Willowleaf Lane. RaeAnne Thayne

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      Peyton. Peyton. Why hadn’t she figured it out? That’s why the name had seemed familiar—somewhere in the recesses of her brain, in the file marked Spencer Gregory that she had purposely buried as deeply as she could over the years, she suddenly remembered Spence had a twelve-year-old daughter. Named Peyton.

      And the said Peyton had just mentioned that her father had taken a job in Hope’s Crossing and they were moving to town.

      Oh. My. Fudge.

      Spencer Gregory, the only person on the planet she could honestly say she despised, was back in Hope’s Crossing. Permanently.

      Why on earth hadn’t anybody bothered to tell her this particular juicy rumor? She had to think that, by some miracle, the news hadn’t made the rounds yet. Otherwise it would have been the topic of conversation everywhere she went.

      The bag with its silvery Sugar Rush logo still lay on the countertop. She picked it up and held it out.

      “Here you go,” she said to Peyton. Her voice came out cold and small and she widened her smile to compensate.

      “Um. Thanks. Thanks a lot.” The girl finally reached out and grabbed it and shoved it into her messenger bag.

      “How much does she owe you?” Spence reached into his wallet with what one of the women’s magazines had once declared the sexiest smile in sports.

      If she had known Spence Gregory would be eating some of her fudge, she might have had second thoughts about tossing it around indiscriminately.

      “She said I didn’t owe her anything. It’s a gift to welcome us to town,” Peyton stated.

      Spence looked just as stunned by the gesture as his daughter had. “Wow. Thanks.”

      He should be astonished. Charlotte sincerely doubted anybody in town would be standing with open arms to welcome back their native son. As far as many people were concerned, Spence Gregory had taken the clean, charming image of Hope’s Crossing and, as her brothers might have said, hawked a loogie all over it.

      “Wow. Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

      “You’re welcome,” she lied gruffly.

      His smile deepened as he gazed at her without a trace of recognition. There was a certain light in those hazel eyes, something bright and warm and almost...appreciative.

      The nerves in her stomach sizzled. Oh, how she would have loved to be the recipient of that kind of look from him when she was fifteen. Back then—okay, even as recently as a year ago—she never would have dreamed it was ever within the realm of possibility.

      Instead of making her giddy, having Spence Gregory smile at her now, after all this time, only infuriated her.

      She deliberately turned away from him to his daughter. “Peyton, come back anytime. I’ll see what I can do about the cinnamon fudge.”

      The girl gave her a hesitant smile that meant far more than her father’s well-practiced one. As she did, Charlotte became aware that the browsing couple that had been in her store for what felt like hours was in the middle of a whispered argument.

      Finally the husband stepped forward. “You’re Smoke Gregory, aren’t you?”

      Spence stiffened, his friendly smile melting away. “Yeah,” he said tersely.

      “I knew it. Didn’t I tell you I knew it?” he crowed to his wife. “And you said he wouldn’t dare show his face in public!”

      “Darwin, hush!” she said, her face turning scarlet.

      Spence had gone completely rigid, a hard, solid block of granite in the middle of her store.

      “Well, I just want you to know, we’re big baseball fans. We love the Pioneers. We live in Pendleton and drove to Portland several times just to watch you play.”

      “Did you?”

      “Yeah. You were a darn good ballplayer. Shame about everything else.”

      “Isn’t it?” he bit out.

      “And for what it’s worth,” the woman said, her face still red, “we don’t think you killed your wife.”

      Charlotte could only stare at the couple, appalled, as what little color was left in Peyton’s pale features seeped away like spring runoff.

      Fury sparked in Spence’s gaze and Charlotte shivered at the heat of it. He placed a big hand on Peyton’s shoulder, who went taut.

      “Good to know,” he said coldly.

      “Could we have your autograph?” the woman asked in a rush. “Our grandson followed your whole career. Had a poster on his bedroom wall and everything, right up until...” Her voice trailed off at something she saw in Spence’s dark features.

      After a moment, he seemed to take a deep breath. He lifted his hand from Peyton’s shoulder. To Charlotte’s astonishment, he managed to look almost calm.

      “Do you have anything for me to sign?”

      After an awkward pause, the husband of the couple grabbed one of Charlotte’s printed Sugar Rush napkins and thrust it at him, along with one of the pens she kept by the register in a pretty beaded canister she had made.

      Spence used the countertop to sign the napkin with a flourish. From her vantage point, she managed to read the message upside down. Generic and succinct. Best wishes. Spencer Gregory. Along with the number forty-two he had famously worn through more than a decade as a starting pitcher for the Portland Pioneers.

      The wife gripped the napkin and Charlotte realized they had dropped all their purchases atop a bin full of root beer barrels. They left the store without buying anything, leaving behind a vast, echoing silence in the store.

      Charlotte never expected she would have a moment’s sympathy for Spence Gregory, not after everything, but in light of that painful encounter, she couldn’t help a little tingle of dismay. Was it like that for him everywhere he went?

      “Are you ready to go?” he asked his daughter.

      She nodded and headed for the door.

      “Thanks again,” Spence said. He cocked his head, his gaze narrowed. “You look familiar. I have a feeling I’m going to be saying that a lot now I’m back in Hope’s Crossing. Did I know you when I lived here before?”

      For a horrifying moment, Charlotte didn’t know how to answer him. He didn’t recognize her. How could she tell him they’d sat across from each other a couple nights a week at her dad’s café for years? That she spent night after night helping him with his English homework?

      That he had once broken her heart into a million tiny glass shards?

      She had to say something, even though she knew perfectly well what his reaction would be.

      “Yes,” she muttered.

      He scrutinized her harder, obviously trying to place her. СКАЧАТЬ