Secretly Smitten (43 page)

She thought of Josh’s disapproval of her flavor choice and took a defiant, swiping lick of her vanilla. Wind Chill really did have the yummiest vanilla.

“I noticed we’re fairly light on deliveries on Monday,” he said. “How about if we start moving things to change the flow of traffic like I was talking about? We could work into the night if we had to.”

Something about the idea made Clare uneasy. His idea was good, but changing everything . . . “Why don’t we wait on that? I’ll probably do it at the end of season when things slow down.”

“It’ll be easier if I’m there to help.”

And he wouldn’t be there in the fall—her brain made note of the mention just in case her heart had missed it. “I hate to shake things up midseason, you know? The customers are accustomed to the layout.”

Ethan scooped up another bite. “They might like the change.”

Clare gave him a look. “Or they might not,” she said firmly.

Ethan studied her until her face grew warm. Maybe he just wanted to be there to see the plan implemented, but it really wasn’t a good time.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

Clare licked her dripping cone. Dixie, giving up on table scraps, lay down on the brick patio and heaved a sigh.

The creamery’s bell rang as a couple exited the shop. Josh Campbell, razzmatazz cone in hand, scoped out the patio tables. He had a date, a pretty brunette she didn’t recognize.

Clare ducked, glancing at Ethan.

He had followed her eyes and gave a sympathetic smile.

She licked her cone. It wasn’t that she wanted to trade places with the woman. The breakup had been for the best.

Ethan narrowed his eyes, watching her closely.

“What, do I have ice cream on my nose?”

That little half smile. Mercy, he had it perfected. He leaned in, weight on his elbows, until she could smell his musky cologne. His bangs fell over his forehead, kissing the corners of his eyes.

“We could pretend we’re on a date, if that would make you feel better,” he said.

Her heart rate ramped at the thought. If this were a real date, she might lean a little closer. He might kiss her right here, over his razzmatazz sundae.

“Why—why would we do that?”

“So he realizes what an idiot he is.”

She wasn’t going to lie—it felt nice to hear that.

His gaze, as tangible as a touch, swept over her face, stopping on her lips.

She swallowed. She should say something, but she couldn’t think with him looking at her like that.

“Or we could go on a real date,” he said softly.

“A real . . .” She cleared her throat. “A real date?”

His lips twitched. “You know, where the guy asks in advance, the girl says yes, he picks her up . . . a real date.”

She knew the kind. Imagined them on a moonlit boat ride on Timber Lake. Just him and her and his sexy, crooked grin. When they reached the middle, they’d set their oars down and listen to the sounds of nature, then he’d lean close and kiss her.

Bad, Clare. Bad idea. Awful, stupid, reckless idea.

“We could, I don’t know, rent one of those bikes for two and ride over to the lake, have a picnic or something.”

Or something. Have a kiss or two, fall in love—and she could love him. That was the problem. She could see herself falling so deeply for him, and it would be good . . . for a while. Where Josh’s breakup had only bothered her, Ethan’s would break her.

“What’s the point?” she asked.

“The point?”

“The point of going out—you’re leaving soon, as you said.”

He blinked. Looked confused, endearingly so. He probably hadn’t thought that far ahead. Well, she had, and she didn’t like what she saw coming.

“I could stick around awhile,” he finally said.

Stick around long enough to fall for him. And then what? Didn’t sound like a safe plan to her. It sounded like the fast track to heartache. He’d move on to the next adventure, and she’d be left here to pick up the pieces. No thanks.

“I like you, Ethan, I do.” She hesitated, weighing her words. “Maybe too much. But I think it’s best if we keep things as they are—simple.”

His eyes seemed to see right into her.

Well, look all you want, Ethan. I’m right about this. Save us both a bunch of heartache.

Finally he looked away. He nodded toward her dripping cone. “Might wanna lick that.”

She caught the drips on her tongue, but suddenly the vanilla cone had lost all its appeal.

CHAPTER NINE

E
than was halfway to the campground when he realized he’d left his jacket in the work truck. He thumped his palm on the handlebar grip. It wasn’t cold yet, but it was supposed to get down into the forties tonight. A fire would warm his bones until bedtime, but it would be a long, cold night without his jacket.

He swung his bike around in the middle of the deserted country lane and headed back toward town. Night had fallen, and the nursery had long since closed.

After work he’d treated himself to a meal at the Country Cupboard Café. Of course, it wasn’t like the homemade meals he’d had with the Thomas family . . .

He’d run into Miss Violet at the café, and they’d shared a table and talked. The woman was taking some steps in the right direction. Clare had been right about her softening toward her sister.

Clare. Things had been awkward since he’d asked her out two weeks ago. She’d thrown up a great big wall and wasn’t letting him over. He was a risk, he got that.

But it was a risk for him too. This was the first time in years he’d met someone he was willing to take a chance on. Loving was always a risk—and Clare was someone he could love. He was halfway there already. His feelings had grown, date or no. He fell for her a little more every day, watching her patiently assist the customers, lovingly tend her plants, calmly mediate between her grandma and aunt.

But his job here was nearly over. He’d stay for Clare’s birthday, the bicentennial, but he couldn’t see himself staying much beyond. The past two weeks had been difficult enough.

Besides, he didn’t know how long it would take to find work. He’d learned to stretch his money as far as he could.
Where
to
next, God? Providence? Hartford? Boston?

The pause brought no answer, no quiet whisper to his heart or strong feeling about his next move. None of the towns even sounded intriguing. In fact, packing up, scoping out another new town, begging for work . . . none of that sounded appealing either.

What was wrong with him? He was usually eager to hit the road after a couple months in one place. Ready to shake the dust of the town from his feet, ready to meet new people, see where God was working and join him there.

Was it Smitten, or was it Clare? Maybe it was both. Maybe he was smitten
with
Clare. And maybe the fact that he didn’t want to leave meant it was past time he did.

Is
that
it, God? Am I through in Smitten? I don’t feel like I did anything worthwhile here.

But in his heart, he knew what his reluctance to leave meant. He missed having a place to call home. People to call friends. He thought of Aunt Violet, Michael, Griffen Parker. Good people, all of them. People he wouldn’t mind being neighbors with.

But then there was Clare. He could always stay awhile, see if she’d come around. He’d been wrestling with his nomad lifestyle, had even spoken to Pastor Walden about it. Maybe God was telling him it was time. Maybe if he stayed, he could make Clare see that he was more than a drifter. That he was someone worth taking a chance on.

He turned into the gravel lane, passing the old Red Barn sign, then accelerated up the hill through the woods. When he reached the lot, he spotted Clare’s truck. He’d never known her to stay this late. Maybe she’d decided to start moving things around.

Not
likely.

Maybe someone had picked her up. Maybe her car hadn’t started. Or maybe something had happened. She could’ve fallen or hit her head. He was being paranoid, but he was going to check just the same. Better safe than sorry.

He retrieved his jacket from the truck, tossed it across his bike, and followed the cobbled path. The air smelled like a blend of pine sap, lilacs, and mulch. A fragrance he’d come to associate with this place. He drew in a lungful as he neared the barn. The windows showed a darkened interior.

The shed door was closed, the lock fastened. No sign of life in the gardens either.

Farther down the path, past the towering pines, the greenhouse glowed dimly, the windows fogged. He followed the walkway, his heart kicking up into his throat. Clare babied the tropicals. They were expensive and fetched a good price at the local flower shop. But why would she be checking on them this late?

He entered the steamy greenhouse, the scent of sweet flowers and loamy earth assaulting him. The air, thick with humidity, was warmer.

He looked down the narrow aisle. “Clare?”

He advanced down the row. Flowering plants of all kinds burgeoned from upper and lower shelves, blocking his vision. Tropicals, orchids, all kinds of plants that would die under his care. Under Clare’s touch, the exotic petals bloomed in vibrant colors, and lush foliage overflowed from plastic green pots.

“Clare?”

Why didn’t she answer? He reached the end of the row and turned down the next. He spotted her halfway down, swaying, her hips sashaying back and forth. Wires from her earbuds led down to one of her overall pockets. In between her bebopping, she checked the soil of a flowering plant, then belted out the chorus of some country tune.

He’d never heard the song, but he knew off-key when he heard it. His lips twitched.

“Clare,” he called as he advanced, not wanting to startle her. She must have that thing up loud. She stopped singing long enough to examine a ruffled yellow flower, frowning at the petal.

Too much water. Clare removed the planter tray from the hibiscus pot and turned to dump it.

A man stood in her path.

She screeched. The tray went flying, the water with it.

She pulled her earbuds out and pressed her hand to her chest, her heart thudding violently against her palm.

She closed her eyes. “Ethan. Good grief, you scared me silly.”

“Sorry.” His hands squeezed her upper arms. “I’m sorry. I tried to get your attention, but—” He gestured toward the wires dangling from her pocket.

Her heart slowed as the past several seconds rewound to include her little talent show. Great.

She shrugged out of his grip. “What are you doing here?” So what if she sounded perturbed.

He had the grace to look chagrined. “Left something here, saw your truck.” He started to say something else, then closed his mouth.

“So you thought you’d sneak up on me and scare the tar out of me for fun?” A bit of humor had crept into her voice.

He shrugged, his eyes puppy-dog wide. “I was bored.”

Despite herself, she smiled. “Next time find your own entertainment.”

“I don’t know. That was pretty entertaining.”