Hooked

More Than Words

Betina Krahn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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More Than Words: Bestselling authors & Real-life heroines

We all have the power to effect change—we just need to find the strength to harness it. With every good deed done and helping hand offered, we are making the world a better place. The dedicated women selected as this year’s recipients of Harlequin’s More Than Words award have changed many lives for the better, through their compassionate hearts and unshakable commitment. To celebrate their accomplishments, bestselling authors have written stories inspired by these real-life heroines.

In this book, Betina Krahn honors the work of Donna Fischer, the Arizona program coordinator for Casting for Recovery, a national nonprofit organization that runs fly-fishing retreats for women who have or have had breast cancer.

We hope More Than Words inspires you to look inside your heart and get in touch with the heroine inside you.

Dear Reader,

For many years Harlequin has been a leader in supporting and promoting women’s charitable efforts. Through Harlequin More Than Words, each year we celebrate three women who make extraordinary differences in the lives of others, and Harlequin donates $15,000 each to their chosen causes.

We are proud to highlight the current Harlequin More Than Words recipients with the help of some of the biggest names in women’s fiction, Harlequin authors, who created fictional stories inspired by these women and the charities they support. Within the following pages you will find a touching story written by Betina Krahn—one of three ebooks available at www.HarlequinMoreThanWords.com. Be sure to look for Michele Hauf’s Maxwell’s Smile, and Jillian Hart’s No One But You—also available online. A book with three additional stories, written by Debbie Macomber, Brenda Novak and Meryl Sawyer, can be found on the shelves of your favorite bookstore in More Than Words, Stories of the Heart. All six of these stories are beautiful tributes to the Harlequin More Than Words recipients and we hope they will ignite the real-life heroine in you.

Thank you for your support; all proceeds from the sale of the print edition will be returned to the Harlequin More Than Words program. For more information on how you can get involved, please visit our website at www.HarlequinMoreThanWords.com.

Together we can make a difference!

Sincerely,

Donna Hayes

Publisher and CEO

Harlequin

Casting for Recovery

Donna Fischer

How Donna inspires others:

Cool, fresh water swirled around Donna Fischer’s hip waders as she cast her line under the Arizona sky. Fly-fishing was even better than she’d thought it would be, and to be there with thirteen other women who were also screaming and yelling with delight as they hooked fish after fish was incredible. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open in laughter; a photographer clicked a photo and captured the moment.

Donna still has that photo. She keeps it as a reminder of that weekend back in 2006 when she left her life behind and experienced pure joy through fly-fishing with amazing women she now calls friends.

Yet there’s something the image doesn’t show: the seven long months she spent undergoing surgery, radiation and chemotherapy after being diagnosed with breast cancer.

Donna, now cancer-free (cautiously) for over five years, was a survivor participant with Casting for Recovery, a national nonprofit organization based in Manchester, Vermont, that has been running fly-fishing retreats for women who have or have had breast cancer.

Despite first impressions, breast cancer and fly-fishing do indeed connect. The gentle casting motion is therapeutic for muscles and tissues that have been damaged through surgery and radiation. Being outside, on the water, and the meditative nature of the sport also can’t be beat.

“When you’re fly-fishing, that’s all you think about,” says Donna, who is now a dedicated and passionate volunteer. “You don’t think about your cancer. You’re in the moment,”

The ripple effect

Founded in 1996, Casting for Recovery is the unique brainchild of a breast cancer reconstructive surgeon and a professional fly-fisher. What began as a local grassroots effort to empower cancer patients and survivors has since gone national—and beyond. The organization now offers forty-three programs in thirty U.S. states and has inspired similar programs in Canada, New Zealand and the U.K.

It continues to grow, no doubt due to its focus on fun, education and bonding. In most cases, women show up on Friday afternoon, learn fly-fishing basics, hit the water and participate in support groups in the evening, hosted by therapists and medical personnel. The groups are kept small—just fourteen people—so everyone is heard and supported. On the final day, each participant is paired with an experienced fly fisher, or river helper. It’s the only time men are included in the weekend, but it’s an important time.

“It’s a very intense two and a half days, and the women get so much out of it,” says Lori Simon, the group’s executive director. “But we find that men get so much from the program because they, too, are affected by breast cancer when their wives, moms, sisters or daughters have it. This is a way for men to give back.”

The groups are also spread out geographically in order to make it easier for the women to attend. Fly-fishing programs in Nebraska, for instance, accept only women from Nebraska. Although the program is free to attend, participants must pay their own way to get there. For many of the women, it’s one of the first times they’ve traveled on their own, without husbands and children in tow.

Donna remembers her own drive to Greer, Arizona—a four-hour car trip. Despite typically being a passenger and allowing her husband to drive the family around, she hopped into the car and drove herself. By the time she reached the retreat location she was already feeling empowered, although apprehensive. What was she getting herself into?

The other thirteen women had similar expressions on their faces when they showed up. But that all changed after everyone was suited up in hip waders and taught basic casting moves.

“Soon we’re showing each other scars and pointing to where things hurt. We were just so out there and I didn’t know these people from Adam!” she says now, laughing.

The supportive atmosphere works. Women say they arrive as strangers and leave as friends. Many continue to stay in touch years after their retreat. Others use what they learned during their weekend away and turn it into a new hobby—fly-fishing. No wonder 100 percent of attendees say they would recommend the program to others, and 90 percent say they felt better able to cope with their disease after the retreat.

Hooked on giving back

Donna, a busy executive assistant for Banner Home Care, says Casting for Recovery changed her life. Her retreat weekend in 2006 gave her the time she needed to recover emotionally after cancer. “I didn’t need a support group,” she says now, “but I needed to talk.”

As soon as she returned home, she spoke to her two children, who encouraged her to step up and volunteer for Casting for Recovery. Donna knew that it cost roughly $1,000 to send a woman on the retreat, and decided then to join Casting for Recovery’s 1,800 volunteers and dedicate her time and energy to ensure one other woman would receive the same experience she did.

Since that day, Donna and her family often raise over $1,000 each year (enough to fulfill her promise to send one woman to the retreat annually) in a Bunco tournament. Supporters play the popular dice game, donate money and win prizes that Donna has convinced local businesses to donate.

Beyond that event, Donna is also known for balancing her commitment to family, colleagues, cancer survivors and her community in a dignified and loving way, whether she’s talking to bikers about Casting for Recovery when they’re on a motorcycle run, or running a booth at a trade show. She also shares her story at wine tastings and with fly-fishing clubs. And she’s the first to welcome women as they register for a retreat. She’s the consummate ambassador, enthuses Lori Simon, who says Donna is also “hysterically funny.”

Donna is quick to point out that humor is important to get through recovery, but organizations like Casting for Recovery are needed, since breast cancer is no laughing matter. In 2009, more than 192,000 women in the U.S. were newly diagnosed with the disease. In Arizona that year, there were 3,470 new cases.

Knowing the incredible need, Donna took on the responsibility of Arizona program coordinator after the former coordinator resigned. She says she simply could not allow the state’s program to go dormant until a new coordinator could be found.

“After you have cancer, you realize it’s pretty darned good to be alive,” she says. “So you need to give back, because every day we get something great out of life. It’s important to make sure that others do, too.”

Betina Krahn

New York Times bestselling author Betina Krahn, mother of two and owner of two (humans and canines, respectively), shares the Florida sunshine with her fiancé and a fun and crazy sister. Her historical romances have received reviewer’s choice and lifetime achievement awards and appear regularly on bestseller lists…including the coveted USA TODAY and New York Times lists.

Her books have been called “sexy,” “warm,” “witty” and even “wise.” But the description that pleases her most is “funny”—because she believes the only thing the world needs as much as it needs love is laughter. You can learn more about her books and contact her through her website, BetinaKrahn.com.

For Donna Fischer of Casting For Recovery, who embodies hope for so many, and for everyone who has or has had breast cancer.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Letter to Reader

Chapter One

Greer Lodge, Arizona

Escape was not an option.

Bearing down on Stephanie Steele from across the lodge’s festive great room was a man wearing a muskrat on his head—either that, or the worst hairpiece in the western hemisphere. The unfortunate fellow’s arm was caught hard in the grip of Terrie Gardner, her dearest friend and the mother of the bride…who had cleverly trapped Stephanie at a table against the wall via a place card bearing her name. Now she was caught like an antelope with a bum leg watching a lion approach.

Weddings. Modern society’s version of stalking on the Serengeti.

“Stephanie!”

Terrie had tried to make this introduction last night at the wedding reception, but Steph had pleaded fatigue from the long flight and even longer drive from the airport, and fled. The wedding brunch provided her with the perfect second chance.

“You simply must meet Bob Slidell…Rick’s boss. He’s the head of the Bitterman Group, the commercial property giants. Bob, Steph is the founder and CEO of Silk and Steele, the hottest upscale women’s clothing chain in the country.” Terrie beamed with determined mischief. “You two have a ton in common, being business magnates and all, so I’ll leave you to your tycoon talk while I circulate.”

“So, Stephanie.” Bob slid into the chair beside hers, clearly interested. She was wearing a saucy Carolina Herrera tunic that left one shoulder bare; of course he’d be interested. “You’re quite the little dancer.” When she looked blankly at him, he clarified, “I saw you at the reception last night. You know, with Cassie and the bridesmaids out on the dance floor.”

“Oh, well—” Steph laughed, with precious little humor “—there’s a perfectly good explanation for that. I taught Cassie and her friends to dance when they were in middle school, and since then, she always pulls me out onto the floor and makes me relive the experience.”

“Well, you’ve got all the right moves,” he said with too much emphasis and too much eyeballing. “You put the younger crowd to shame.”

Ah, the maneuvers of a CEO on the prowl. Charge in like it’s a hostile board takeover, toss out some left-handed flattery, and then flash some of the good life in the dazzled quarry’s eyes…. Yep, there was the Presidential Rolex, right on cue. Bob propped his left elbow on the table, baring his twenty-thousand-dollar timepiece in a fairly casual way.

“Terrie says you’re based in Atlanta now.”

“I moved the corporate headquarters from Phoenix to Atlanta four years ago,” she said, “and it was a good move. Silk and Steele has really taken off…seventeen markets now. Plus, I have two sisters in Atlanta, and nieces and nephews aplenty. It’s been great to get back to family. Do you have children, Bob?”

“Two. East and West Coasts. Thank God for boarding schools. Pretty much leaves me free to…have fun.” He waggled his eyebrows, saluted her with his mimosa and then drained the glass. “What about you? What do you do for fun, Stephie?”

“It’s Stephanie, Bob,” she said, smiling, and battling an urge to turn her sharp little hooves on his tragically insecure underbelly. But she was a decent and rational human being, not given to inflicting emotional pain on desperate, dead-muskrat-wearing executives fresh from the divorce wars. “And lately…I’ve been too occupied to water-ski, bodysurf, hike, train my dog or even use my gourmet kitchen.”

“Occupied?” He gave a wicked laugh and looked her up and down. “I just bet you have. With what?” He laughed again. “Or is that whom?”

She didn’t mean to do it. It wasn’t part of some grand discourage-the-masher plan. It just came out. Pure and simple. The truth.

“With radiation therapy, Bob.”

He huffed a half laugh, frowned, then finally got that she was serious.

“Radiation?” He recoiled, albeit unconsciously. “You mean for…”

“The big C.” When he continued to stare, she smiled again and felt a rebellious pleasure at the release of the tension that had coiled in her middle. She had simply told him the truth.

And the rest of the truth was that she didn’t feel like playing dating games just now…or maybe ever again. Until now, she’d refused to tell anyone except her sisters about the breast cancer diagnosis or the treatment that left her drained of energy and depressed at times. She hadn’t even told Terrie, one of her oldest friends. All their phone conversations over the last year had been about the engagement, the wedding plans and the way the Phoenix store was doing. There just never seemed to be a good time to say “Cassie’s got to have the Vera Wang for the wedding, and by the way, I’ve got breast cancer.”

She hadn’t told any of the people at her corporate offices, either. The first surgery had taken her away from work for a week, which she’d listed as “vacation.” The second surgery had taken another week, scheduled just after Fashion Week in New York, so everyone assumed she was taking a little downtime in the Hamptons.

Why she had chosen to break her careful silence with old Bob Slidell was something of a mystery. Except that he was here and she was tired of hiding the truth she lived with day after day. Too late to recall it now. The muskrat was out of the bag.

“Damn. That’s tough stuff…cancer.” Bob’s gaze flicked around the room as if Terrie or her husband or any of the seventy-five other guests could help him out with something to say. “Are you…I mean…okay?”

“So far. Two surgeries and some radiation later, I seem to be clear.”

“What kind of cancer was it?” And damn if his gaze didn’t go straight to her breasts. Probably unintentionally. But he was, after all, on the make. Most likely had breasts on the brain.

“Yep. That’s the one. Breast cancer.” She watched color rise in his face. And because of what she’d been through, of what she’d learned from dealing with the people who loved her, she knew she couldn’t live with herself if she just dropped that bomb and watched him scurry away in embarrassment. Or have him blame Terrie for putting him in such a spot.

“Terrie doesn’t know,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning in. “As you can imagine, it’s something I’ve kept pretty close to the vest. In the fashion business, you don’t want to be seen as anything but vigorous and healthy.” She touched his arm with a tentative smile. “Being in business yourself, you would understand that in a way few people could.”

Her words took a moment to register, but he returned her smile with a newfound equilibrium. Keeping up a face for the business—that he understood. After a moment, Steph sensed his discomfort melting into a more human bit of concern.

“And it’s been such a lovely wedding,” she continued. “I’d hate for my news to spoil it for Cassie, or Terrie and Rick.”

“I won’t say anything,” he said, giving her hand on his sleeve a pat. “Hey, how about a refill on that mimosa?”

And just like that, Muskrat Bob became an insider in the biggest secret of her life. He actually came back to sit beside her, and as the table filled up around them, he became a fount of good-natured blather and appealingly awful puns. It turned into a fairly enjoyable wedding brunch.

Until the toasts.

The first was the maid of honor’s retelling of the bride and groom’s meeting, so sweet it should have had diabetic warnings before and after. Then came the parental “welcome to the family” speeches, complete with reminiscences of childhoods and declarations of destined love. Cassie and Jason were perfect for each other, completed each other, enlarged and encouraged each other. Boxes of tissues covertly made the rounds.

With each testimony, Steph felt a little more estranged and out of place. She adored Cassie and Terrie and their family, but all the talk of fated love and happily-ever-after was too much just now. Memories of her own checkered romantic past—of “almosts” that never became “for always”—began to scramble for attention in her head.

When yet another bridesmaid took the microphone, she gave Bob’s hand a pat and excused herself to go to the restroom. Reaching the porch of the Red Setter, she kept moving. Once on the bark-lined path that snaked among the various lodges and cabins, she glanced down at her flat shoes and deemed them sturdy enough for some walking, then struck off on the road around the lake.

Wind rustled leaves, sunlight dappled the ground beneath the newly greened trees, and the tart, earthy scents of the warming spring worked a calming magic. When she emerged into a sunny spot on the path, the contrast of warm sun and cool breeze on her exposed skin made it feel like the loveliest day ever. She appreciated such things more now. The simple acts of walking and breathing the crisp, clean air were pure pleasure.

Then her brain started to work.

Romance. True love. The happiness in Cassie’s face. Why hadn’t Steph ever felt so happy, so fulfilled, so sure of someone’s love?

The answer, as she’d come to see it over the last year, was that she’d been too busy making money, making a name for herself and making good on the promise that her parents, professors and early business associates had seen in her. She’d always put love and relationships second, because there would be time for that later.

Well, now it was “later.” And she had one and a half breasts, an uncertain future, and a baggage train longer than most of the men she had considered too “entangled” to get involved with.

How long Steph walked, trying to lose herself in nature, she couldn’t have said, but when she heard the voices, her cheeks were warm and her shoes were rubbing in places that said “too long.” She rounded a bend in the path and spotted a number of women thirty or forty yards away, at the water’s edge, wearing tan vests and a variety of hats and caps. They all looked oddly plump, until she realized they were wearing those fishing things—waders.

Edging closer, into the shade of a tree beside the path, she watched them laughing and waving their fishing rods around, seemingly having a great time. A bunch of women who—

A booming male voice made her reassess that thought. She quickly located a tall man who was giving and getting hugs galore, and bantering with the women. There were a couple of other men present, but none as large and memorable as that one…especially when he threw back his head in a deep, finger-tingling laugh that rolled across the grassy space between them to make her heart skip.

She knew that laugh, that voice, that man. It was Finn Hartley, the guy she’d dated in Phoenix before moving her headquarters to Atlanta.

She braced herself against the tree and took a deep breath, stunned by the impact of seeing him again. How could he be here now, at Greer Lodge? And why was he hugging all those women?

Hugging. Suddenly she recalled in a heart-stopping flashback the size and strength of his arms, the warmth of his big body, the comfort of being clasped in his embrace. He was hugging those women. All of them. As she watched, her eyes began to burn. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her very skin felt hungry for touch. She wanted one of those hugs. She needed—oh, God, how she needed—somebody to wrap warm arms around her and just hold her.

Chapter Two

She barely saw the water or sunshine or even the path itself as she hurried back to the Red Setter, where “wedding afterglow” practically pulsated from the windows. Steeling herself, she headed instead to the main lodge and drew up at the front desk to say, “There was a group of women up the trail, fishing….”

“Ahhh.” The barrel-chested fellow behind the desk nodded, clearly anticipating the rest of her question. “That’s the Casting for Recovery retreat. They come every year at this time.”

“Casting as in fly-fishing?” she said, and he nodded. At least that part made sense; Finn Hartley was an avid fisherman. “Recovery from what?” The answer struck her—women and recovery—even as he spoke.

“Breast cancer.” He picked up a cardboard-backed poster from one of the desks behind him, and there were the familiar pink ribbons. “These women are breast cancer survivors and the organization puts on these retreats to help them learn to cope while they’re learning to fish. It’s a great group.” He beamed. “This is the Arizona chapter, but there’re groups all over the country now. And those gals—” his smile mellowed “—they’re pretty danged special. It’s an honor to have ’em here.”

Stephanie’s smile felt as tight as the knot in her stomach.

“Yes, I imagine they are,” she said. “Thanks. I was just curious.”

The unshed tears in her eyes made it difficult to see the path, but she managed to make it back to the cabin where her room was located without running into Terrie or any of the rest of the wedding party. She sat on the bed and looked around the homey, Western-themed decor, hugging herself and wishing that tomorrow morning would hurry the hell up and come so she could get out of here.

* * *

Finn Hartley stepped out onto the porch of the cabin he had shared with half a dozen other CFR volunteers, stretched widely and yawned. Monday morning was cool and crisp; the fish would probably be biting. They sure were in top form yesterday for the retreat’s big fishing finale. Most of the time the volunteers did well to help participants land one fish each, but this year’s group had landed two or three apiece. It was so gratifying to see their smiles, feel their hugs and even dry a few tears.

He glanced at the rod case and tackle box left by the steps, and for one brief moment considered getting in a little more river time before going back to Phoenix. But it was Monday already and he had a lot on his plate right now. Fishing clinics were starting soon, which meant traveling, so he had to head back to his store. And his girls.

He blew out a heavy breath. The girls.

Back to reality, Hartley.

As he stalked down the road toward the main lodge, plagued by thoughts of sexy prom dresses and champagne-stuffed limos and hotel reservations, his good mood evaporated. He was the father of teenage girls. He’d done his best to stay involved in their lives, but these days they considered him ancient and irrelevant, an artifact from another age. All they seemed to want from him was money for clothes and spring break excursions and college hunting trips.

They’d been his little girls once, two adorable imps who’d learned to tie killer flies before they were four. Now if he managed to drag them out into the wilderness with him, he couldn’t get them out of the damned tent. Or away from their freakin’ smart phones, iPods and Facebook pages.

“Owww—oh! Hey…” As he’d rounded the corner into the dining room of the main lodge, he’d nearly bowled over a woman waiting at the hostess’s desk. “I’m so sorr—” He grabbed her arm to steady her and found himself staring down into a face from one of his well-fermented dreams. “I—I…you…Steph?” He released her as if she’d scorched his hands. Actually, it was more like tingling than burning, and the sensation rushed upward to heat his face. “Stephanie Steele?”

“Finn??” She pulled free and backed away a step, struggling visibly to collect herself. Struggling. Stephanie Steele caught off guard and scrambling for composure—there was a World’s First. “Well.” She seemed to have difficulty swallowing. “Imagine seeing you here.”

“Not so odd, really.” His gaze slid to hers and the blue of her shocked eyes struck him as softer, deeper than he’d remembered. “Greer has some of the best fishing in the state. I come here every year. Sometimes two or three times a year. To fish.” He was babbling. “So what are you doing here? New York run out of bright lights?” He winced at his attempt at wit.

She smiled ruefully and edged away another step.

“I’m just—” she started to motion toward the dining room, but changed midway and waved toward the lodge’s front doors “—leaving, actually. I came for Cassie Gardner’s wedding. Terrie Gardner’s daughter. She was married Saturday night out at the Red Setter.”

“Terrie—sure, I remember. Worked for you. Little blonde with a million-watt smile.” He felt a pull in the middle of his chest as that thread of memory, now tugged, threatened to unravel a whole fabric of potent recollections. Memories of the silky side of Stephanie Steele. “It’s good to see you, Steph. I wondered, uh, about…”

His throat was going dry. Coffee, he thought, as the hostess arrived with a steaming pot and a couple mugs hanging from her fingers. He needed to jump-start his brain.

“Your table’s ready,” she said to Stephanie, who looked about to bolt.

“I’m driving to the airport this morning,” she said, “a-and—”

“And you could really use something under your belt before you go.” He waved a hand to direct her into the restaurant ahead of him. “Me, too.”

She hesitated a moment, and he wondered if she was that reluctant to be around him. Then she gave in and entered the dining room.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world, following Stephanie to a restaurant table; he’d done it dozens of times. Had he appreciated the view this much before? Her neat, well-toned shoulders, her well-rounded hips in a pair of perfectly worn jeans. The way she filled out that crisp white shirt with the rolled-up sleeves, and the easy grace of her walk in a pair of boots. As she slid into the chair at their assigned table, he caught the sway of her shoulder-length auburn hair and turquoise necklace, and suffered a moment of vertigo.

His mouth went dry.

* * *

It was a good thing the table wasn’t far from the dining room door. Another two feet and Steph’s knees would have given out. She was in no shape to confront the embodiment of the memories that had had her tossing and turning most of the night.

“So did you catch anything?” She managed a somewhat chipper tone.

“Not really.” He grinned and her pulse skipped erratically. Finn Hartley had the most nibble-worthy lips, and when they drew back over those straight white teeth… “I mean, I wasn’t here fishing for myself. I was volunteering as a guide for Casting for Recovery. It’s a charity that puts on retreats for breast cancer survivors. Damon’s Sporting Goods donates a lot of the equipment.” He must have taken the dismay in her expression for disbelief, because he hurried to explain. “Really. I do it every year. It’s an all-woman retreat. Men are only allowed on Sundays, so that each woman can have her own fishing guide that day. It’s kind of a special group.” He paused to look up at the waitress who was filling their mugs. “Thanks.”

Then he ordered enough breakfast to feed an army: eggs, biscuits and gravy, hash browns, sausages and blueberry pancakes. He’d always been a big breakfast man. Steph chose an egg-white omelet and a fruit cup.

“The fishing I get,” she said casually, as the waitress left. “But breast cancer? How on earth did you get hooked up with that?” She put creamer in her coffee, stirred, and when she looked up at him, her breath caught. His angular face was sober and his hazel eyes had darkened. It wasn’t corporate philanthropy or even a desire to do some good in the world, she realized; it was personal. The long breath he took and the bittersweet smile that softened his intensity confirmed her thinking.

“You remember my older sister, Janice?”

“The librarian?” Stephanie felt herself bracing, praying it wasn’t that.

“Three years ago she was diagnosed with a stage 4 breast cancer.” He paused and took another sip of coffee. “She fought for over a year, but the combination of chemo and the disease… She died two weeks before her forty-fifth birthday.”

Steph waited a moment, wrestling with her own raw emotions, trying to get them under control before speaking.

“I’m so sorry, Finn.” Every word required effort. “I know you were close to her.”

“She practically raised me.” He smiled with what could only have been called pained pleasure. “She was divorced and didn’t have any kids. So when she needed help, I moved her in with me. It was something, being with her 24/7. We played cards and planted flowers and watched a bunch of sappy movies. I took her out into the desert to gaze at stars and I even took her fishing. She made me bait her hooks and then she was the one who caught all the fish.” He gave a low, pained sigh, as if seeing it all again in memory. “And when things got bad, I rubbed her shoulders and held her head…saw to it that she took her meds….” His voice softened. “I’ve never seen anybody so brave in my life. With all she went through…she still could laugh and clown around and worry about other people. And when it was done and she was gone, it was the biggest…emptiest…”

He halted. Muscles in his jaw tensed as he worked to master the feelings he’d dredged up. “Sorry,” he said after a moment, looking down. “Not used to going there.”

“It must have been awful for you.” She took refuge in a sip of coffee, fighting to swallow it past the lump in her throat.

“Awful and beautiful. Probably the best thing I’ve ever done in my life. And the hardest.” When he looked up again, she glanced away, as if trying to spot their waitress. There was a brief silence in which she felt him studying her. “So, hey, what about you?” he asked, shaking off the somber mood. “How is the fashion business these days?”

“Fine. Lots of things in the works. We open a new store every six months or so. A lot of late nights and waaay too much caffeine. I should have invested in a Starbucks or two along the way.” Her smile felt forced and she hoped he couldn’t see what it cost her. There was something in his gaze, something intimate and probing, something that made her feel vulnerable and exposed. “And what about you? Still at Damon’s, I guess.”

“Absolutely. The best place in the world. Sporting man’s heaven.” He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back. The tanned planes of his cheeks had a few new lines etched into them, but on him the wear of life looked right and appealing…even courageous. “I get enough time off to do some volunteer work, like CFR, and get in some fishing and some hugging.”

“Hugging?” She cocked her head, hoping the drape of her hair would hide the reddening of her cheeks.

“Yeah, I get to hug all the women on retreat Sundays. It’s the highlight of my year. Which may tell you something about the state of my life just now. I don’t get many…” He gave a pained smile, squared his shoulders and confessed, “My girls aren’t real keen on me just now.”

“Your gi—Katie and Chelsea?” Steph brightened, pleased at the memories the names resurrected. “How are they?”

“Katie’s a senior this year, Chelsea is a sophomore. Both too pretty, too grown-up and too damned independent. I’m just a walkin’ checkbook to them these days.” He dug out a wallet and flashed pictures of two teenage girls with fabulous smiles and brilliant hazel eyes. Their father’s eyes. Steph felt a warm spot in her middle, remembering them. She’d gone school shopping with them once, and it had turned out to be one of the highlights of—Don’t go there.

“You, um, have any…” He halted, letting a rolling hand motion say the rest.

“Kids? Plenty. Four nieces and three nephews, all under twelve.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your sisters are there.” He paused, a muscle in his jaw working. “So, the move to Atlanta worked out well for you.”

“It’s been good.” She nodded emphatically. “I don’t know how I’d get along without the family. Don’t know how I ever did.”

For a moment her words hung between them.

The food arrived just then and she was able to sink her attention into her omelet and fruit. Steph and Finn managed a little small talk, but twice while they were eating she looked up to find him staring at her with an expression that was somewhere between curiosity and intensity. She had the oddest feeling that he could see inside her, that he could tell something about her was different. It was all she could do to keep from crossing her arms over her breasts.

She tried not to think of his sister, Janice, whom she had met and liked a great deal. She tried not to imagine him wiping Janice’s brow or holding her while she cried, or feeding her when she didn’t feel like eating. But every image Steph tried to dodge seemed to slide around the barriers she put up, and bring three others with it.

To combat the emotions crowding her lungs, she started to talk about her nieces and nephews and birthdays and family holidays. She inquired enough to realize that Finn was truly feeling estranged from his daughters, who lived with his ex, and didn’t know how to fix their relationship. And then it happened.

Somehow her forearm was on the tabletop and his big, callused hand closed over it and slid down to her hand, enfolding it, cradling it…making a connection between them that was devastatingly strong and familiar. That warmth, that solid, vital presence… She wanted to curl up in his arms and have him hug her back to health and hope and life itself. But that was too much to ask of anyone; that was a task she had to undertake herself. The task she’d been running from for almost nine months now.

Escape is not an option.

“Whoa! Look at the time,” she said, glancing at her watch and springing to her feet. “I have to get on the road if I’m going to catch my flight.” She reached for her purse, but Finn rose and insisted breakfast was on him. For a moment they stood two feet apart, looking at each other, not quite sure what to do.

His arms moved at his sides, ever so slightly. She wanted to feel them around her so badly….

Panicking, she took a big step backward, fearing that both her anxiety and the reasons for it were written all over her. “Well, it was wonderful catching up with you, Finn. If you’re ever in Atlanta…”

She turned on her heel and, through the rush of blood in her ears, caught something about “a couple of weeks.” Unable to stop herself from taking one last look, she turned by the hostess station to toss him a brisk wave and a tight smile. There he stood with his broad shoulders and long, muscular legs…his big, capable hands and sorrow-shaded eyes…

It was fifteen minutes later, as she floored the pedal of her rental car along the state highway, that she realized it was tears that kept making the road hard to see. Buckets of them. She was sobbing.

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