Keep On Loving You. Christie Ridgway
the upmarket appliances and their functions.
He set the bags on the island and peered into them. “Uh...”
“I’ll put the things away,” she offered. His privilege probably meant he didn’t know if canned soup belonged in the pantry or the refrigerator. “I am at the correct house, right? This is Zan Elliott’s place?”
“Yeah.” Ash ran his hand through his hair, rumpling the golden-blond waves. “He’s taking a shower. But he knows his friend—Mac, isn’t it?—was sending someone by with groceries.”
“That’s me...not Mac, but the someone with the groceries.”
He smiled, a dimple digging deep in his cheek. Outside, the rain began in earnest, coming down in sheets.
Ash’s dimple. Heavy rain.
It only needed a flat tire to cap out a really crappy day.
“How have you been?” Ash said, as she moved toward the pantry, the soup and a box of crackers in her hands.
“Um, fine.” Small talk? After what had happened that night he wanted to chat?
“I’ve been fine, too—though I’ve thought about you again and again, hoping I didn’t leave you with a bad impression.”
Her head whipped around. “What?”
“I didn’t even wake up to say goodbye.”
It was actually she who’d left without a word while he was sleeping, sneaking out to do the Walk of Shame at dawn—and boy, had she been ashamed. Of course, there had been no getting away from her own conscience, but once the hotel door had locked behind her, second thoughts had been useless.
“No big deal,” she said.
“I wished I’d found a minute to make contact before I left.”
“You had a plane to catch that morning.”
“Yeah.” Once she returned to the bags, he spoke again. “But I also wasn’t my best the night before.”
As if she’d been a saint.
“I don’t...” He cleared his throat. “After a certain point I don’t really remember too much about it.”
Now she turned her head to stare at him. Could it be true?
His hands dived into his pockets and he hunched his shoulders, appearing as uncomfortable as a rich, handsome young man with the world at his feet could look. “Possibly it was that last bottle of champagne I ordered from room service.”
As she continued staring, he shrugged.
“I don’t recall paying for it. I only know I must have seriously overtipped the server who delivered it.”
A new surge of heat rushed up her neck. “I should have—”
“Nothing’s your fault,” he said quickly. “It’s just...it was a great night and I feel like I let it end on a sour note.”
Swallowing, Tilda made herself return her attention to the items in the bags. Her hand found the carton of eggs. “It doesn’t matter. That was a long time ago.”
And then Ash was at her back. She turned, to see that all the awkwardness had fallen away. He looked rich and smart and...confident. Smiling, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
The touch pierced skin, bone, marrow. She froze.
“I planned to find you, you know,” he said. “It’s a good omen that you appeared on the doorstep my first full day back in Blue Arrow Lake.”
Her eyes rounded. “You’re staying here?”
“For a few weeks. Then I’m off to England.”
“You were in Europe before.”
He nodded. “All over it, all over everywhere, actually. After my internship ended, I caught up with Zan Elliott and worked with him and a documentary crew for a couple months. But I’ve got a job in London waiting for me.”
He had a job in London waiting for him.
There were some toilets waiting for her and a scrub brush.
She decided to abandon the rest of the groceries and get on with her life. Ash or this Zan character could figure out what to do with the rest. “I’ve got to go.”
“Not yet.”
She was bound by his words, by her memories, by guilt over what she’d done and why she’d done it. Her mouth dried. “What?”
“You’ve got to let me make it up to you.”
Him make it up to her? She’d wronged him in ways she hoped he’d never discover. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Another night together.” His smile flashed, so disarming it was dangerous. “Just a date, Tilda. To get to know you better.”
Meaning, I’m not expecting you to jump back into the sack with me.
Yeah, that dangerous, because didn’t every woman—particularly one like Tilda—hope to find a man just like Ash Robbins who wanted to get to know her better...and not just get her into bed?
But truly, he wouldn’t at all appreciate what he’d find out about Tilda.
He had a job in London. She had a job cleaning litter boxes and kitchen sinks.
Even if they could forget about that one night they’d already shared—and she could not—the divide between them was much too wide.
* * *
MAC LOVED HER small office situated on a side street just off the main road that bisected the village of Blue Arrow Lake. It wasn’t much, primarily a main room divided by a counter between the entry door and her desk. Behind the central space was a large closet that held supplies, a small restroom and a back door that led to a tiny courtyard. That was a fine place to grab some lunch in good weather.
Sometimes she felt a bit embarrassed by the pride she felt sitting at the secondhand desk she’d found at a local thrift shop. But growing up, on rainy and snowy days her sister Shay had played school, Poppy had played with dolls and Mac had imagined herself in command of schedules and a staff.
You always were a bossy little thing.
What Zan had said was true, but her drive to own her own business was likely less to do with her temperament than to an early memory. When she was little, she’d been in line at the bank with her mother when Miss Cherie, the owner of the local beauty shop, had come in to stand behind them.
“A good week?” her mom had said, nodding at the money pouch the other woman carried.
“Very good,” Miss Cherie had said, hefting the bulging zippered bag.
When Miss Cherie had stepped up to the teller beside the one helping her mother, Mac’s eyes had gone wide at the stacks of money and checks she withdrew from the pouch. How much could the total have been? she wondered now. A few hundred dollars, she supposed.
It had looked like the contents of a leprechaun’s pot of gold to one of the Walker family, whose finances had always been precarious.
So she loved being in charge of her own bottom line as well as being in charge of herself.
On the one hand, she was single and alone. On the other, she had her well-valued independence.
The front door pushed open and Tilda Smith came inside. You had to love the girl—not just because she was an eager employee, never saying no to extra hours or extras tasks, but also because she was a by-her-bootstraps kind of person. She’d been raised by a single mom who’d scraped by as a barmaid at various establishments—a single mom who hadn’t always made the best emotional choices for herself. At the woman’s sudden death several months before, Tilda had kept on marching, though, moving into