His Rebel Heart. Amber Leigh Williams

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СКАЧАТЬ a seventeen-year-old, Adrian had been built like a waif. Not too thin but with more angles than curves. As James watched her retreat from him yesterday in puzzlement, his eyes had latched onto the line of her hips, more rounded now in womanhood. He’d wanted nothing more than to chase after her, place his hands on either side of her waist and soothe the stark, white panic he’d seen on her face.

      Clearly, he hadn’t left things well between them, but James had known that before he encountered her on his front porch. The thought of Adrian had troubled him deeply as he skipped town all those years ago. It didn’t matter that he’d been doing the right thing at the time. The right thing for her, at least. But he couldn’t understand the sheer level of terror that confronting him again had obviously caused her. Anger would have been a great deal more justified and characteristic of the Adrian he’d known. But fear? James couldn’t make sense of that.

      He needed to make sure she was okay. Hell, he needed to know how life had treated her. When he decided coming back to Fairhope was the right decision, he’d thought of her, of course. Though he’d figured there was little chance she’d still be living here. Fairhope had seemed far too small a town for both of their wild teenage selves. As they grew to know each other over the course of that summer, one of the commonalities that had struck a fast bond between them was the mutual desire to one day put as much distance as possible between their hometown—and the people in it—and themselves.

      Thinking about the firebrand version of Adrian he’d known back then, James caught himself smiling. He scraped the back of his middle and index fingers over his mouth to chase it away and turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle.

      Sunshine shot off the black hood of the car. James squinted as the light beamed into his eyes, raising a hand to his brow to shield them as he watched the 1969 Camaro Z28 with white racing stripes pull into the parking lot. He let out a low whistle. “Nice car,” he called as he walked from the garage to greet the man who unfolded himself from the driver’s seat.

      “Thanks.” The visitor appeared to be in his midthirties with dark hair growing over the collar of his black business suit. As he approached James, he stood tall and straight. “That’s a nice Shelby GT350 over there. You wouldn’t by any chance mind a stranger taking her off your hands, would you?”

      James cracked a smile. He looked over at the Shelby, reaching back to scratch his neck. “Sorry. She’s got sentimental value.”

      “That’s a damn shame.” The man offered a hand and shook James’s in a firm grip. “Byron Strong. I heard someone bought ol’ Cy Witmore’s place and had to come by to see for myself.”

      “James Bracken,” James greeted him. “I take it you were one of Witmore’s customers?”

      “Since I moved over from Mobile several years ago.” Byron nodded. “Every once in a while, he’d let me help out around the place. Not that I’m a certified mechanic or anything.”

      “No kidding,” James said. “My dad and I used to come up here when I was a kid and hang out with Witmore. But this was back when he kept glass bottles of Coca-Cola to sell to his customers and his old coon dog, Scout, was still loping around after him. You lookin’ for a job? I could use a tow truck driver.”

      Byron lifted a shoulder. “My day job keeps me busy enough. I’m an accountant. The other reason I came by is because my sister, Priscilla Grimsby, is a reporter for the local newspaper. She has a business column. I thought you’d like to get in touch with her, see what kind of publicity the two of you can generate for this place. I’d sure like to see it do well again.”

      James took the business card with Byron’s sister’s name and number on it. “I appreciate it.” He scanned Byron’s face. “You play any poker, Byron?”

      A smile wore into the corners of Byron’s mouth as he relaxed his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. “When the occasion strikes.”

      “I just got back into town,” James admitted. “When I get settled in, we should get a game together so that I can repay you for this...” he lifted the card, then gestured to the Camaro “...and for letting me take a peek under your hood.”

      Byron considered for a moment before his smile widened. “Sounds fair.”

      Byron even went a step further and let James fire the Camaro up. He revved the Z28 and listened to the ponies work, impressed. The two of them drooled over the engine for a while. Byron obviously knew his way around one. It was no wonder ol’ Witmore had let him hang around occasionally.

      It wasn’t until Byron closed the hood and stepped back toward the open driver’s door of the Camaro that he said, “There’s already some talk about you in town, you know.”

      “Huh.” James could imagine what residents were saying about him. Eventually talk would lead back to those ghosts of his who still lived and thrived. Not just Adrian, but also his mother. His stepfather. James fought off the shadow that thoughts of his relatives brought about. “Word of mouth’s as good promotion as any.”

      “True,” Byron acknowledged. “Word is you were the town riot back in the day.”

      “I’ll go out on a limb and say that everything you’ve heard is true.”

      Byron leaned against the driver’s door and raised a brow. “Even the joyriding?”

      “Maybe. Why?”

      Byron grinned. “I’m just wondering if I need to be worried about my ride here.”

      James laughed despite himself. “If I’m gonna take your Camaro, Strong, it’ll be in a hand of poker, along with most of your earnings.”

      Byron chuckled. “For what’s it worth, welcome back to town. And call the number on the card. Let Priscilla fix you up.” He gazed over the hood of his car at the garage. “This place deserves a second chance.”

      James stood back as Byron folded himself back into the driver’s seat of the Chevy.

      “Anything else I can do, you’ll let me know,” Byron asserted, rolling down the driver’s window.

      James frowned. “Actually...how long did you say you’ve been here?”

      “In Fairhope?” Byron reached up to scratch his forehead. “Going on three years.”

      “You wouldn’t happen to know the Carltons?” James ventured.

      Byron thought for a moment. “You mean Van and Edith?”

      James’s pulse jerked at the mention of Adrian’s parents. “That’s them. More to the point, it’s their daughter I’m wondering about.”

      “Adrian,” Byron said and nodded. “Yeah. I know her. Pretty well, as a matter of fact.”

      With a frown, James wondered what the man meant by pretty well. He cleared his throat. “I just moved in next door to her. Do you know where she works?”

      “Oh, yeah,” Byron said. “She owns that little flower shop on the bay, a few blocks from where she lives. Next to Hanna’s Inn. You know it?”

      Years ago the proprietor of Hanna’s Inn, Hanna Browning, had been close friends with James’s mother. “I do. So Adrian’s a florist now?”

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