Chapter Eight

Hannah…

My statement hangs in the air, and to Roarke’s good credit, he bites back a reply, or maybe Jason just beats him to it. The two men share a look and Jason snorts. “A dream come true,” he replies dryly. “Come on, Hannah, this is Roarke and me you’re talking to. We’ve had our share of crap at the ranch. No one dreams of a festival in Sweetwater, especially when they grew up in Sweetwater. I call foul.”

I ignore Roarke’s burning stare to my right and scowl at Jason. “They do when that festival is high-profile and can launch their new business,” I say. “So you strikeout on that call of foul.”

He laughs. “You can’t strikeout on a foul.”

“I didn’t say you were striking out on a foul,” I counter. “I said your call of foul was a strikeout. Or perhaps you’d rather me just say wrong. It was wrong.”

He laughs all over again. “You still got that quick mouth, don’t you?”

“I was thinking the same of you,” I retort, without missing a breath.

Two waiters appear with the bread to be dispersed, saving me from further battle but not from the man sitting next to me, not from Roarke. The truth is, over the past few years, it’s become pretty clear that where Roarke is concerned, I can’t be saved. Every man is compared to him, and considering what he did to me, they should win, but they never do. Maybe it’s time that I stop trying to be saved. Maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I need to just accept the past as exactly that: the past, and then leave it there instead of using it to define the future.

As if he’s just heard that thought, Roarke leans in close, his voice low, for my ears only. “Sweetwater misses you.”

Sweetwater misses me. I hate that I want that to mean that he misses me, and even if it does, I remind myself that it doesn’t mean much. We all feel nostalgia at times, and as for Roarke and me, we’re a part of that town, a piece of each other’s history. We were all friends, a part of a small community, an extended family, that in the case of Roarke and me, became so much more, too much more. “It’s been a long time,” I say softly, daring to look at him. “It’s exciting to see the town come to life in new and exciting ways.”

“It needs new life,” he says. “After an extended drought, the locals are hurting. We need to help them, and we need you to help us do that. We have good ideas about the camp and the festival, but we’re stretched too thin to realize our potential. And that doesn’t just mean the town’s potential. It means the potential of the kids attending the camp. We’re going to help those kids face their fears.”

My brow furrows. “I thought you were helping them chase their dreams?”

“Fear is the primary reason that people don’t chase their dreams. You were meant for this project. Not only are you from Sweetwater, trusted by all of us, but fear didn’t hold you back. You got on a plane and went to L.A. You were brave. You chased your dreams.”

He thinks I was brave? Is he really that clueless, that checked out of how badly we ended? I got on a plane because I was running from heartache he created, and even now, just thinking about the moment I stepped on the plane guts me. “It wasn’t easy to leave,” I whisper, reaching for my wine, but my hand doesn’t make it to the glass. Roarke catches it, and I might as well have fire searing my skin. Shock and heat rush through me, and I jerk my stare to his. “Roarke,” I whisper, tugging at my hand.

He holds it easily. “This town and every kid in it, they’re us, Han,” he says softly, using his old nickname for me. “They have the world at their fingertips, and we can show it to them. Sweetwater turned out pretty well for all of us. It can for them, too. Don’t let what happened between you and me stop you from being a part of this.”

In other words, he does know how broken I was when I left. I pull my hand from his, and this time, he lets me. “Some might say that leaving Sweetwater is what made it all turn out for us. I left. You left. You traveled the world. You still do.” It’s out before I can stop it, an accusation in those words, my knowledge of his history that didn’t include me. He left all right, and that path never led him to me. He never came for me. He didn’t fight for me.

He leans closer. “It’s not that simple. You know it. I know it.”

“They both travel too much,” Jessica agrees, “but no worries there, Hannah.”

With my name, I lean back in my seat and as far away from Roarke as possible. “We do need them for the festival,” I say, following where she’s leading, eager to redirect the conversation to work.

“They both cleared their schedules until the camp sessions are done for the year,” she assures me. “Of course, Roarke does have emergency medical care he provides, but we’ll work around that. The animals come first.”

“It’s off-season for me,” Jason brags. “The team is backing the program, and with the recent good fortune of all involved, all of the proceeds are now going to the children’s hospital.”

This perks me up and excites me. Not only is it a great way to market the festival, it’s an amazing project to take part in. I reach for my wine again and begin eagerly asking questions.

“When does camp start?” I ask as we pin down details on who I should speak with for support at the charity itself.

“We have several camps planned,” Jason says. “The first is three weeks in November. The second is two weeks in December.”

“And two weekend camps in between the other two,” Roarke adds.

“We can’t really launch the camp with a festival in two weeks,” I worry, setting my fork that I barely remember picking up back down.

“We had the idea of the festival come about a bit late,” Jessica concedes. “We’re aware of the timeline challenges.”

“It’s a challenge,” Jason says, “but I heard Roarke explain the economic situation in the town. We need to make this happen now and in the future. Our hope is that the festival can become more of an annual event than just a camp launch.”

No one understands the struggle to survive in a small town more than my family who didn’t, in fact, survive. I already wanted to help, but my eagerness just notched up higher. “If we do this November first,” I say, “we won’t be able to do it right.”

“Which is why, as I mentioned at the field, we’re thinking about a Christmas festival on December first with the launch of the second camp,” Jessica replies. “Unfortunately, this is an idea we came up with so late in the game that we couldn’t announce it at today’s event.”

“Two days ago,” Roarke says dryly. “And the only thing we know for sure is there will be cookies.” He lifts his wineglass. “To the new cookie empire that’s already creating jobs in Sweetwater even before the camp and festival. We have Jessica to thank for that.”

Jason and I follow suit and lift our glasses. “Ironically,” Jessica says, lifting her own glass, “we have my jerk of an ex to thank for that,” she says. “Had he not cheated with his secretary, I wouldn’t have left my law career behind and taken a sabbatical in Sweetwater.” She laughs, and one by one, she clinks her glass to ours. “To lousy exes who lead us to bigger, better, and sweeter places.” She turns her gaze to Jason. “Like you.”

The two of them huddle up, and I just sit there watching them, refusing to look at my ex. My ex who isn’t lousy. He’s a good guy. He saves animals. Animals love him. He just didn’t love me. I down my wine and set down my glass.

“Hannah,” he says, easing closer. “Let’s go take a walk.”

Thankfully, the doors to our private dining area open and the first of our food arrives. My hero this night isn’t a man saving me from heartache. It’s a side salad, but even it wants more. It’s begging for dressing, which is set beside me before the waiter, strategically it seems, steps between me and Roarke to fill my now-empty wineglass. He’s given me space to breathe, and I change my mind in that moment. A man is my hero tonight, and per the tag on his shirt, that hero’s name is Ralph. I think I love Ralph right up until the moment he leaves, but I’m strategic as well.

I pick up my fork and shove a big bite of salad in my mouth, only to realize that Ralph’s hero skills do not include replacing glasses in proper places. My glass is right at my elbow, and it’s too late to stop what comes next. It tumbles in Roarke’s direction. I drop my fork and reach for it, but I end up catching it too late. Roarke turned to grab it as well and, in doing so, made the glass in my hand a target. I try to pull it upright, but the wine splashes forward and all over him, almost as if I’d intended to throw it at him.