A Kiss to Build a Dream On (9 page)

B
urk steered the truck into town knowing he'd been too hard on Willa, just like he'd been too hard on Anna a few days before. He had to find a way to back off and be nicer, even though “nice” wasn't really in his wheelhouse. Being determined, professional, hardworking—those things were no problem for him. Nice was a little harder, unless it was directed toward Juniper, who was so tiny and wide-eyed it was impossible not to want to hand her the whole world wrapped up with a bow. But if he expected his plan to work, then he needed to start catching more flies with honey.

Which meant that showing Willa how to paint furniture was actually a brilliant idea. He should have thought of it himself, really. Because when Willa started crying at the first broken nail or paint splotch on her designer jeans, he'd use it to remind her that this wasn't the way of life she really wanted. It would be more proof that this house wasn't for her.

The truck coasted down the gentle hill toward the river, then turned right onto Main Street. The sun was just cresting over the tops of the buildings, warming the red brick and glittering on the Birch River. Overstuffed scarecrows and fat, orange pumpkins graced the windows of the downtown shops. Burk glimpsed a sign advertising hay rides, and figured it must be Red Updike, who owned a farm a few miles outside of town. Every year, Red made a corn maze. Last season, he'd carved a path through the rattling stalks in the shape of the
Millennium Falcon
from
Star Wars
. Burk had walked through that maze. Twice.

A flap of a black coat caught his eye, and he glimpsed Randall Sondheim ducking into the Rolling Pin Bakery for his weekly donut. The pastor of the local Lutheran church had moved to White Pine a few years ago from the cold, flat plains of Minnesota's Iron Range. He was devout and stony—but he allowed himself a donut once every Wednesday.

Burk liked him enormously.

Next to him, Willa yawned. “I forgot to make the coffee this morning. You think the Paul Bunyan Diner will give me some to go?”

Burk could smell the scents from the Rolling Pin even through the closed windows. His stomach growled. “They probably would, but the Rolling Pin has better coffee. We should go there.”

Without waiting for an answer, Burk pulled up behind Sondheim's sturdy Buick. “Come on,” he said, “the first cruller is on me.”

Willa tried not to think about how Burk's shoulder was brushing against hers as they stood in line at the Rolling Pin. She could feel the corded hardness, even through their jackets. And even over all the yeasty baking she could still smell Burk—like an evergreen forest with a twist of orange. She licked her lips, suddenly wanting to taste him as much as she could smell him.

To stop herself from reaching out and doing something ridiculous, she concentrated on the Rolling Pin's sparkling display case filled with crullers and frosted donuts and turnovers. The store's cheery green walls were paired perfectly with the white metal tables and retro art on the walls. A 1950s girl in a bathing suit smiled brightly from a framed poster, saying,
A good baker will rise to the occasion!

In contrast to all the lively surroundings was the rounded back of the grumpy-looking man in front of them. “Usual,” was all he'd said to the aproned woman behind the counter. He didn't say thank you, even when the woman began ringing him up.

“What was the place here before?” Willa asked, trying to remember back to the Main Street of her youth.

“Neilson Shoes,” Burk said, smiling sadly. Willa tried not to stare at the curve of his lips. “Ed Neilson closed his doors a couple years ago, when people started buying so much of their footwear online. Or going to Minneapolis for a better selection.”

“Poor Ed.” Willa could remember the tall, thin man who always gave her a cherry sucker when she'd come in with her mom. Times sure had changed for shoe salesmen—a dying breed.

“Actually, he's all right,” Burk said. “Retired to a house on a small lake, about a half hour south of here. Good man. I still see him from time to time.”

Willa smiled, liking how Burk knew what happened to the former shoe salesman. That was White Pine for you, though—people checked in on one another. Sometimes out of caring, sometimes out of gossip. But they always checked.

She realized suddenly that she was staring at Burk, specifically at the tiny freckle underneath his right eye, which she'd placed her lips on a thousand times. He was staring back, watching her watch him. Her pulse quickened involuntarily. Damn Burk and the way he could just look at her and set her off-kilter. In all the years she'd been with Lance, he'd never been able to undo her with a glance.

Burk's mouth quirked, as if he knew the effect he was having.

Good God, the man was
smoldering
.

To Willa's dismay, he broke the stare in order to address the grumpy, black-clad customer as he brushed past. “Hello, Pastor,” Burk said.

The man stopped. “Mr. Olmstead. Fine day.”

“Certainly is,” Burk replied, reminding Willa how the weather was always a topic of conversation in Minnesota. He motioned to her. “This is a client of mine, Willa Masterson. Willa, this is Pastor Randall Sondheim.”

Willa barely had time to be hurt that Burk had said “client” in lieu of “friend” or “former classmate” or any number of things that would be preferable. She should know that making out in a car with Burk wouldn't elevate her status in his eyes, but that didn't change the fact that she
wanted
it to. Before she could think much more about it, the man turned his sharp eyes on her. “You live here?”

It was an abrupt question. No “good to meet you” or “fine day for a donut.” Willa thought about how to answer. “I've lived in New York for the past few years. But I'm back to open up a bed-and-breakfast here in town.”

The pastor grunted. Then, abruptly finished with the conversation, he gave them a curt nod and went back out into the September morning.

“That was enjoyable,” Willa said dryly.

Burk looked genuinely pleased. “I appreciate a man of few words. Not to mention a man of routine.”

“Routine?” Willa asked, and Burk explained how the pastor allowed himself only one donut each week—on Wednesday.

“Sounds too regimented if you ask me,” she replied. “Isn't a pastor supposed to be, you know, warmer? Friendlier?”

“I'd rather have that than a slick televangelist who just wants my money.”

“Fair enough.” She was just getting ready to order her coffee and cruller when her cell phone buzzed. A text. She pulled it out of her pocket, thinking it might be Audrey or even an order confirmation for the new bedding she'd found online, when the blood drained from her face.

It was Lance.

She hadn't spoken to him in weeks. Not since she'd dumped him and decided to add her name to the lawsuit against him.

Now, he texted her seven simple words.

Please, I need help. Can we talk?

Willa stared at the screen, her mouth dry. She should turn off the phone, eat her pastry, and ignore him.

Except for the fact that, apart from her, all he had was a lawyer in a cheap suit.

Which served him right, but—

Willa took a breath.

The truth of the matter was that if Lance had committed his crime while working for a big investing firm, they'd have gotten a team of lawyers on the case and worked to deny his wrongdoing at every turn, or at least worked to get most of the charges dropped. But as it stood, Lance was his own small company at the time of the fraud. He was fielding this mess on his own. Yes, he'd created it, but he also wasn't
fighting
it. He'd pled guilty in both the criminal suit and the civil action against him. The money might be gone, but he was willing to work to pay it back. For the rest of his life.

He'd be lucky to get a job at McDonald's after all this, so no one would ever see a cent of the missing money. But at least he was willing to try, to own his mistakes.

She could feel Burk's eyes on her, waiting for her to place her order, but breakfast was suddenly the last thing on her mind. “Excuse me,” she whispered, and stepped outside the bakery, back into the crisp morning light.

Her hands shook as she held the cell.

Please, I need help. Can we talk?

God help her, she wanted to look down her nose at Lance and hate him with every fiber of her soul, but the truth was she couldn't. She wasn't a thief, but she certainly could understand what it was like to get so swept up into a way of life, into a warped state of mind, that you could lose track of what really mattered.

Willa clutched her phone, remembering how charming Lance had been when they'd first met. Debonair, even. He had the rigidity of an aristocrat, but then he'd bring her knuckles to his lips in an old-fashioned greeting, and everything would soften. She hadn't forgiven him for stealing her money, it was true. But shouldn't she
try
not to hold his mistakes against him, as long as he was attempting to make things right?

After all, wasn't she back in her hometown hoping other people would forgive her the sins of her past, too?

Please, I need help. Can we talk?

Willa chewed her lip, thinking about how to reply. She chose one word:

Fine.

She expected Lance to ask when he could call, but instead he started texting back in a furious blaze of words. Apparently, he was ready to talk now.

I messed everything up. I hurt you. I wish I could undo the past.

Willa's whole body tensed. She didn't want to have this conversation now. Not with Burk a few feet away.

Talk later
, Willa texted back, glancing nervously over her shoulder.

NO. I need to see you. I need your HELP.

Willa stared at her phone, wondering if she was imagining Lance wanting to come see her. Lance shouldn't—
couldn't
—leave New York. He'd violate the terms of his bond.

She texted back.
You need to stay put.

Please. Just let me see you.

Her heart raced.

No. Talk later.

You're the only one who understands. I know you'll listen and help me.

Willa was just typing
NO
into her phone again when it rang. Lance's name came up. She held the phone in her hand as confusion took root inside her.

How much could Lance have changed if he was begging for her help and threatening to leave New York? Her head suddenly hurt. She turned off her phone, silencing the ringer.

What in the world was going on?

Willa took a deep breath, trying to clear her head. She'd talk to Lance later, when she had more time. When
she
was ready, his demands be darned.

For now, she put the phone into the pocket of her coat and turned to go inside. As she did, she caught Burk staring at her, watching with his stormy eyes narrowed. He broke his gaze away before she stepped back into the bakery, pretending to be studying something else, but she knew he'd been watching. And probably wondering who she was communicating with.

Well, let him wonder, Willa thought. She didn't owe him an explanation. And in fact, he owed her. A cruller, that is.

She returned to the counter of the Rolling Pin, ready to collect.

F
or Willa, the most challenging part of painting a table turned out not to be holding the brush or avoiding paint splotches, but keeping her eyes on the wood and not on Burk.

Unless it's Burk's wood
, her brain quipped.

She felt the tips of her ears burn at the thought. She tried not to stare as Burk repositioned his shoulder to get a better angle with his brush. His intense focus had her heart pounding—she could remember when he looked at
her
that way—and she worried that her thundering chest was audible in the quiet room.

The muscles of his calves and thighs strained against his jeans as he held his position steady, moving the paintbrush at an agonizingly slow rate. Willa saw the wet bristles glisten along the table's edge. She tightened the grip around her own brush, thinking it would be so lovely if the paintbrush were Burk's mouth, and his muscles were holding him in place so he could kiss her precisely where—

“Do you think you want a gloss on the finish?” Burk asked, interrupting her thoughts. Willa started. All around her, the taupe drop cloth puddled in waves, protecting the living room floor where they were working, but she'd hardly needed it. She hadn't yet spilled a drop.

“Sorry, what's that?” she asked, trying to get her brain back into the here and now.

Burk shifted so he could get at a tricky corner of a scalloped edge. The movement brought him inches closer, and she resisted the urge to press herself into the contours of his body.

“We got a flat paint,” he said, “but I wonder if you want a gloss. To make it shine.”

Willa tore her eyes away from Burk's form to study the table. It was certainly blue. And they had painted it together, with Willa learning as she went.

Burk had showed her how to sand down the finish, then apply a white primer evenly, using a roller for the wide spaces and a small brush for the trickier edges. She couldn't remember the last time she'd used her hands so much. It was exhilarating. Her confidence grew with every stroke. Plus, it was already midafternoon, which meant Burk had spent the whole day helping her instead of working alongside his crew, and he didn't even seem to mind.

When they'd started adding the blue color on top of the primer, the result was a painted table, just like Willa wanted. And she was certainly proud.

The only problem was, it didn't match the table in her mind.

Frankly, it was boring.

“It kind of needs to be the opposite of glossy,” Willa replied. “Not shiny but kind of…rustic.”

“Rustic?”

“Maybe you could show me how to make it look a little more distressed?”

“Distressed?”

“You keep repeating me,” she said, laughing. “Should I say more words? Hydrant. Terrier. Polish sausage.”

“Not funny,” he replied, but the edges of his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“But you know what I mean, right? The effect I'm after?”

“You'd better explain it.”

He leaned back on his heels, as if he was actually interested.

Willa stood. “Hold on,” she said, rushing to the kitchen. She rummaged around under a pile of magazines on the counter until she found what she was after, and returned to Burk.

“Here,” she said, unfolding the piece of construction paper that had been glued and taped with myriad pieces of decorating magazines. No one magazine had been able to point her toward the right design for her bed-and-breakfast, but by buying magazines she'd never thought she'd touch—
Midwestern Living
, for example—and slapping pieces of them together with the books already in her collection, she was getting warmer.

She pointed to a picture of a table in the middle of her collage. “I don't know how it works, but do you see how this table has the edges kind of roughed out? It looks a little worn. Like maybe it sat in a garage for a while.”

“A nice garage,” Burk said, studying the collage, “with fruit bowls and designer couches, apparently. Can we talk about that garage instead?”

Willa laughed, smacking him on the arm. She'd meant it to be playful, but her fingers tingled where they connected with his body. She struggled to stay focused. “You see what I mean, though. Right?”

Burk nodded, still studying the page. Willa was suddenly aware of how near they were, both of them kneeling on the hardwood floor together. The afternoon light filtered in through the old glass and kindled dust motes like tiny stars. She reached out, her arm brushing his once again. Another tingle spread through her. She noticed there were flecks of paint on his skin. She envisioned herself giving him a bath, washing them away.

“Here,” she said, forcing the image out of her mind and tracing the detail on the page, “the edges look sanded or something.”

Burk didn't pull away. “I think you're right,” he said. “Sanding the edges might help. There might be other techniques, too. I'm not an expert here. At least not in the more…delicate side of all this.”

“If I can figure it out, will you help me?”

Burk turned then, looking her full in the face. The small pocket of space between them seemed to constrict even more. The air was charged, as if there was a current running through it. Willa could all but hear the hum in her brain, a vibration that was thrilling her deepest parts. “This piece you did, this collage. Is it how you envision things?”

Willa tried to concentrate on the question, even though she was suddenly, unbearably warm. She tore her eyes from Burk's to glance at the collage. It featured an open, homey space with cream walls and leather couches the color of an old penny. Stacks of books were placed here and there, as if any topic you wanted to read about would be within reach. The coffee table in this picture was yellow, not blue like hers, but the effect was the same. Its worn look gave all the newness a comfy feel, as if to say this was a room for using and living in—not just for staring at.

“It's a good start,” Willa confessed. “I was thinking I'd like to have some of the same touches in the B and B.”

Burk nodded, but didn't take his eyes off Willa. A long moment passed, during which she wanted desperately to reach for him, to take his strong face in her hands and to apologize already. To tell him how sorry she was for the past. For the way she'd been a stupid, selfish teenager and had wounded him.

Her heart pounded. She wondered what it would be like to start anew with Burk. Not in a relationship, necessarily, but to have something else between them besides the past. Maybe even just great sex, she thought, glancing at the thick muscles of his arms, taking in the strength of his large hands. She wondered at the hairs of his forearms, dark but soft, and how they'd feel against her skin.

God, it would be fun. She bit her lip. All this pent-up frustration would have somewhere to go. She and Burk could wash away the pain of the past with the pleasure of the present.

“I like this room,” Burk said quietly. A sudden hoarseness in his voice thrilled her. He tapped a strong finger on the collage's page. “I'll help you with your projects if you can do a little background work on the how. You figure out the techniques, what supplies we need, I'll help you make it happen.”

Willa's heart surged. She was downright delighted, happier than she'd been in ages. She'd found something she could do, could learn. “Thank you!” she cried, throwing her arms around his neck before she could think twice. His arms entwined her instinctively.

As soon as their bodies were linked, the blood rushed to her head in a roar. The warmth of his skin was going to melt her; his breath on her cheek was going to erode her; the pieces of his hair threaded between her fingers were going to end her circulation. Her body was going to cease to function, and she'd be locked in this moment. Forever.

She inhaled the scent of him and found she didn't mind.

“Willa,” he growled. She couldn't tell if he wanted her off him, or wanted her pressed harder against him.

He pulled back to look at her and she saw the dark desire etched into his face again.
He's going to kiss me
, Willa thought.

And this time I won't let him flip a switch and walk away.

She was ready for it—ready for him—when the doorbell clanged and startled them both. They broke apart as the moment shattered. Their bodies distanced themselves, and Willa was instantly cold, missing the warmth of him.

Burk mumbled something and picked his paintbrush back up. Willa stood, smoothing the front of her work clothes, and walked to the door with as much dignity as she could muster.
I will kill whoever this is
, she thought.
I will strangle them and dump their body in the Birch River.

She pulled open the door with a scowl, but it didn't last long. Because on her front porch was Audrey Tanner, smiling, her dark ponytail swinging.

“I know it's not a practice day,” she said, her white teeth flashing, “but I have some new drills I want to run past you. Can I buy you a coffee and pick your brain?”

Willa wanted to stamp her feet, to kick a wall, to punch a window. She wanted her moment back! She wanted Burk's arms around her and a whole afternoon of possibility stretched out before them. Oh, if only she could get rid of Audrey.

But Audrey didn't deserve that. And if Willa knew anything at all, she knew she couldn't get the past back. She could never change the way she'd hurt Burk, not even by throwing herself at him in the here and now. She stared at Audrey, realizing it was probably best to step away from Burk and the table—for now.

“All right,” she said. She cast a glance at Burk, to see if he was at all tuned in to her decision, but he had already gone back to painting. He was focused on the blue wood as if nothing at all had happened between them.

Blue wood and blue balls
, she thought dryly. He should be thanking her, really, for giving him one and not the other.