“GABBY’S ONE SHARP COOKIE.” The beginnings of a smile teased the corner of Laurel’s wide mouth.
Her kissable mouth.
She picked up one of three teal balls of yarn on the bed and tossed it from one hand to the other. “She knew you didn’t approve of her reading my gossip magazines and she absconded with several copies.”
Holy smokes. She had. Mitch had been too distracted by Laurel to pick up on that.
“Welcome to Gabby’s teenage rebellion.” Laurel scooted away from the headboard and faced him squarely, crossing her legs at the ankles, her knitting discarded. “We all go through it.”
“You’re saying I’ll survive.” Would he also survive the Monroes being in Second Chance?
Laurel nodded. “You know Gabby’s not serious about any of those occupations.” Laurel placed a pillow in her lap and rested her elbows on it, as casual with Mitch as if he’d been one of her best girlfriends. “She isn’t going to hunt for rocks or take off one night to Nashville. She’s going to fly rockets to Mars or find a cure for cancer.”
The scary part was, Mitch agreed with his guest. His daughter had a curious streak. Point her in the right direction, and she’d accomplish anything she set her mind to. But she was also a gregarious child, easily distracted by the opportunity to be with people of any age.
And Laurel was the squirrel who was currently distracting Gabby. “Did you ask Odette to teach you how to knit?”
“In a roundabout way.” She plumped the pillow, unable to sit still.
“You’re bored,” he accused.
“Yes. I’m counting down the hours to my doctor’s appointment.” Laurel leaned forward, gaze focused on his face, clearly intrigued. “You know, when I was battling morning sickness you talked to me differently.”
Frustration clawed its way up his neck, given a leg up by a little bit of shame. “Let’s be honest...” Not completely honest. He wasn’t going to tell her he wanted to lean forward and kiss her sometimes. “I realize my daughter is going to leave Second Chance one day.” Hopefully, not at the end of this calendar year when Harlan’s protection ended. “But I’d like her to be happy and confident with who she is and how she dresses. When she looks at those magazines, she’s going to be comparing herself to color-corrected, touched-up photos and begin to think she’s lacking.”
“You don’t know that.” But Laurel frowned.
“I do. My ex-wife was never happy in her own body.” At the end of their marriage, she’d had a line of credit with a plastic surgeon as well as a personal shopper, aesthetician and physical trainer. He’d looked at Shannon but had been unable to see the woman he’d fallen in love with in law school. And she’d been unable to see the man disillusioned with the law and the trappings of wealth.
Mitch stripped off his gloves, pulling the cuffs around his palms and fingers so he could reuse them another day. He gathered the cleaning supplies, along with the basket of clean linens Gabby had left near the door.
“Counselor?”
Reluctantly, Mitch turned.
Her gaze was direct. Her eyes the soft blue of the paper stapled behind legal briefs. She had a little bit of makeup on, barely anything, really. She wore leggings and a tunic that covered everything appropriately. There was nothing come-hither about her appearance or the way she looked at him. Yet there was something about this woman that reached around logic and reality, that shook him to his core.
Attraction, his brain whispered, leading into thoughts of kisses.
Annoyance, he corrected stubbornly. She was the reason Shane was staying.
“Do you want some advice about teenage girls?” Laurel asked.
Mother of Pearl, no. “Do I have a choice?”
“Of course.” He didn’t trust her smile. “I can give you my thoughts today when it’s just you and me. Or we can talk tomorrow when you clean. With Gabby.”
Laurel would have made an excellent lawyer. She knew exactly how to box a person in.
“Some choice.” He mentally girded himself. “Hit me with it, then.”
“Go with the flow.” Her voice lowered, softened, became an echo of her famous sister’s. “What interests a newly minted preteen today probably won’t interest her tomorrow.”
“She’s got a crush on Zeke,” Mitch blurted.
“The ginger-haired cowboy downstairs?” Laurel went back to sparkling. “Two redheads. They’d make beautiful babies.”
Mitch gave Laurel a hard stare. “Gabby’s just a little girl.”
Her sparkle dimmed. “That was a joke, Counselor.”
“One that hit too close to home, Miss Laurel.” He felt like rolling his eyes. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel like leaving. He just stood there, juggling baskets and trying not to stare at her. The only thing he succeeded at was juggling baskets.
“I apologize for the redheaded baby remark. It was out of line.” There she went again, being admirably honest. “You have a crush on her, don’t you?”
“Who?” His eyes felt buggy.
“My sister.” Gone was her wide, friendly smile. In its place was a small, rueful thing. “I’ve caught you looking at me every once in a while. You must be thinking of Ashley. My sister has a great presence on-screen and off. Guys fall for her all the time.”
“I can assure you I don’t have a thing for a movie star.” He had a thing for Laurel. Made no sense on paper. Made no sense when he lay awake at night. Made no sense, period.
Laurel might have less outright charisma than her famous twin. But she glowed when something amused her. And that glow ignited something in his chest. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Something he couldn’t ignore.
But something he could refuse to act on.
“Since you’ll be leaving town soon—” he refused to give up hope “—I’d appreciate it if you’d avoid putting ideas in my daughter’s head,” Mitch said as unemotionally as he was able to. “If you’re bored, you should try that TV series with Wyatt Halford. I believe it’s streaming online.”
Laurel’s smile stiffened.
SHANE GUNNED THE snowmobile he regularly borrowed from Mitch up the mountainside between two reflector poles that marked a driveway.
His due diligence included finding out whatever he could about Grandpa Harlan from residents who’d sold to him. He knew about the nondisclosure agreements, but he couldn’t just sit around in the inn doing nothing. So he’d volunteered to deliver groceries. And it worked. Everyone he talked to let something slip.
Ahead, a figure stood on the narrow porch of a one-story log cabin, holding a shotgun. The weapon wasn’t trained on Shane, but it was held in a way that it could be raised at any moment if need be.
Shane shivered from a combination of cold and the sudden prickle of adrenaline. The snowmobile surged forward—had he done that? He overcorrected and slid diagonally to a hard stop against a wide snowbank.
The figure on the porch laughed. “Are you sure you should be out on that thing unsupervised?”
“Are you Phyllis?” Shane eyed the shotgun. It was old. The stock was cracked. Chances were it was not be loaded, but he wasn’t willing to bet on it.
“Folks around here call me Flip.” She changed the grip on her gun. She didn’t wear gloves. Her fingers were red from the cold. She didn’t seem to care.
Loaded. Definitely loaded.
“Mack sent me. I’ve got your groceries.”
Flip chuckled. There were deep age lines in her face and forehead. “Used to be a delivery boy was just that—a boy.”
“I’m helping out.” Mack ran the store and the garage. She had Zeke’s truck on a lift in her service bay and had been grateful when Shane offered a few weeks ago to be her delivery boy. It allowed her time on Zeke’s vehicle and Shane a chance to meet residents who didn’t live in the heart of town.
Flip moved toward the door. “You can help me out by bringing those groceries inside.”
Shane got off the snowmobile and opened the storage beneath the seat. “Potatoes. Celery. Canned carrots. Peppers and onions. I’d say you’re making stew.”
“Venison stew.” Flip opened the door. “You’d best get inside before you freeze to death. You Monroe boys never did have a lick of common sense.”
“You’ve known other Monroes?”
“Please. Don’t patronize me.” She and her shotgun disappeared inside.
“Right.” Shane carried the bag with her purchases.
Her cabin was warm and had paintings everywhere—hanging on the flat log walls, stacked on the floor and furniture. It smelled vaguely of turpentine.
He brought the groceries into the narrow galley kitchen, inching past an easel with a half-finished painting of a moonlit rose garden.
“Here.” Flip pressed a coffee mug into his hands. “Coffee with whiskey. That should warm you up.” She had limp grayish-brown hair, but sharp gray eyes that looked him up and down. “What are you? A poor Monroe relation? You can’t buy proper winter wear?”
“Something like that.” Shane had found early on that wearing his Nevada street clothes—slacks, polo shirt, serviceable jacket—got him entry into homes in Second Chance. And if the residents thought he was less of a threat because he didn’t have the common sense to at least buy snow boots, so be it. He’d suffer the twenty minutes or so it took to ride the snowmobile from the general store to a house, and then back again.
“I didn’t order wine.” Flip held up the bottle of white wine Shane had bought. “Or cheese and crackers.”
“It’s your bonus for letting me in the door.” Not everyone did. Shane removed his jacket and wandered the crowded, small living room, looking behind her paintings for photographs, trying not to think about how his toes stung from cold.
“You want to talk about Harlan.” Flip opened a can of kidney beans with a hand-crank opener. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? My friend Dori said you were heartbroken over your grandfather and looking for connections to the past.”
Shane sipped his coffee. She’d been liberal with the whiskey, but it did the trick, sending warmth radiating from his chest. He took several more sips before answering, “Grandpa Harlan was an all-or-nothing type of guy. When it came to his childhood, it was more like nothing.”
He’d taken all twelve grandchildren twice a year—camping, fishing, to the four corners of the United States. And when Shane was in high school, he’d taken him in. But he’d said nothing about his roots or where he’d grown up. And now Shane was sorry he’d never asked.
“Men of Harlan’s generation didn’t like to talk about their mamas or their upbringings.” Flip moved on to open another can. She wore baggy blue jeans and a beige sweatshirt stained with different paint colors. “It wasn’t considered manly.”
“Did you know him? Before he bought this place?”
“Yes.” Flip turned teary eyes his way. Not that she was broken up about Grandpa Harlan. She’d been chopping onions.
Shane set his coffee on the kitchen table, grabbed a tissue from a box on the windowsill and handed it to her. He washed his hands and relieved Flip of the knife. “I’ll dice your onions. You heat up the skillet.”
“First, grocery delivery and now kitchen service.” Flip tsk-tsked. “Am I supposed to tip you?”
“Nope.” He had a rhythm with the knife and didn’t look up. If she expected him to grill her, she was going to be disappointed. He’d found more success letting people guide the conversation.
“You have culinary skill.” Flip moved about the kitchen efficiently, adding oil to a deep frying pan and turning on the burner beneath it.
“My brother Camden is a chef.” But Shane was competitive enough to have learned a thing or two himself. A skill that impressed the ladies. He switched to mincing garlic.
They cooked together, making small talk about the weather and the residents Shane had met so far. Shane opened the wine and poured them each a glass, biding his time. When the meat and smaller vegetables were browned, Flip put everything in a pressure cooker and stared at Shane.
“I sold to your grandfather because I don’t have children.” Her words lacked their initial sharpness. “My husband and I...” She gave herself a little shake. “I have no regrets. And you...”
“I have regrets,” Shane admitted. “I wish I would have gotten to know my grandfather better. I mean, I knew him. I just...didn’t know about Second Chance.”
Flip nodded. “I was going to say you should talk to Gertie Clark over at the Bucking Bull.” She stared into her wineglass. “She knew your grandfather better than most.”
“You think she’ll talk to me?” More than the other residents had?
“She used to be quite a talker.” Flip took a generous sip of wine. “And the Clarks didn’t sell to Harlan.”
Meaning they wouldn’t have signed a nondisclosure agreement. Shane fidgeted in his seat, eager to take action. He’d seen the turn to the ranch and its closed cattle gate.
“You should talk to Gertie,” Flip said again, sounding more like her prickly self. “But you’ll have to get Franny Clark’s permission first. Which you won’t.” She gave a little cackle.
“Why not?”
“Because...” Flip laughed some more, ruefully this time, never finishing her thought.