle is totally fired. “Welcome back.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, as if he was trying his best to smile but had forgotten how. “Thank you. It’s good to see you. I’m glad you haven’t suffered any permanent injuries from our earlier run-in.”

He remembered her.

Finally.

Of course he remembers. He nearly mowed you down on the sidewalk. Don’t read too much into it. “Nope. I’m still all in one piece.”

“Good to know.”

Other than their awkward sidewalk collision, this was the closest Amanda had ever been to Ryan Carter. Since he hadn’t plowed into her this time, she was free to examine him without the distraction of an aching nose. He had the nicest eyes she’d ever seen—golden brown with a ring of deep amber in the center. Rich and pure, like Carolina honey drizzled on a biscuit.

She felt woozy all of a sudden, as if she’d been sipping the whiskey she kept on hand for her special bread pudding sauce.

“Well,” she said, and gestured to the bags.

That was his cue to leave. She much preferred crushing on the swoonworthy newspaperman from afar. Up close, he was far too intense. Far too dangerous, if the sudden pounding of her heart was any indication.

She wasn’t good at the whole flirting and dating thing. The one time she’d put herself out there and asked someone on a date, she’d been so nervous that she’d vomited on the boy’s feet immediately after she’d gotten the words out. It had been mortifying, obviously. Amanda still couldn’t bring herself to talk about it, even when Belle urged her to try to move past “the Sadie Hawkins incident.” It had become part of the town lore, and according to one of Amanda’s nieces, kids at Spring Forest High still talked about it.

No matter. Amanda had no intention of flirting with Ryan. The very idea of going on a date with the man terrified her, and she definitely didn’t have time for it, especially if she was going to put together a massive fundraiser on top of her already jam-packed schedule.

Just go away, she wanted to say. Go away and let me catch my breath.

She didn’t say it, of course. And he clearly wasn’t a mind reader because he didn’t budge. He just kept looking at her while her knees went weak.

Why is this so hard?

It wasn’t as if she’d never gone on a date before. She’d dated...a little. But she’d never had a serious relationship, mainly because she liked to keep men at arm’s length. As the only biracial woman in Spring Forest—other than her sister, obviously—dating could be complicated. She’d been called striking or told that her looks were unusual more times than she could count.

Oddly enough, her brother, Josh, didn’t seem to have that problem. Or maybe he simply didn’t let it get to him. All Amanda knew was that he dated all the time, which would have been a nightmare in and of itself. She wouldn’t be able to cope with Sadie Hawkins–type nerves on such a regular basis.

No. Way.

Maybe it would have been easier if she lived in a big city like Raleigh or Charlotte—somewhere more metropolitan. But her family had roots here. The Grille itself was a reminder that the Sylvesters had been in Spring Forest for generations. Amanda was happy in her hometown.

She just found it much simpler to go it alone.

Amanda gripped the edge of the counter and smiled at the little boy, who had the same striking eyes as his father. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

He tightened his grip on his triceratops until his little knuckles went white.

“This is Dillon,” Ryan said. “Barbecue is his favorite. I usually try to pick up our dinner on my way home, but thought he could use an outing, so here we are.”

Here they were indeed.

“Is that right? Is barbecue really your favorite?” She moved around the counter and crouched down so she was on eye level with Dillon.

Her effort earned her a nod and a tiny hint of a smile.

“Of course it is.” Ryan gave his son’s hand a squeeze, and there was a new tenderness in his tone that did nothing to help the weak-in-the-knees situation. “We never lie about barbecue, do we, bud?”

He’d mirrored his words from this afternoon.

I never lie about coffee.

Cute.

Way too cute. Adorable, actually.

“Hot dogs are the only thing I cook that he’s interested in eating. Even single fathers know kids can’t eat hot dogs seven nights a week.” Ryan’s smile turned sheepish.

Why did he seem even more attractive now that she knew he was a single dad? All he needed now was a puppy in his arms and she’d be a goner.

But the thought of puppies reminded her of Tucker, which in turn reminded her that she was supposed to be making calls to pit masters to help the shelter, not standing around mooning over her secret crush and his bashful mini-me.

She stood and nudged the paper bags closer to him. “I hope you enjoy it.”

He took the hint this time and reached for the food. “We will. Thank you...” His usual unreadable expression gave way to one of befuddlement—charming Hugh Grant–style befuddlement, because of course. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Amanda.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Belle refilling the coffeepot just a few feet away, looking pleased as punch. “Amanda Sylvester.”

He nodded. “Have a good evening, Amanda Sylvester.”

And then he was gone, only instead of walking down Main Street with his signature brisk pace and ramrod-straight spine, he matched his steps with Dillon’s and rested one of his big hands on the little boy’s shoulder.

Amanda’s heart gave a tiny squeeze.

She ignored it as best she could and swiveled to face Belle. “You did that on purpose. You knew I was distracted, so you caught me off guard and had me come out here to deliver his dinner.”

Belle grinned from ear to ear. “Of course I did, but look on the bright side. At least now you know he’s not married.”

Amanda almost wished she wasn’t privy to that fascinating bit of information. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, remember?”

Or, God forbid, a husband. While Amanda struggled in the small-town dating world, her sister married the first boy who’d ever asked her out. Alexis and Paul had gotten engaged right out of high school and look what had happened. She’d had six kids in eight years and no longer had time to brush her teeth, much less run a business.

No, thank you.

Amanda loved her nieces and nephews, but every time she babysat for them, the night ended in some kind of disaster. Under her watch, Alexis and Paul’s living room walls had been “decorated” in permanent marker and their toilet had been plugged up with stuffed animals. How was it easier to walk six dogs than it was to supervise the same number of rambunctious children?

“His son is awfully cute, though. Don’t you think?” Belle arched an eyebrow.

Yes, she definitely thought so. He had such a quiet way about him. So serious, just like his dad. Something about the way he’d held on so tightly to his red dinosaur made her want to cook up some comfort food for him. Macaroni and cheese, topped with a thick layer of toasted bread crumbs, maybe—followed by a creamy coconut pie. Her nieces and nephews loved her coconut pie.

She glanced at Belle who was watching her as if she knew exactly what Amanda was thinking.

“Stop looking at me like that.” She rolled her eyes, but Belle’s grin widened, so she added, “You’re fired again, by the way.”

Belle winked. “I think the words you’re looking for are thank you.”

* * *

“Look at that.” Ryan pointed his fork at the empty plate sitting in front of Dillon. “You ate every bite.”

His son nodded and smiled a crooked smile that hit Ryan dead in the center of his chest.

He hadn’t been flirting when he’d told Amanda Sylvester that barbecue was Dillon’s favorite food. It was the truth. He’d simply been carrying on a normal conversation. It didn’t have to mean anything, and it definitely didn’t have to mean that he found her attractive or that the gentle way she’d spoken to Dillon had made him feel oddly emotional for some reason.

Except he did find her attractive, and the soothing tone of her voice as she’d talked to his son had done something to him—something strange and calming. For a split second, his worries had slipped away and he’d felt like maybe, just maybe, everything would be okay. Which meant flirting with her hadn’t been meaningless, although he didn’t want to think about that right now. He wanted to enjoy the unexpected lightness he’d felt as he’d left the Main Street Grille. Hell, he would have bottled that feeling if he could.

“Want some of mine?” Ryan slid his plate toward Dillon.

The boy shook his head. His face and hands were sticky with barbecue sauce, as was the red dinosaur toy, which was now standing on the table, poised to strike at Dillon’s half-full glass of milk.

Ryan’s in-laws would have been horrified. Annabelle and Finch Brewster would never have allowed Dillon to bring a toy to the table, and the head shake would have been deemed wholly unacceptable.

Say “no, thank you.” Where are your manners, Dillon?

Ryan could practically hear the voice of Maggie’s mother in his head. No matter how many times he’d told Annabelle and Finch about what the child psychologist had recommended about not trying to force Dillon to speak, they continued to press him about please and thank you, yes sir and no ma’am.

It irritated Ryan to no end. He was doing everything he could to protect his son’s fragile emotional state, and whenever they were around, they sabotaged him at every turn. Sometimes he felt like it was intentional, like they were trying to prevent him from fully bonding with Dillon.

Surely that wasn’t true. Annabelle and Finch were Dillon’s grandparents, and in their own dysfunctional way, they loved him. Ryan did his best to chalk their misplaced interference up to grief. Maggie had been their only child.

But they were also lifelong members of the country club set, so their world revolved around appearances and social niceties. They’d liked Ryan better when he was a political editor at one of the most esteemed newspapers in the country instead of a journalistic one-man show in the Deep South. And sadly, they’d liked their grandson better back then too. They acted as if his refusal to talk was a form of rebellion. Couldn’t they see he was grieving?

“How about a movie before you wash up and get ready for bed? Lion King?” It was one of the few things Dillon liked better than barbecue. He knew every line and every song of the movie by heart, and sometimes Ryan liked to put it on just so he could watch his son’s lips move, mouthing the words—times like tonight, when happiness seemed almost close enough to touch.

Ryan didn’t want to think about Amanda’s part in making him feel that way. He just wanted to enjoy the faint stirring of hope before it slipped away. But as Dillon climbed down from his chair and carried his dinosaur to the den, Ryan’s new phone rang, punctuating the hopeful silence with a grating reminder that nothing had changed. Not yet anyway. A newsman couldn’t ignore a call. The Spring Forest Chronicle was a far cry from the Post, but Ryan was the editor-in-chief. He had a responsibility to his job, just like he had back in DC.

He glanced down at his cell, where Annabelle and Finch’s contact information lit up the small screen. Of course.

His thumb hovered over the green Accept button, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer the call. The conversation would be the same as it always was—awkward small talk, followed by a request to talk to Dillon. Once again, Ryan would have to admit that his son still wasn’t speaking.

No.

Just...

No.

Not tonight. He’d deal with Maggie’s parents later. For now, he’d watch a movie with his son, and if his thoughts wandered every so often to Amanda Sylvester, her bright smile and the subtle sprinkle of freckles across her rich complexion, then so be it.

Why fight it?

There was no harm in thinking about her when nothing whatsoever would come of it. Other than brief interactions at the Grille, he had no intention of seeing her again. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t. There was no room in his life whatsoever for a relationship—not even with a woman who made him want things he hadn’t even thought about in months...maybe even years. Things he wouldn’t, couldn’t have.

At least that’s what Ryan told himself as he followed Dillon into the other room and let the call roll to voice mail.

Chapter Four

“Tell me about the night the tornado came through.” Ryan’s pen was poised above the reporter’s notebook in the palm of his hand as he glanced back and forth between Birdie and Bunny Whitaker, waiting for a response.

The dishes from his barbecue dinner the night before were still sitting in the sink, right where he’d left them. He and Dillon had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the television somewhere around the point when a grown-up Simba reunited with Nala. Ryan had woken up this morning in a tangle of blankets with Dillon’s head on his shoulder, and he’d been reluctant to move, despite the nagging pain in his back. One of these days, he really needed to start sleeping in a bed again.

Back spasms aside, he’d let his son sleep as long as he could before finally relenting and waking him up for a quick bath and breakfast in time for school. It had been a good morning—the best in a long while. The dishes could wait.

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