One of These Nights

PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF KENDRA LEIGH CASTLE

For the Longest Time

“A delightful story filled with endearing characters and laugh-out-loud humor.”

—
USA Today
bestselling author Katie Lane

“Kendra Leigh Castle delivers a fresh and honest story guaranteed to make you smile, laugh out loud, and even shed a few tears. I can't wait to read more.”

—bestselling author Candis Terry

“I enjoyed everything about this story and would say that Ms. Castle's jump from the paranormal genre to contemporary romance is a success.”

—Smexy Books

“[Castle's] writing is smooth and easy to follow, and she gives us a small-town romance in a place I can easily visualize. I'd recommend
For the Longest Time
to romance readers who like second-chance romance in a small town.”

—Harlequin Junkie

“[A] breezy, fun, slightly steamy novel. . . . If this entry . . . is any indication, Castle's Harvest Cove promises to be worth repeated visits.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Sweet and sexy character-driven romance! . . .
For the Longest Time
is both a poignant and fun romance with a wonderful collection of characters.”

—Fresh Fiction

“Castle takes a break from demons to begin the Harvest Cove series, which starts off with a really good treatment of the high-school-misfit-comes-home trope. Not only is this a lovely romance, but it shows the lifelong scars bullying can leave, and the way our memories can be selective.”

—RT Book Reviews

“A fun, humorous read, with a great couple, cute animals, and a serious subject in the background.”

—The Reading Cafe

Also by Kendra Leigh Castle

The Harvest Cove Series

For the Longest Time

Every Little Kiss

SIGNET ECLIPSE

Published by New American Library,

an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

This book is an original publication of New American Library.

First Printing, September 2015

Copyright © Kendra Leigh Castle, 2015

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Signet Eclipse and the Signet Eclipse colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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ISBN 978-0-698-14173-5

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Fizgig and Daisy, loving, lionhearted, smoosh-faced, and sorely missed And to anyone who's ever loved a silly, wonderful little dog

I
t was going to be one hell of a storm.

Jason Evans ducked his head, walking into a rising wind that made the leaves on the trees rattle and hiss. The air was sultry, loaded with humidity, and scented with the rain that was about to fall. He'd done plenty of work in the rain before, but today he was actually ahead of the game—there were no holes that needed digging, no trails that needed clearing, and, most important, no people who needed directions, saving, or a lecture on why they shouldn't do whatever they were doing. Most of the visitors had fled the oncoming storm, and Owens State Park was ninety-nine percent squared away, at least for the next hour or so. He'd have plenty to do once the wind had stopped throwing things around. For now, though, there was just one thing left on his list.

He was hoping the teenage kid with the awful sunburn was wrong about the noises he'd heard coming from deep in the trees along this part of the trail. The kid's flip-flops hadn't been suited to wading into the underbrush to investigate, but at least he'd been concerned enough to hunt down a park ranger.

Jason stopped near the trail marker he'd been headed for and waited, lifting his head and listening intently. At first he heard nothing but the wind in the trees and the stillness between gusts that was a sound all its own. He breathed deeply, beginning to relax. The kid had thought he'd heard a dog, and maybe he had. Could have been a camper's pet wandering where it shouldn't have been. Then again, it could have been a wild animal in the wrong place at the wrong time. The woods were full of creatures that preyed on one another. Those encounters weren't pleasant things to hear, but nature wasn't always pleasant.

Mostly, Jason just hoped that whatever the kid had heard out there was gone. He wanted to get back inside and enjoy the storm.

Encouraged by the silence, Jason gave a sharp whistle, then called, “Hey, doggie! You out there? Come here, pup!”

Almost immediately, he heard the whimper. Jason closed his eyes and cursed silently as thunder rolled overhead and rain began to patter to the ground around him, the first fat droplets wetting his face. This was going to be a soaking rain, and he was out in it. Again.

The fact that somebody's lost dog was also out in it got his feet moving. Jason left the trail and headed into the trees, his boots crunching through pine needles and twigs. He continued calling, and a stronger, sharper yelp had him shifting direction slightly.
Sounds like one of those yippy little mutts that bite everybody. Great. My favorite.
He rubbed his thumb over the old crescent-shaped scar between the thumb and forefinger on his right hand while he stepped over a fallen branch, then around a jagged old stump. When a twig snapped beneath his boot, the dog began to cry in earnest, howling for all it was worth. It definitely sounded small, Jason decided, and it sounded hurt. But the dog knew he was close, and it was strong enough to make a hell of a lot of noise. That was a good sign.

“Right here, boy,” he said. “I'll get you.” There was an answering bark, almost lost as the wind picked up and began to whip around him, strong enough to give Jason pause. They were under a severe thunderstorm warning, and out in the trees, with the ground already saturated from last night's heavy rain, wasn't the best place to be if this weather really got going. The sky opened up just as Jason stepped over another gnarled, moss-covered branch and saw it—a dirty tan-and-white ball tangled up in some sort of cord and an exposed root. Its dark eyes were bright and a little wild when they met his, but instead of continuing to bark, it just gave a high-pitched whimper that hit him like a gut punch.

He might not be much of a people person, but animals were his soft spot, yappy little mutts included. It was one of the reasons he'd become a park ranger. He got at least as much time with wildlife as he did with humans. Raccoons and Homo sapiens could both be assholes, but raccoons tended to be more entertaining about it.

Jason focused on the little dog, forgetting the rain soaking him. He made his way to it, then crouched down, mindful of the way wounded animals could react to well-meaning humans. “Hey, little guy,” he said softly, and he saw its tail—a curled plume that it probably carried proudly under better circumstances—begin to flutter. The dog whined again and tried to come to him, its bowed front legs scrabbling at the ground without propelling the dog anywhere. Between the dog's fruitless struggle to get to him and the look on its odd, smooshed-in face, the sight melted him.

“Poor puppy,” Jason said softly, gently reaching out. He half expected to soon find its sharp little teeth in his skin, right in the soft spot already scarred from Great-Aunt Tilly's Maltese. Instead, the dog quivered beneath his touch, then began licking furiously at his hand while Jason tried to figure out how it was caught. The sky above flickered with light, then crackled and boomed. The rain slapped his face when the wind gusted, plastering his hair against his head, but Jason barely noticed. Someone—someone not fit for animal ownership—had tied a thin cord around the little creature's neck so tightly that it was a wonder it hadn't strangled itself out here. That cord, which looked to be maybe four feet long, had snagged on the root, and the dog had wrapped itself around it good. Jason pulled a utility knife from his belt and cut the cord, finding his arms immediately full of ragged, wet, wriggling fur. A startled laugh escaped him.

“Okay, now. It's okay. Just chill out—I've got you.” He liked big dogs, slobbery dogs that chased sticks and chewed giant bones and had big, shaggy heads. Fussy little pillow dogs just weren't his thing. So the rush of affection he felt for the animal he'd just freed surprised him. That intensified, and mingled with something darker, when a stroke of his hand made it yelp in pain.

Jason glowered at the blood on one of the dog's haunches. He'd seen this kind of thing before. Somebody had been having some fun with a BB gun.

“Hell,” Jason muttered. He gathered the dog in his arms—all maybe ten pounds of it—and stood, holding tightly as another gust of wind tore at them. “Come on. My cousin Jake'll fix you up.” There were perks to being related to the town veterinarian. Being able to get this sodden, wounded pup treated ASAP was one.

He began to clomp back through the trees, his boots sinking into soft and muddy ground. The next roll of thunder was so loud he could feel it reverberate all the way through him, and the wind pushed him so hard that he staggered to one side before bracing himself against it again. Unease unfurled in the pit of his stomach as the trees around him crackled and creaked, and a rushing sound filled his ears, blocking out everything else.

When the big old pine tree started to come down, time seemed to slow. Jason was incredibly aware of every tiny movement he made, from clutching the dog more closely to his chest to dodging out of the way and slamming his foot down into a shallow depression in the ground that had been concealed by leaves and debris. He felt a rush of air, scented with a whiff of pine, at the same instant his leg twisted oddly and then snapped. He felt it break, felt the searing pain shoot directly up his injured limb, so intense that it stole his breath. Jason landed hard on one hip, and the world went gray for a few long moments. When the woods, the storm, came back into focus even more sharply than before, he began to wish he'd blacked out. Shock became agony. When he could breathe again, he drew in a giant lungful of air and roared. The dog in his arms shivered, a dim reminder that he wasn't alone out there. Jason released it as gently as he could, then clutched at the leg now bent at a strange angle. Nausea roiled in the pit of his stomach.

When he could organize his thoughts into something coherent, he grabbed at the radio on his belt to call for help, then curled forward, hands over his face. Through waves of pain, he felt a gentle pawing at his thigh, then heard a soft sound of complaint just before a small, wet, injured dog clambered into his lap. Jason slid his hands down to look into a pair of dark and serious eyes focused intently on him.
You take care of me,
that look seemed to say,
and I'll take care of you.

The idea of this particular dog being able to take care of anybody should have been laughable. Right now, however, it wasn't a sentiment he was in any position to argue with.

“Okay,” Jason growled, putting one hand lightly on the dog's soaked back. He was surprised to find its warmth comforting. “Okay. We'll talk about it. Later.”

That seemed to be good enough for the dog, which turned its head to look out into the woods.
Keeping watch,
Jason thought, and wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. Still, a ten-pound guardian was better than none. Right now, he'd take what he could get.

The wind whipped around them, buffeting Jason and his small would-be protector. Then he heard a siren, distant but getting louder, and knew that Brent had been quick about calling in the emergency from the station. Lightning made the air around him flicker, and another violent burst of thunder echoed so loudly that he felt he must be at the center of it. He heard a sharp crack nearby as another tree gave way, not nearly so close this time, thankfully.

One hell of a storm,
he thought.
It sure is.

Jason breathed out on a moan of pain and focused on the steady breathing beneath his hand. He'd be fine, he told himself. A broken leg wasn't the end of the world, even if it felt like it right this second. He'd manage. He always did, especially when he had a job to do.

And as unlikely as it seemed, right now, he had a lap full of wet fur that said he was needed, and might be for quite some time . . . whether he had volunteered for it or not.

*   *   *

Zoe Watson adjusted the painting, took a step back, and eyed the grouping she'd just put together.

“What do you think of this?” she asked, tilting her head and narrowing her eyes. She could spend hours arranging and rearranging the work on display at her gallery, Two Roads. She found it soothing, even though it drove her assistant crazy. She knew this because Samantha Henry, now Samantha Smith in her day-to-day life, was more than just her right-hand woman and one of the gallery's top-selling artists. She was also her closest friend in Harvest Cove—close enough to have told Zoe on numerous occasions that she needed to find a better hobby before Sam lost it and stabbed her with a palette knife.

“It looks great.”

Zoe turned her head to glare at the pretty blonde who sat at the antique desk they were currently using to handle purchases and some of the paperwork. Sam's head was down as she scrawled something on a Post-it, then stuck it on what looked to be a contract.

“You didn't even look!”

“Yes, I did,” Sam said calmly, with a brief glance up. Zoe got a glimpse of striking blue-green eyes before Sam refocused on whatever she was doing. “It looks almost exactly the same as it did the last time you asked me to look. You know, ten whole minutes ago.”

Zoe tapped a finger against her hip. “Part of your job is to indulge me, you know.”

“Is it? Somehow, I don't remember signing anything that spelled that out.”

“You're a terrible henchman, Sam,” Zoe said with a sigh. “You're supposed to ooh and aah over everything I do, which in turn will give me the confidence I need to take over the world.”

Sam looked up, propped her chin on her folded hands, and smiled innocently. “We prefer ‘henchwomen.' And if you want me to look at a virtually unchanged grouping of paintings twenty times in the space of an hour while stroking your ego, we're talking overtime and extra perks.”

Zoe wrinkled her nose. “Thanks a lot, henchwoman.”

“You don't like it, take it up with the union.”

Zoe gave a soft huff, but she was smiling when she turned to look at her handiwork again. It really
hadn't
changed much in the last hour. Enjoyable though fiddling had been, it was probably time to pack it in.

“Fine. You win. I'll leave it alone. For now.”

“That ‘for now' means I never really win.” Sam sighed, rising to brace her hands on the small of her back and stretch.

“Come on, now. Every day with me is its own reward.” That earned Zoe a grin.

“Of course it is, O Benevolent Ruler,” Sam said, then glanced at the small silver watch on her wrist. “Any big plans for the evening? I heard a rumor that today is Friday.”

“I heard the same rumor,” Zoe replied. “I have plans.”

That piqued Sam's interest, as Zoe knew it would. “Seriously? What kind of plans?”

Zoe had a brief, intense urge to make up something interesting—something involving a handsome stranger, a candlelit dinner, and the unspoken potential for the kind of date that was likely to continue through the following morning. Except Sam would know she was full of it, because ever since they'd known each other, Zoe hadn't been a spontaneous, wildly romantic date kind of person. She never really had been, much as she loved imagining such things.

Coming to Harvest Cove from Atlanta, Georgia, had been her choice. Starting a new life here, trying to plant some roots and make a go of her gallery: also a choice. The lack of attention she'd paid to her personal life had been less of a choice, more of a necessity while she'd been getting things off the ground, but lately, Zoe had started to wonder whether she'd been a little
too
determined to fly solo until she got settled in here. Because it didn't get much more settled—or much more single—than she was right now.

And her current dry spell, not counting a brief and ill-advised interlude with an egocentric orthodontist, was at three years and counting.

“It's true,” Zoe finally said, trying not to let her sudden pang of melancholy creep into her voice. “My plans involve a comfy couch, some hot tea, my favorite blanket, some snuggling—”

“With the blanket, right?”