feet to inches in an instant. He flipped at the laces on her skates, dangling from her fingers, hanging near her hips. Sam inhaled and her breath caught in her throat, held, waiting, for—
What? For Flynn to make a move? For him to kiss her again?
Oh, how she wished he would, even as another part of her wished he wouldn’t.
He distracted her, awakened her to the possibilities she had laid aside for so long. He had this way of forcing her to open her eyes, to confront issues she’d much rather leave at the door.
“I am,” she said, the two words nearly a breath.
“I should…” Flynn began, his body so close she could feel the heat emanating from his skin, and the answering heat rising inside her. Then the grin widened, and before Sam could second-guess her challenge, it was too late. “Suddenly I can’t think of anything else I should do, but go with you.”
CHAPTER NINE
F LYNN SHOULD HAVE put the pieces together sooner. He used to be really good at that. Figuring out what parts of the story people held back. And why.
But this time, his objectivity had been compromised. By his attraction to Sam? By the town? By that one assignment going so horribly awry? Whatever it was, Flynn had lost his tight hold on his life, and that had caused him to stop paying attention to the details.
Until now.
Until he’d returned to the bed and breakfast after ice skating, and Betsy Williams had started chatting up a storm, first pointing out a photo on the wall of Sam and her grandmother, then telling tales about the two of them working together, then finally segueing into rumors about the cookies.
“You wouldn’t believe how fast people are eating those cookies up,” Betsy was saying as Flynn helped her carry the dishes out to the dining room table and set up for dinner.
Betsy had pronounced Flynn a “sweet boy” for volunteering, having no idea of his ulterior motive. How many times had he employed a similar tactic? Using a nice gesture as a way to get more information out of someone? Never before had it bothered him. He was doing his job, just as he should. But today, every dish he carried, every fork he laid on the table, while Betsy chattered on, seemed to nag at him, like stones on his back.
“I feel like I’m running The Dating Game right in my little B and B,” Betsy went on. “Maybe I should open a wedding chapel next door.” She laughed. “Oh, wouldn’t Sam’s grandmother get such a kick out of this, if she could see what was happening with that bakery.”
“Where is Sam’s grandmother, by the way?”
Betsy shut the door of the dining room hutch and turned back to Flynn, a silver bread platter in her hands. “She didn’t tell you?”
Flynn shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “We didn’t talk much about her.”
“Oh, well, that’s because Sam hardly ever talks about Joy. No one in this town does, either, though they like to speculate, being a small town and all.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Betsy looked around, as if she expected Sam to appear in the dining room at any second. “I don’t know the whole story, but I heard from Estelle, who heard from Carolyn, who heard from Louise, that Joy isn’t really living at a retirement home and playing golf every day.”
A tide rose in Flynn’s chest. This was the missing piece, the nugget he searched for in every story, the one that made headlines, the one that earned his reputation on every article. He could feel it, with an instinct bred from years on the job. “Really? Where is she?”
“No one’s really sure because we never see Joy anymore, and if you ask Sam or Ginny, they just put on a brave face and keep on sticking to that retirement home story. But you know…” Again, Betsy looked around, then returned her attention to Flynn. “Before she ‘retired,’ Joy was getting real forgetful. Doing things like wandering around town in her nightgown, showing up to work at the bakery in the middle of the night, telling Earl, a man she’s
What? For Flynn to make a move? For him to kiss her again?
Oh, how she wished he would, even as another part of her wished he wouldn’t.
He distracted her, awakened her to the possibilities she had laid aside for so long. He had this way of forcing her to open her eyes, to confront issues she’d much rather leave at the door.
“I am,” she said, the two words nearly a breath.
“I should…” Flynn began, his body so close she could feel the heat emanating from his skin, and the answering heat rising inside her. Then the grin widened, and before Sam could second-guess her challenge, it was too late. “Suddenly I can’t think of anything else I should do, but go with you.”
CHAPTER NINE
F LYNN SHOULD HAVE put the pieces together sooner. He used to be really good at that. Figuring out what parts of the story people held back. And why.
But this time, his objectivity had been compromised. By his attraction to Sam? By the town? By that one assignment going so horribly awry? Whatever it was, Flynn had lost his tight hold on his life, and that had caused him to stop paying attention to the details.
Until now.
Until he’d returned to the bed and breakfast after ice skating, and Betsy Williams had started chatting up a storm, first pointing out a photo on the wall of Sam and her grandmother, then telling tales about the two of them working together, then finally segueing into rumors about the cookies.
“You wouldn’t believe how fast people are eating those cookies up,” Betsy was saying as Flynn helped her carry the dishes out to the dining room table and set up for dinner.
Betsy had pronounced Flynn a “sweet boy” for volunteering, having no idea of his ulterior motive. How many times had he employed a similar tactic? Using a nice gesture as a way to get more information out of someone? Never before had it bothered him. He was doing his job, just as he should. But today, every dish he carried, every fork he laid on the table, while Betsy chattered on, seemed to nag at him, like stones on his back.
“I feel like I’m running The Dating Game right in my little B and B,” Betsy went on. “Maybe I should open a wedding chapel next door.” She laughed. “Oh, wouldn’t Sam’s grandmother get such a kick out of this, if she could see what was happening with that bakery.”
“Where is Sam’s grandmother, by the way?”
Betsy shut the door of the dining room hutch and turned back to Flynn, a silver bread platter in her hands. “She didn’t tell you?”
Flynn shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “We didn’t talk much about her.”
“Oh, well, that’s because Sam hardly ever talks about Joy. No one in this town does, either, though they like to speculate, being a small town and all.”
“Why?”
“Well…” Betsy looked around, as if she expected Sam to appear in the dining room at any second. “I don’t know the whole story, but I heard from Estelle, who heard from Carolyn, who heard from Louise, that Joy isn’t really living at a retirement home and playing golf every day.”
A tide rose in Flynn’s chest. This was the missing piece, the nugget he searched for in every story, the one that made headlines, the one that earned his reputation on every article. He could feel it, with an instinct bred from years on the job. “Really? Where is she?”
“No one’s really sure because we never see Joy anymore, and if you ask Sam or Ginny, they just put on a brave face and keep on sticking to that retirement home story. But you know…” Again, Betsy looked around, then returned her attention to Flynn. “Before she ‘retired,’ Joy was getting real forgetful. Doing things like wandering around town in her nightgown, showing up to work at the bakery in the middle of the night, telling Earl, a man she’s
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