Can she be his cure for writer’s block?

For New York novelist Logan Walters, falling for the girl next door was more than a cliché. It was a calamity! If Leigh Norris hadn’t been so attractive, and hadn’t been hammering relentlessly while he was trying to write, Logan would never have ascended her rickety ladder in a misguided mix of gallantry and frustration. And he wouldn’t have a broken wrist—or a guilty new assistant who can’t type. Clearly, his escape to the Brookhollow B and B was not going to be the quiet, idyllic retreat he needed to finish his overdue manuscript. But it was fast becoming much more interesting than expected….

“I…uh…hired a typist.”

His agent snorted over the phone. “You’re lying.”

“No, really I did.” He and Leigh hadn’t exactly talked about payment, except for his brief mention of it at the haunted hike, but he certainly planned on compensating her for her time and help. Of course, he’d rather show her his gratitude in other ways, like taking her out on a real date, telling her how wonderful she was and helping to erase some of the pain in her past.

“From what agency?” Clive still sounded suspicious.

“No agency. She’s just a woman who lives here in Brookhollow, next door to the B and B.” It was such an understatement, Logan was almost embarrassed by the lie. But what could he tell Clive? That he was getting help from a woman he was falling in love with in the small town? Clive would for sure give up on him, thinking he’d lost his mind.

“Not the same woman who pushed you off a ladder?”

“Actually, yes.”

Clive laughed. “Wow, way to call in the guilt favor.”

Dear Reader,

Love can often be found when we’re not looking for it. After painful past experiences, it is sometimes tempting to go through life unaware of the wonderful opportunities around us. But some opportunities, like love, refuse to be ignored. Love doesn’t care that you have life plans, goals that you may be working toward or dreams that you might be chasing. It doesn’t care that your heart may still be mending from a previous tear. And it doesn’t care if the timing just isn’t right. In this story about Logan and Leigh, love is oblivious to the fact that these two shouldn’t fall in love, and it happens anyway.

In this story, both Leigh and Logan are searching for a family of their own, without stopping to realize that together they could have a family and the love they’d never thought possible and had already given up on. I hope you enjoy this story about persevering in the face of heartache and taking that one last chance that just might be the right one.

Hugs,

Jennifer

Falling for Leigh
Jennifer Snow

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JENNIFER SNOW

lives in Edmonton, Alberta, with her husband and four-year-old son. She is a member of the Writers Guild of Alberta, the Romance Writers of America, the Canadian Author Association and shewrites.org. She is also a regular blogger on the Harlequin Heartwarming Authors site and is a contributing writer for Mslexia magazine and RWR. She has offered online courses on writing sweet romance through several RWA local chapters and has written articles for Avenue magazine. An active volunteer with Frontier College, she is an advocate for literacy programs worldwide. More information can be found on her website, www.jennifersnowauthor.com.

MILLS & BOON

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Acknowledgments

This book would not have happened so soon if not for the support of my amazing husband. Reagan, I can’t thank you enough for giving me the opportunity to do what I love and for believing in me more than anyone. Thanks a million times to my agent, Stephany Evans, whose happy faces on my manuscripts are what give me the strength to face the tough critiques, as well. And as always, this book wouldn’t shine as brightly without the input from my amazing editor, Victoria Curran. So thank you all again for the love and support.

And finally, a big thank-you to Adoption Options for the resources and examples of Birth Mom letters that both broke and restored my heart.

Dedication

For Cheryl—“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying ‘I will try again tomorrow.’”

—MaryAnne Radmacher

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

“WHAT IS THAT NOISE?” Logan Walters asked through clenched teeth. He paced the hardwood floor in his room at the Brookhollow Inn, the room phone cradled to his ear. His laptop sat open on the antique writing desk, and papers were strewn about the bed. Discarded, rolled balls of yellow legal-pad paper lay near the trash can in the corner of the room. So much for the peace and quiet he’d been expecting from the small town in the middle of New Jersey. He’d been making just as much progress in his sublet studio apartment in Manhattan as he was here in Brookhollow.

None.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Walters,” the Brookhollow Inn’s new owner, Rachel Harper, said. “My children aren’t running through the hallways of the guest quarters again, are they?”

“No, not today.” That had been yesterday’s distraction. He couldn’t believe the bed-and-breakfast was home to so many kids. Funny, they’d forgotten to mention it on their newly designed website. He suspected complaints about noise were common now.

He ran a hand through his hair, which reached the back of his shirt collar. Past due for a cut.

Man, he missed the nice, quiet, little old lady that used to own the place. Had he known of the switch in ownership the year before, he certainly wouldn’t have come.

“I don’t hear anything here at the desk. What kind of noise is it?” she asked.

“It’s a hammering sound.” How could she not hear the deafening vibrations echoing off the walls?

“Our renovations have been complete for quite some time.”

He picked up on the note of pride in her voice.

Yes, their renovations—he’d noticed them, too. New paint, new windows, new tiled roof...improvements for sure, but he’d been relieved to see they hadn’t messed with the antique furniture in the guest rooms.

“Maybe it’s coming from outside,” she said. “Would you like me to go take a look?”

Logan was about to reply when the hammering ceased. He waited.

“Mr. Walters?”

“Hang on.” He waited a second longer. Nothing. He brought the receiver back to his ear. “No, that’s okay. It stopped.” Hopefully this time for good.

“Okay, then. Is there anything else I can do for you? I noticed you didn’t come down for breakfast yet. Would you like something brought up?”

Logan glanced at the clock on the mantel of the old wood-burning fireplace: 8:26. He’d been awake since five, surviving on the in-room coffeemaker. His stomach growled. The offer was tempting, especially as the smell of fresh-baked pumpkin-spiced muffins filled the house. Scanning the messy room, he hesitated.

In less than twenty-four hours, he’d made quite an impact on the small space. Clothes spilled out of his carry-on suitcase in front of the window. Yellow Post-it notes decorated the freshly painted dark blue walls above the desk, and his notebooks littered the floor, along with the homemade quilt thrown in a heap next to his damp towels. And the room still held the faintly nauseating smell of the Chinese takeout he’d ordered the night before.

“Um...no, thanks. I’ll come down.” After he restored the room to a livable state.

“Great, thank you. I have several guests checking in any minute, so I really shouldn’t leave the desk until my partner, Victoria, arrives.”

As Logan replaced the receiver, the sound of children squealing, running through the hallways made him wince. Spoke too soon about not hearing her children.

Coming here was a bad idea. He was never going to get any work done with the never-ending noise, in and outside the B & B. Being away from the distractions in the city was supposed to cure his writer’s block. Alone in a place where he could focus on the story in progress and not the stack of personal issues that competed for his every thought.

He’d first discovered this small town when he lived in New Jersey, at the start of his writing career. Brookhollow had been a great weekend escape during his first novel. He’d hoped the inspiration he’d once found here might be waiting for him. He’d foolishly believed that things wouldn’t have changed in the place in almost a decade.

Sitting at the desk, he stared at the open document on the screen. The idea of this sixth book—the final one in his mystery series—made him cringe. Halfway through, he realized his original idea of how to end the series that had defined his career and put him in the spotlight years before just wasn’t good enough. His fans expected more and he didn’t want to disappoint them.

He didn’t have an alternative plan, either.

He scanned the last few paragraphs he’d written. The scene had stalled and he couldn’t figure out why. He wondered if the point of view was the problem. Or maybe it was the setting? Something was definitely off. Maybe it was him. He needed to move on...come back to it later that evening. He worked better in the evening, anyway....

He flipped that page of his legal pad over and wrote “next scene” on the top of the next page, underlined it twice, then tapped his pen against the daunting blankness. If only he knew what the next scene was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the Dillon and McKay Law Office paperwork and reached for it. Leaning back in the chair, he scanned the letter from his ex-girlfriend’s lawyer for the millionth time. His vision blurred as it always did when he skimmed the third line. She was filing for full custody of Amelia Alexandra Kelland.

Full custody...and he’d get what? Visitation? No rights to make decisions about his little girl’s future?

He tossed the papers onto the desk.

If only they’d been married, he’d have had more rights. The thought of his ex-girlfriend made his blood boil and he forced himself to take a deep breath. She was moving to L.A. and wanted to take their daughter with her. He refused to let that happen.

The loud hammering resumed, and he dropped his pen as he stood. That’s it. Grabbing his fleece jacket from the back of the antique rocking chair, he dashed out of the room, leaving the creaking old door to creep closed behind him. It would lock automatically, a lesson he’d learned the hard way the evening before. It had been two hours before the B & B owners returned from dinner at a friend’s.

Taking the stairs two at a time toward the entryway, he collided with a petite blonde whose arms were full of shopping bags. The Brookhollow Inn’s co-owner, Victoria Mason. She’d checked him in the day before.

“Good morning, Mr. Walters,” she said, readjusting her load. “Something wrong?”

“Sorry, excuse me,” he mumbled. Stopping in the entryway, he listened for the sound. Next door, to the right.

“Is everything okay?” Victoria called after him as he pushed the front door open.

“It will be once I get my hands on that hammer,” Logan said as he stepped outside.

Several feet away he saw the source.

“What are you doing?” he asked, shielding his eyes from the glare of the early October sun. The woman next door, standing on a ladder in front of the house, wasn’t the workman he’d been expecting, dressed as she was in a pair of tight black leggings and an oversize tan sweater. She wasn’t wearing any shoes. “Hey!” he yelled when she didn’t respond.

She turned abruptly at that, almost losing her footing on the ladder. “Whoa,” she said, steadying herself. “Huh?”

“I said, what are you doing? Other than making a ton of noise.” Logan studied the rickety ladder. Rusty and unstable, missing a rung in the center, the thing was a hazard.

“Hanging a sign,” she answered, without looking at him.

“At this hour?”

“You’re staying next door, right?” She paused, holding the sign against the house with one arm and gripping the roof for stability as she turned slightly to face him. Her long dark hair blew across her eyes, and she tucked it behind an ear.

“Yeah,” he grumbled.

“Well, I have an agreement with the owners that I won’t make any noise until after eight. It’s almost nine and I’m almost done.” She waved a hand, dismissing him.

“It’s upside down.”

“Seriously?” The woman sighed as she leaned back on the ladder to study her handy work. The ladder pulled away from the awning and she quickly leaned forward again. “Shoot.” Turning the hammer around, she removed the last nail she’d driven in.

Logan scanned the sign, reading the upside-down words. “You’re operating a day care next door to a bed-and-breakfast?” he asked through narrowed eyes. Just his luck. Not exactly ideal town planning in his opinion.

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“I just think the bed-and-breakfast might lose business....” He paused, his hands on his hips. “Although I guess what’s the difference when there’s already ten kids living in the house?”

This was no longer the place he remembered and definitely not the place for him to write. He’d get nothing done with children around, reminding him of how much he missed Amelia. Working from his home office, he’d been her primary caregiver—getting her ready for school in the morning, seeing her off to the bus and being there for after-school snacks while she did her homework before dinner. He loved every minute of being a father.

He needed to check out of here right away. Returning to his apartment, seeing Amelia’s toys and her empty bedroom wouldn’t be much better, but he couldn’t stay.

“At the B-and-B? There are five children.” The woman stretched to remove the nails on the other end of the sign. One foot left the ladder completely and Logan had to look away.

“There shouldn’t be any. It’s a business,” he muttered, jamming his hands into his pockets and hunching deeper into his sweater. He shuffled his feet in the crunchy yellow and orange leaves on the sidewalk in front of her small bungalow.

“It’s also a home.” She flipped the sign around and lost her footing again on the ladder. She clutched the roof, struggling to regain her balance and reposition her stocking feet.

Stocking feet on an already unstable ladder? “Okay, that’s it. Get down.” Logan opened the gate of the white picket fence and moved toward her, motioning for her to descend the ladder.

“What?”

“Get...down!” he growled. “Give me the sign.”

She hesitated.

He rattled the ladder.

“Fine, stop.” She climbed down, stretching to reach the next rung below the missing one, then hesitated before handing over the sign. “You’re not going to break it, are you?”

Logan grabbed the sign. The faster he could get this hung, the faster he could get back to work. Or at least back to staring at a blank page. Frowning, he climbed the wobbly ladder. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“No one asked you.” The woman folded her arms across her chest.

So much for gratitude, Logan thought as he paused halfway up the ladder. “Hey, is there supposed to be smoke inside your house?” Bending to peer through the window in the front of the house, he could see thick, dark clouds spiraling out of the oven toward the ceiling and, a second later, the smoke detector screeched.

“Smoke? No...” Her eyes widened. “My cookies.” She lunged toward the door, threw it open and raced inside, oblivious that she’d just hit the ladder.

Oh no. Logan’s arms flailed as the ladder fell away from the house, taking him with it, and crashed down on top of him on the cold ground. His arm hit the side of a rock-walled flower bed, and he cringed as pain seared his right wrist. His cheeks flamed hot, as he pushed the ladder off and sat up, rubbing the throbbing wrist. Damn it.

The woman came back outside, a frown wrinkling her forehead. “Well, the cookies are ruined,” she said, tossing her hands up in the air and then shooting him a quizzical look as she took in the picture before her. “Did you fall?” She rushed to pick up the sign.

“No. You knocked me off.”

Her mouth dropped open.

Logan grimaced as he tried to move his right hand. This was just great. The quickly swelling wrist ached with the slightest movement.

She knelt on the ground next to him. “Let me see your hand,” she said, reaching for it.

At her touch he yanked his arm away. “Ow!”

“Ow? I hardly touched you.”

“Well, don’t.” Logan levered himself up with his good hand and stood. He wanted to get as far away from her as possible.

When she scrambled to her feet, her eyes came level to his chest. “Fine.” She took a step back and shoved several stray strands of hair away from her face to study his injury. “But you should get it looked at. It could be broken.”

Broken? He groaned. A deep purple bruise had already begun to spread across his hand. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I really don’t think so. There’s a medical clinic in town.... I have the children arriving soon, but if you want to wait until they all get here, I could drive you in the day-care van?”

That was a guilt offer if he’d ever heard one. Without even considering it, he shook his head. The medical clinic wasn’t that far—he’d walk.

The woman pointed to the left. “Six blocks that way, take a right onto Main Street—”

“I know where it is.”

“Oh...okay. You sure you don’t want a ride? It’s no trouble.”

She was not a good liar.

“I’m sure.”

She bent to get her sign. “Okay.” Then picking up the ladder, she set it against the house.

“What are you doing?” Logan held his sore wrist with one hand.

“Hanging my sign,” she said, stepping onto the first rung.

“Are you crazy? That ladder is a million years old.”

A dark red minivan pulled up in front of the house, and she stepped down and waved, smiling warmly. The effect transformed her face as her dark eyes lit up and her features softened.

Logan’s eyes followed hers to see two children climb out of the back of the van.

“Okay,” he muttered, “well, thanks for the injury.”

Holding up his purple, swollen hand, he went through the gate past the children and then the bed-and-breakfast, heading in the direction of the clinic.

* * *

“I DIDN’T REALIZE I was making so much noise over there with that sign, but he was pretty irate.” Leigh took a sip of her chamomile tea from the oversize mug and curled a leg under her on the wicker chair, as she settled in the dining room of the bed-and-breakfast that evening. All day she’d been worried she might have caused trouble for her cousin Rachel and her partner, Victoria Mason...and she’d felt guilty about his injury. That swelling and bruising hadn’t looked good. But she hadn’t asked for his help. In fact, she never asked anyone for help. She’d learned the hard way that depending on someone else led to disappointment.

Rachel couldn’t conceal her worry even as she said, “Ah, I didn’t hear anything. He’s just a grumpy guy.... Though he has been gone a long time,” she added before biting into a raspberry muffin. “And yesterday, my kids drove him crazy running in the halls. It was raining so hard, I couldn’t send them outside. Poor guy’s not getting much peace and quiet with all the noise around here.”

Leigh shook her head. “Kids playing is not noise, it’s called fun.”

“I don’t know. My crew can be loud sometimes.” She nodded toward the side of the yard where her older children used garden rakes to gather the leaves that had fallen from the oaks and maples in the spacious yard and piled them high.

“Looks like they’re being helpful to me, cleaning up.”

“Just wait.”

A second later the three kids ran screaming, diving into the pile, rescattering leaves all over the yard.

“See?”

She couldn’t help envying her cousin and her five children. After years of trying to have kids, she’d been unsuccessful. The problem wasn’t conceiving. Three miscarriages, fertility treatments and countless tests had yet to determine the reason for her inability to carry a baby to term, and at thirty-eight, she was forced to face facts: having a child of her own wasn’t a possibility.

Especially now that she found herself single again after ten years of marriage.

Neil had filed for divorce four years before, claiming that the stress of trying to have a family had taken its toll on their relationship and created a wedge between them that he couldn’t get past.

Though she’d been devastated, she hadn’t been able to argue with the obvious: their relationship had changed. She couldn’t fault him for leaving. He wanted children and that wasn’t something she could give him.

Rachel touched her hand, bringing her back to the present. She lowered her voice as she asked, “Have you heard from the adoption agency yet?”

The cousins were close, yet it still amazed Leigh how easily Rachel could read her thoughts. “They called last month to say they’d received the first portion of my deposit.”

She toyed with the rim of the oversize mug. Deciding to adopt had been a major decision, and not one that she’d made lightly. She’d saved every cent of her divorce settlement from Neil for four years, waiting until she was certain she was ready to take this step, and now she was. She was fully prepared to raise a child on her own.

“It was enough to open my file and start the paperwork, but they said it could take months before I hear anything else.” Her shoulders sagged. She knew this process wouldn’t happen overnight, especially when she was hoping to adopt a newborn, but she was painfully aware that she wasn’t getting any younger. She wanted to start a family before she turned forty.

“Don’t worry, it will happen. You’re terrific with the kids in your day care. Anyone can see you will make a wonderful mom someday.” Rachel gave her hand a reassuring squeeze as Victoria joined them in the dining room, carrying a cup of black coffee.

“Sorry, I got caught up on the phone with Mrs. Dawson. She’s planning a Halloween murder-mystery dinner at the recreation center and she wants to advertise the event in the Brookhollow View. I was helping her with the wording. What did I miss?”

Leigh shot her cousin a look. The only people she’d confided in about her adoption plans were Rachel and Grandmother Norris, and she wanted to keep the information between the three of them. Until she had a child of her own, she didn’t want anyone to know she was going through the process. Disappointment was harder to bear when it had an audience, and if things didn’t work out...

Victoria glanced between the two women and took a sip of her steaming coffee.

Rachel cleared her throat. “We were just discussing our mysterious, brooding guest in the Blue Room.”

“Mr. Walters?” Victoria’s eyes narrowed. “He checked in yesterday morning. Said he planned to stay two or three weeks for sure, maybe longer. I checked out his website from the email address he left on file—he’s some famous mystery novelist.” She took another sip of coffee. “He almost knocked me off my feet when I came in today. What did he do now?”

“He was harassing Leigh about hanging her new day-care sign. Too loud.” Rachel reached for the antique teapot on the table and refilled her cup.

“In fairness, he did try to help me with the sign.” Leigh sighed. A writer? This was even worse than she’d thought. Was it too much to hope that he was left-handed? Though he probably required both hands to type.

“Then he fell off the ladder,” Rachel struggled to say, her mouth full of raspberry muffin.

“Actually I opened my front door and knocked him off the ladder.” Leigh hid sheepishly behind her tea mug, waiting for the reaction.

Victoria’s eyes widened. “Is he okay?”

Leigh shrugged.

“Don’t know,” Rachel said. “I hope so. I haven’t seen him since he rushed out of here this morning.”

Victoria stared at Leigh. “I can’t believe you.”

Leigh ran her index finger around the mug. “I didn’t mean to. I had cookies in the oven that were burning—”

Victoria waved that away. “I meant for using that old ladder. I told you not to use that rickety thing. It could have been you who fell. Please borrow ours anytime. Or better yet, just ask Luke to do it. He’d be happy to help,” Victoria said, volunteering her husband’s services.

The two had just gotten married in their second attempt at a wedding, after Victoria had called off the first one twelve years before when she moved to New York to follow her dream of a high-powered career. Luckily, fate had brought her home the previous Christmas and the two had realized their love had never faded, despite time and distance.

She bit a thumbnail. “Do you think he’s okay? I’d hate to think one of our guests may have gotten hurt.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Rachel said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

The front door opened and a cool October breeze rustled the end of the tablecloth and paper napkins as Logan Walters entered his right hand in a plaster cast from wrist to elbow. His hard eyes zeroed in on Leigh.

She swallowed hard.

“Okay, maybe not.” Rachel stood quickly and busied herself gathering their empty cups. She headed toward the kitchen.

“You.” Scowling, he pointed a finger of his uninjured hand at Leigh.

“Me?” Leigh’s eyes widened as she untucked her leg from beneath her on the chair and stood.

“Excuse me. I hear the phone ringing.” Victoria dashed toward the front desk, leaving them alone.

Great, thanks, friends.

Logan stopped inches from her. His height towered over her five-foot-two frame by almost a foot, but Leigh met his gaze.

“Look what you did.” He held his cast close to her face.

So it was broken. No surprise there. “I said I was sorry, but no one asked you to climb that ladder.” She sucked in her bottom lip. That hadn’t come out right. She should have stopped at sorry.

He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. “This is what I get for helping,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m sorry. I’ll pay your medical costs.” The money in her emergency fund was dwindling and this would make a further dent in it, but it would be better than him suing her for getting hurt on her property. That possibility hadn’t even occurred to her before now. She wondered if her homeowners’ insurance covered something like this. Her day-care insurance covered the children in case of injury in her care, but another adult?

“I don’t need your money. I have insurance,” he grumbled, raking his casted hand through his hair. The sticky medical gauze got caught and he winced, pulling it free, taking with it several strands of dark brown hair. “Man, I can’t do anything with this thing on my hand.” Turning, he took quick, long strides out of the room.

She followed him into the hallway. “Mr. Walters, wait.”

He paused on the staircase, clearly exhausted.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asked, crossing her fingers behind her back. Please say no.

He hesitated, and she held her breath.

Shaking his head, he continued up the stairs. “No.”

* * *

LOGAN STRUGGLED TO position his hand on the desk, straining the fingers on his right hand to reach the keys on the laptop keyboard. The edge of the cast hit the space bar and he raised his arm, flinching in pain, and backspaced to where he’d left off typing. Flipping the page of his handwritten work, he tried to focus on something other than the pain in his arm. He could do this. He hit a few keystrokes and grimaced. With each letter, his wrist spasmed and pain rippled through his arm. The extra weight of the plaster cast made the muscles in his right shoulder ache.

Tossing the papers aside, he stood. How was he supposed to meet his editor’s deadline like this? The writer’s block had been bad enough; now he was physically incapable of getting the work done on time. Picking up his cell phone, he punched in his agent’s number. The man had called him three times already today, and now there would be no more avoiding him.

“Clive Romanis,” the man answered in his strong New York accent after the second ring.

“Clive, it’s Logan.”

“Hey, man, where are you? I’ve been calling you. You were supposed to email me those sample chapters two days ago.”

Logan cringed. The promised chapters hadn’t been written yet. Another reason he’d had to leave the city. It was easier to avoid his agent when he wasn’t living two blocks from his office. “Yeah, sorry, I left the city for a while to clear my head, get this book finished.”

“What do you mean you left the city? Where did you go?” The man’s voice barely contained his disbelief. Clive wasn’t truly convinced that there was anything beyond the New York City limits.

“Just a small town in New Jersey. I wrote part of the first book out here. It’s quiet and peaceful,” he lied.

It used to be.

“New Jersey?”

“Yes.”

Clive released a deep breath. “Tell me this isn’t you running away from your commitments.”

“No, of course not.” Running away and needing to get away for a while were two different things, weren’t they?

“So you’re writing? You’re getting it done?”

“Yeah.... Look, I’ve run into a bit of a problem meeting the deadline.” His best bet would be to pack up, head back to New York and hire a typist. The thought made him uneasy. He never let anyone read his work before it was done, especially a stranger. Other than his agent and his editor, he never discussed plotlines with anyone. And with the comeback he was making, he couldn’t chance that the resolution of years of work would be leaked before the book even hit the shelves.

“Logan, we’ve pushed the deadline back twice now. If I ask for another extension from the publisher, they may postpone the release dates.”

Logan pushed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed. “That’s ridiculous.” So he’d had a few years of a dry spell after the fourth book. He’d delivered book five to them on time. Book six was almost done. Sort of. If he could just figure out a conclusion.

“They’re nervous that you’re going to flake on them again. Truthfully, I’m not sure you won’t, either. I’ve pulled all the strings I can, Logan. If you don’t have the book on my desk in three weeks, they won’t release book five next month. You’re lucky your readers haven’t given up hope on you yet.”

“I broke my right hand,” Logan said with a sigh as he stood and paced the room again.

“Nice try, Logan.” His agent sounded discouraged. “Now I’ve heard it all from you. If you call me next week and say your dog ate the final draft, I’m walking.”

“Seriously, I broke it. It’s in a plaster cast and it’s useless.” Logan sat in the wooden rocking chair near the window, the painkillers they’d given him at the clinic, making him drowsy but not doing much for the pain. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against the back of the chair.

“How far along are you?” Panic had crept into the older man’s voice.

Logan hesitated. If he told the truth, that he no longer had any idea where the plot was heading or how to end the entire series, the man might drop him as a client. “Far enough from the end that I can’t possibly type it all with only one good hand in three weeks.”

Clive let out a deep, slow breath. “Okay. This sucks, but we can still meet the deadline. Why don’t you check out that voice-recognition software? Some of my other clients use it and love it.”

“Uh-uh, forget it. The thoughts just don’t seem to flow that way. Besides, I doubt there’s a store nearby that would carry it, and ordering it could take a few days.”

“Well, get your butt back to the city and I’ll call a typing service. I’m sure they can have someone available within twenty-four hours.”

“I’m really not comfortable with that idea.”

“Now is not the time for your paranoia. Those people don’t even read, they just type.” Clive’s voice rose. “For that matter, Logan, I’ll come type it for you myself.”

The last thing he needed was the one person in his life who still believed in his talent to give up on him. He had to get this book finished. “No. I’ll think of something. I’ll get it done.” Logan rubbed his aching forehead with his good hand and stood.

“I need the finished manuscript on my desk by November fifth.”

“You’ll have it.” Logan disconnected the call and tossed his cell phone onto the bed. Walking to the window, he drew back the thick lace curtains for the first time. Through the fall leaves of the maple in the yard, he could see the day care lady next door, removing the children’s blankets from the clothesline.

He watched as she folded the blankets and laid them neatly in the basket.

She didn’t seem like someone who would rush to the media with the book’s ending. She probably hadn’t even heard of him.

As she put the plastic cover on the outdoor sandbox, he couldn’t help wondering about her. In the few days he’d been there, today had been the first he’d even noticed anyone next door. Years ago, he remembered the place being vacant. Now that the day care kids were gone, he didn’t see anyone else around—no husband? No kids?

His phone chimed and reaching for it, he read the text message from Clive. I need you to get this done.

Going back to the window, he scanned the yard next door, but she’d already gone back inside.

He hesitated. If he went back to the city now, Clive would be riding him for the next three weeks. The media and reviewers were already starting to hound him for interviews since the press release announcing the new book was sent out the month before. And being in his apartment without his daughter and worrying about her in California would be torture. He’d left the city for those reasons and they would be waiting for him when he went back.

He didn’t like any of his options, but asking the strange woman next door for help was probably the one he hated the least.

I’ve figured out a way, he texted back.

* * *

POURING A CUP of steaming apple cider into her favorite mug and grabbing a new romance novel from the counter, Leigh did a final scan of the kitchen. The high chairs were sanitized and set up for breakfast in the morning. Plastic plates and sippy cups sat drying in the rack on the counter, and the painting easel was set up with new finger paints and paper. Turning off the kitchen light, she carried her cider and book to the sitting area in the front of her house. The glass sunroom with the comfy rocking chair and ottoman and the bookshelf lining one wall was her favorite spot, especially in winter when she lit the fireplace. Fluffing a pillow behind her, she sat and opened her book to the bookmark. She scanned the page, rereading several pages. Ah...right...the scene where the hero and heroine finally acknowledge their feelings. Always her favorite part in a romance. Romances were supposed to make impossible situations work, and this one didn’t fail to deliver. If only real life were that way. She took a sip of her cider and snuggled deeper into her cardigan.

A few minutes later, a loud thud on the front door made her jump, spilling the hot liquid. She wiped at the wet spots on her dark leggings and oversize sweater, and set the book aside.

Another loud knock on her door made her rush to the entranceway. One of the kids’ parents? She didn’t recall finding any items left behind.

She stood on tiptoe and glanced through the peephole on the door as she unlocked the dead bolt, which seemed like overkill in Brookhollow but served to keep the children from getting out into the front yard.

Mr. Walters paced the front porch, his head down against the wind. What was he doing here? Come to yell at her some more? Serve her with a lawsuit for getting injured on her property? She opened the door with a sigh and placed a hand on her hip. “Look, I’ve already apologized—”

“I need your help,” he mumbled.

“Huh?” She hid her body behind the door, the cool air making her shiver. “With what?” she asked suspiciously.

“Typing.” He held up his broken hand.

She stared at him, trying to process his request. Finally she said, “I know I offered to help you, but the truth is...I can’t type.”

It was his turn to stare at her.

She shrugged helplessly. She’d never bothered to learn. She rarely used a computer. Had no real need for it, except to email or chat with her parents who were on one of their mission trips. All of her friends were within a stone’s throw of her house, so she didn’t need social media to reach them. Other than those weekly sessions with her parents, her computer sat untouched in the den. Surely, Logan needed someone more computer literate.

After several beats he said, “You have two operational hands. Anything you do will be better than what I’m capable of.”

“Don’t they have services that provide that kind of help for writers?” she asked, biting her lip. She’d been hoping to avoid him for the duration of his stay. She’d assumed he wouldn’t be in a rush to see her anytime soon, either.

“I wouldn’t need help if I hadn’t broken my wrist...helping you.”

“Well, I...” Leigh shifted from one leg to the other. Crap, crap, double crap. She knew she had to help—she had offered after all, but...

“I’ll pay you.” She heard his cool, distant desperation. The sound of a man hating the words coming out of his own mouth.

She hesitated, searching for a way out of this. Sure, she felt guilty, but since her divorce...she just didn’t want to spend time with a man this good-looking. Or any man, really. Didn’t want any possibility of romantic entanglements in her near future. “I don’t know when I’ll have time. I have the kids every day, during the day—well, Monday to Friday at least.”

Logan grimaced.

“Yes, I know how you feel about children,” Leigh said, rolling her eyes. Heartless man. Who didn’t love children? Most men her age were looking to settle down, have a family. Which was why she found herself single at thirty-eight.

Everyone in town knew about her inability to have a child.

The fact that everybody knew her personal failure—the one loss in her life she still grieved almost every minute of every day—was the only aspect of living in Brookhollow she didn’t like.

She didn’t blame the men for keeping their distance, though. Her own husband hadn’t been able to deal with her infertility.

“What about evenings?” he said.

Evenings. Her alone time...her books...her bubble baths...

“Please, Leigh.”

Exhaling slowly, she said, “Okay.” She would regret this. She just knew it.

“Thank you.” The words were choked out. Clearly, he didn’t use them often.

Opening the door a little wider, she said, “The kids are usually gone by five-thirty, so if you want to come over around six.”

Logan shook his head. “I was hoping we could work at the bed-and-breakfast. My stuff is scattered all over the place.” He paused when he registered her reluctance. “What?”

“You’re not from a small town, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t come over to your room at the bed-and-breakfast every night. Rumors would spread through town so fast.” Rumors kept Brookhollow alive with excitement.

Logan frowned. “Who cares what people think?”

“I do. You get to leave once your book is done.” She lowered her voice, “But I—” she pointed to herself “—live here.” Folding her arms, she said, “No way. In fact, my place isn’t really an option, either.” A handsome stranger entering her house every night...she could only imagine what her grandmother Norris would have to say if she found out.

For too long her life had been the topic of conversation in the local diner, beauty salon and just about anywhere people congregated in town.

“Well, where?”

Leigh considered the options. If he was trying to keep a low profile around town, there weren’t many. Finally she said, “How about the gazebo in the backyard of the bed-and-breakfast? It’s heated, with a picnic table and lighting, and it’s secluded enough in the back corner of the yard near all the big trees that no one will notice.”

“Outside?”

“Yes.”

“It’s October. It’s absolutely freezing once the sun sets.” Logan shivered to prove his point. “Isn’t there a library or something?”

“Just about everything closes around here at six. Besides, if you want to keep your presence quiet—a public place isn’t really going to work, is it?” She waited. If he wanted her help, they did it her way or not at all. She didn’t need anything or anyone complicating her life.

Logan let out a deep breath. “Okay, fine.” He stared down at his offending wrist, weighted down as it must have been by the plaster, and turned to leave. “Tomorrow at six in the gazebo.”

Wonderful. She prayed his book was almost finished. “Can’t wait.”

“Lying really isn’t your thing,” he called over his shoulder.

CHAPTER TWO

THE NEXT MORNING, Logan hesitated before opening the email from his lawyer, Eric James. The Manhattan Family Law Group didn’t waste time or their client’s money emailing without a good reason. Lately, whenever he heard from them, it was bad news, and he wasn’t sure he could handle the stress that morning. His hand and wrist throbbed, and the painkillers they’d prescribed at the clinic didn’t seem to help.

The message was marked urgent. There was no avoiding it. Opening it, he scanned it quickly.

Kendra’s lawyer had requested a financial statement. Fantastic. He had known that sooner or later she would play that card. Supporting his daughter with his writing was possible, given his investments and the royalties from his upcoming release, but his lawyer had cautioned him that proving his income in court might be challenging. Self-employed parents without medical benefits had a tougher time convincing the judge they could offer the best support.

Another reason he had to finish this book. Frustrated, he stood. The issues in his personal life were driving him to distraction and preventing him from writing, yet if he didn’t write, things in his personal life would be even worse. Without a steady income, no judge would award him custody of Amelia.

Lying on the bed, he closed his eyes, fighting to control the desperation and hopelessness he couldn’t escape.

Hours later, he sat on the wooden bench under the shelter of the gazebo. The October setting sun cast a glare across his laptop screen as he readjusted the computer into the shade. At least it wasn’t cold inside the heated space. Checking his watch, he stood: 5:58. Where was she?

He checked his watch again. Still 5:58. Time honestly passed slower in this small town, he was convinced of it. Two days before, that had been part of its original appeal; not anymore. He sat back down on the bench.

The sound of crunching leaves caught his attention. In the dusk, he saw Leigh—in a pair of baggy, faded jeans and a T-shirt with a sweater thrown over her shoulders—carrying a brown wicker basket. She smiled wearily as she approached.

She looked about as excited to do this as he was. He moved some of his papers aside to make room for the basket.

“I brought some snacks, in case,” she said, sliding her arms into her sweater and tugging it down over her head.

“I’m not hungry...thanks.” He opened his notebook to the pages to be transcribed. “So, here is where I left off typing.” He pointed to the middle of the page and moved the mouse to bring up the document.

Leigh busied herself with the basket, taking out a Thermos and pouring coffee into a mug. She took out a raspberry muffin and a plastic container of butter, then napkins and plastic cutlery. And then...a fruit tray?

“What are you doing?” Logan asked.

“I haven’t eaten dinner yet.” She bit into her muffin. “Mmm.... I got them from my grandmother’s bakery when I took the kids on an afternoon walk. She owns Ginger Snaps....”

He was barely listening, hearing an overbearing ticking in his brain as the sun continued to set.

“Are you sure you don’t—”

“I’m sure,” Logan snapped. He raked his left hand through his hair and rubbed his four-day-old beard.

Leigh frowned, took another quick bite of the muffin and turned her attention to his notebook. “Okay, sorry. I’m listening. So, these are your notes.” She squinted, leaning closer to the scribbled writing on the yellow legal pad.

“No, this is the first draft of the book,” Logan said, betraying his exasperation. He hated to be sharing this with anyone. The first draft was always written in haste, without care to grammar and punctuation. Sometimes he skipped over names. Not exactly a polished, finished product.

“And you wrote this before you broke your hand?”

Logan looked at the tiny chicken scratches. So they were hard to read. “That’s why we need to do this together. I’ll read it as you type.” He picked up the pad of paper and gestured for Leigh to take a seat in front of the laptop. “Ready?”

“Okay, go.” Her hands poised midair, she waited. “Go slowly, I wasn’t lying when I said I can’t type.”

Logan cleared his throat and opened his mouth. Nothing came out.... Reading his own unedited passages to her would be pure torture. He would find something wrong with each line. He usually did a round of editing as he transcribed.

Leigh turned to him. “You can’t read your writing, either?”

Logan tossed the pad back onto the table. “This isn’t going to work.”

Leigh held her hands up. “I’m sorry, I won’t make any more jokes.” She popped a chunk of muffin into her mouth and poised her hands over the keys. “Ready,” she said, her mouth full, a crumb falling onto the keys.

Sliding the laptop away from her, Logan picked it up and closed the lid. “Never mind,” he said as he unzipped his laptop case and shoved the computer inside.

“I don’t understand.” Leigh stared up at him. “I thought you needed help.”

He gathered his notes. “I do, but...” He paused as he stood. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re probably right, but now I just think you’re a little crazy, so...”

The look on her face indicated she did indeed think he was crazy and he laughed, surprising himself.

And her. Her mouth dropped but to her credit, she recovered quickly. “Nice to see you’re actually capable of a smile,” she said, moving over on the bench to make room for him. She picked up her coffee and took a sip.

Reluctantly, he sat. “The thing is...I never let people read my work until it’s done.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.”

“And this book is unique in that it’s the last book in a series.” Did she know who he was? “The Van Gardener series.” He paused, waited.

She blinked. No recognition showed on her face, which he couldn’t help noticing was flawless in the glow of the setting sun.

“You don’t know it?” Could he really had stumbled upon one of the few people who hadn’t heard about the series, or his inability to finish it? One of the few who hadn’t read the extensive media coverage about his separation and his custody battle for Amelia...or the articles speculating he’d dropped off the map because of alcohol and/or drug addictions?

“No, I’m sorry if I should. I am an avid reader...I’m just not into suspense-filled mysteries.” She shuddered.

The tension of the past twenty-four hours eased a little. It was nice to meet someone with no preconceived opinions about him. “I guess it’s not really the kind of book you read to preschoolers,” he said, wiggling his fingers inside the cast.

“Itchy?” Leigh gestured toward the cast. “Every summer at least one of my kids—my day-care kids, I mean—breaks something or other. Thankfully not under my watch,” she added, reaching for a plastic fork. “Here, try this.” She handed it to him.

He took it and slid it into the cast. Instant relief. “Ah...”

“Better?”

“Much.” He tried to hand her back the fork.

She grimaced. “Keep it.”

He laughed again. Wow, twice in five minutes, more than he’d laughed in months.

“So, are we going to do this, given that I have no idea who you are or anything about the series?” Leigh waited, watching him over the rim of her coffee cup.

Logan hesitated. She had the most trustworthy face; her sincerity and genuine nature shone in her eyes. Probably why she was so great with children. Children could distinguish real honesty and affection.

Leigh checked her watch. “We’re wasting time,” she said, “and I have more muffins.”

“Okay. But I need you to sign something.” Tearing out a piece of paper, he glanced from it to his left hand. She’d have to write their agreement. He held out his silver monogrammed pen, his favorite, the only one he ever used. “I need you to write that you won’t reveal the contents of this book to anyone.”

She took the pen and wrote.

He watched in silence.

She paused and glanced toward him. “Anything else?”

That pretty much captured what he needed from her in a nutshell. “Just sign and date it, please.”

Leigh did as he asked and handed it back. “This book is a big deal, huh?”

He used to think so. The series had dominated his every waking thought for seven years, losing him his one and only serious relationship, his friendships and his sanity. Now he just wanted to finish it, dig himself out from the shadow of doubt and regain confidence in his abilities as a writer, in his own eyes as well as those of the court that would be deciding his and his daughter’s fate. “Yeah, it’s a big deal.”

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER, Leigh peered around the corner of Main Street. The town’s leasing office was above the bank and she was desperate to avoid her ex-husband’s new wife, Angela Conway, one of the only real-estate agents in town.

Living in the same town with the couple and their two young children was tough, and Angela’s office was two doors down from Leigh’s grandmother’s bakery. It wasn’t that she didn’t like the woman, and she wasn’t jealous of the life she and Neil shared with the family she hadn’t been able to give him...of course not.

Logan was right, she really wasn’t good at lying, not even to herself.

As she moved quickly past the brick office building, she waved to Kimberley Mitchell, one of the bank-loans officers, staring out her ground-floor office window with her phone cradled to her shoulder. Then, head down, eyes glued to the brick-patterned sidewalk, Leigh continued on, pretending not to hear Angela’s voice as she called from a window overhead.

She paused for effect when she heard the second, louder “Leigh!”, glancing in every direction but the one she knew the sound was coming from and then continued in a hurry. She heard her call again, but this time she dove around the side of Pearl’s Petals, the flower shop on the corner across from her grandmother’s bakery.

How was she going to get across the street without Angela seeing her? A quick glance revealed she was still waiting at the open window. She ducked her head back around the corner.

“Who are we hiding from?” a man whispered inches from her right ear.

Leigh jumped, her hand flying to her chest, knocking over a row of small potted plants on the outside sale table display at Pearl’s.

Logan dove for one pot before it fell off the table. He caught it easily in his left hand and set it back carefully, straightening the others and brushing the scattered leaves and dirt off the white tablecloth.

“Thanks,” Leigh said. She would’ve hated to have to buy all of those plants if she’d broken them. Children were her area of expertise—plants not so much. “And I’m not hiding,” she said, but she suspected her flaming cheeks gave her away. Gingerly, she touched the leaves on a plant she’d never be able to name if asked. “I’m shopping.” Pretending to be interested in one, she picked it up and examined it.

“Get many cuts and burns?”

“No. Why?” she asked, casting him a puzzled look.

“That’s an aloe plant,” Logan explained. “Shouldn’t you have an entourage of kids?”

“A college student works with me part-time. She’s doing a practicum for her childhood-education certificate. Gives me time to run errands.” She poked her head around the corner quickly. Angela was still there.

Logan leaned around the corner. “Okay, tell me where I’m supposed to be looking.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You better tell me, or I’ll blow your cover.”

“Fine,” Leigh snapped. “Last building on the corner, upstairs window.” She waited, hands on her hips, ignoring the plants.

“All clear,” Logan said.

Leigh let out a sigh of relief and stepped away from the shelter of the building.

“Why are you hiding from someone?”

She read the amusement in his dark eyes as he studied her. “I’m not, really,” she said with a shrug, as she moved around him, checking both ways before crossing Main Street.

Logan followed. “Okay, fine...let’s see.” He paused, appearing to think. “I know, it’s an angry day-care dad looking for a tax receipt. No, wait, it’s someone suing you for that hazardous front porch step of yours.”

“There’s nothing wrong with your creative juices now.”

“I can keep guessing, I’ve got all day. I should be writing, but someone pushed me off a ladder.”

“Okay,” Leigh said, holding her hands up in defeat as he matched his step to hers. “It’s my ex-husband’s new wife.”

He stumbled and paused to get his balance before keeping up with her again. “Wouldn’t have guessed that one.”

“Can I point you in any certain direction, Mr. Walters?” She refused to elaborate, despite the intense curiosity written all over his handsome face. At least curiosity softened the sharp edges of this man she’d only known for a few days.

“I don’t know. Where are you headed?”

Leigh thought fast. “The gynecologist.”

Logan smiled.

Huh, dimples—hadn’t noticed them before. They should make an appearance more often, she thought.

“You’re getting better with the lies. I’ll catch you later. Same time, gazebo?”

“Sure thing.”

She watched as he dashed off down the block before heading in the opposite direction.

Moments later Leigh stepped into Dog Eared Books. It was discouraging to see the going-out-of-business sale posters in the window behind their annual Halloween decor of orange lights and pumpkins carved in the images of bestselling books. The bookstore had been in Brookhollow for over fifty years. Grandma Norris had taken her there for the first time on her fourth birthday, when she and her parents had stayed longer than usual after the holidays. She’d filled almost another full suitcase full of books for her trip overseas to the new mission her dad had been appointed to, and they had been such a comfort—she remembered that clearly even though she’d only been four years old.

As a teenager, after her parents sent her to live with her grandmother to attend Brookhollow High, she’d visited the store almost every day, spending the money she earned from her part-time summer job at the Theatre Under the Stars drive-in.

“Hello,” she said, stepping over boxes of books in the entryway. She would miss the landmark once the store closed in the new year.

Danielle O’Connor came from the back storage room, another box of books in her arms. “Hi, Leigh. Sorry for the mess. Just trying to reorganize some things.”

Leigh scanned the labels on the boxes near the wall. “Those are books for the library?”

“Yeah, they’re all fairly new—novels released this year. There are some children’s books in there, as well. You’re welcome to take a look.”

“Thank you, but trust me, I’m running out of space for more books.”

“That’s not possible,” Danielle said. “You just have to build higher shelves.” She gestured to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along the first floor of the two-story space.”

“I guess so,” Leigh said with a laugh. “Anyway, I did stop by for a couple of specific novels. Do you think you could search your database to see if you have them? They’re seven or eight years old. If they’re already packed away, don’t worry.”

Danielle moved to the other side of the counter to her computer. “Romance?” she asked with a knowing smile.

“Actually no...um...mystery?”

“You—mystery?” Danielle raised an eyebrow.

Leigh shrugged. “Thought I’d broaden my horizons a little.”

Daniel shook her head slowly as she clicked on the mystery tab and they waited for the page to load. “Name of the book?”

“Danger Within by...um...Logan Walters.” She wondered if somehow news had already spread through town about Logan’s visit.

If Danielle had heard, she didn’t reveal it. “Here it is...part of the Van Gardener series, right?”

“That’s it. Do you have the complete set?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I just put them on the fifty-cent table outside.”

Leigh suppressed a cringe. Logan would certainly take a blow to his ego if he knew the first four books of his popular series were reduced to the quick-sale bargain table.

If he found out she bought them, she’d claim she’d spent at least a dollar on them.

“Great, I’ll take them all.”

* * *

THIS TOWN REALLY had changed a lot since the last time he was here, Logan thought as he left the sports museum, Legend’s, with a signed NFL jersey he’d paid a premium for. Most of the items in the museum were rare collectables, things that used to belong to Don Jamieson, the late NFL quarterback who used to own Legend’s when it was a sporting-goods store. Logan wasn’t that into sports, but he knew his agent would love the signed jersey. He owed the man a good Christmas gift after the headache of a year they’d suffered.

As he turned the corner of Main Street and Commerce Avenue, he came to a halt as a long line of children getting off a school bus blocked his path.

The young schoolteacher smiled. “Sorry, we’re almost at the end of them,” she said, continuing to check off her list of students as they went past, up the stairs to the... Logan glanced at the building, shielding his eyes from the midmorning sun. Library. At three stories, it was by far one of the largest buildings in Brookhollow.

“No problem. Field trip?” he asked.

“Yes, sort of. It’s literacy week, so we’re here to listen to today’s readers.”

Literacy week. That’s right, in New York every year he donated proceeds from his book sales to this great cause. He’d credit books with helping him find his own future path, often providing an escape and hope that was rare in the harsh reality of his foster-care situations. As the last child passed, Logan followed the teacher up the stairs. In truth, though New York was home to one of the country’s most beautiful libraries, he hadn’t been inside one in years. Maybe it would help with the writer’s block. “I think I’ll check it out myself. Thank you, Miss...?”

“Ally. Miss Ally.” With a wave, she disappeared after the children inside.

Pausing at the top of the steps, Logan took a moment to read the literacy-week schedule posted on a sign on the door. Readings for children and adults...book discussion groups...a book sale that weekend. All the same events hosted by the big-city libraries. Without the crowds, he speculated, as he entered the building.

Two school groups were gathered in a reading room to the right of the main entrance. He could tell they were two different groups by the colored uniforms they wore. The sight of the smaller ones in their navy smocks and tights reminded him of his daughter. Amelia, eight, attended a private school in New York, one of the few that still insisted on a dress-code uniform.

Amelia.

He missed his little girl so much. She would have loved a school outing like this. Her favorite subject was English. Liked to make up stories...some of which he’d illustrated for her. He had those stories saved in the top drawer of his writing desk in his apartment in Manhattan, one of the few things he’d taken from the home he’d shared with Kendra when he moved out two years before.

Two years.

Some days it felt as if they’d been battling in court over the separation and custody forever, and other days it felt like no time at all. He just hoped they reached a conclusion next month. He couldn’t take much more of this.

His weekly phone call to California to speak to his kid was hardly enough, but with the time difference and his daughter’s need to adjust to her new surroundings, he was biting his tongue and giving them space. He didn’t want to make things harder on Amelia. But next month, regardless of the outcome of the custody case, things had to change. He deserved and wanted more time with his daughter.

He stepped into the library.

To his relief, it looked pretty much like he’d expected it to, which was soothing to his frayed, blocked nerves. Big city or small, there was comfort in the familiarity of the rows of shelves and the smell of books.

To his right was a children’s section, complete with a puppet theater. But the focal point was a floor-to-ceiling plastic oak tree with the alphabet in its leaves, benches around its trunk and books stashed in the bark.

A librarian reshelving books asked, “Can I... Oh my God.” Several browsers on the other side of the shelf turned to look at them.

“Hi,” he said.

“You’re Logan Walters.” The woman, not old but older than him, stood.

“Yes, I am.” He extended his good hand to her.

She stared at him, wide eyes, mouth agape, not moving.

Maybe he should have said no, he thought when she continued to stare. Uncomfortable, he shifted from one leg to the other. Then he dropped the hand he’d extended. “You okay?”

“Yes...this is incredible,” she said, finding her voice. “I’m sorry, I just wasn’t expecting... I mean no one told me you were coming. That’s the mayor’s office for you. They forget to tell us everything. Although maybe they wanted to surprise me—that was nice of them.” Her face lit up in a wide smile and she readjusted her thick, red-rimmed glasses higher on her nose and tucked a few strands of strawberry blond hair behind an ear. The unruly wisps just bounced right back toward her cheek.

Cute.

“Actually no one sent me. I’m staying at the Brookhollow Inn, working on a book.” Duh. He shouldn’t have said that. Guess his plan to stay here unnoticed was out the window.

“Oh, sorry, I thought since it was literacy week... We sometimes bring in guest authors, though no one as famous as you.” Her open admiration made him a little shy.

It had been years since he’d encountered a fan; mainly because he’d reclusively avoided all opportunities to meet them. But also because he hadn’t published a book in so long. Out of sight, out of mind was usually the case in this industry. Guess Clive had been right about the diehards standing by, waiting for his final book.

He just hoped he could deliver what his fans expected and deserved. “I seemed to have got caught up in the wake of all these kids coming into the library and was swept in myself.... Kids are quite a force of nature,” he added lamely, losing the calm the library had given him in his returning panic over the writer’s block.

“Well, it’s certainly a pleasure to meet you. I’m Kate Richardson.” She extended her right hand, but for the first time noticed his in a cast and quickly switched to the left one for a clumsy welcome. “That looks like a new cast. What happened?”

“Broke my wrist.”

“How?”

“Trying to help someone a couple of days ago.”

She nodded. “As they say, no good deed goes unpunished.”

“I guess not.”

“Gotta be tough to get any writing done like that.” Her smile was sympathetic.

He didn’t want to tell her that the break gave him a more plausible excuse for the lack of productivity that was driving him insane, so he just nodded. “Quiet day?”

“Well, e-books have really made a dent in our clientele.” But she shook her head. “Not quiet today with two loads of schoolkids for literacy week. The kids who swept you in here?” she reminded him, tilting her head to the reading room across the foyer.

“Ah, yes, literacy week.”

“As for me,” she added, “I like my books—real books. The ones you can touch, smell, hug...” Her cheeks flushed.

“Hug?”

“Only the really great ones. Speaking of which...” She nodded toward the next aisle.

Logan followed her.

“Here are yours.” She waved at the four books lining the shelf, numbered and tagged with the Brookhollow Library category logo. “I’ve read them all, twice.” The admiration was back in her eyes. “I just love Van and Piper.”

The detective partners in his books were essentially the main characters, though the series was titled for Van. Piper Kelly was more or less Van’s sidekick and Logan had only introduced her midway through the second book, under the guidance of the publisher. Adding in the coed working relationship was supposed to increase his female readership. “Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed them.”

“Very much.” Her hand suddenly went to the pen behind her ear. “Hey, would you sign them?”

He glanced at the cast on his hand. “As soon as the swelling goes down and I can hold a pen a little better, sure. I’ll stop by again before I leave town.”

“Great. Oh, excuse me for a second.” She went to help a petite blonde waiting at the information desk, and as Logan perused the shelves, he could feel two sets of eyes watching him. By ten everyone would know he was there. Why had he given out his address?

“Um, Mr. Walters?” Kate called a moment later.

Barely suppressing a groan, reluctantly he walked over to the desk where the librarian gestured toward the other woman, who was holding a stack of novels. “Hi,” he muttered, struggling to be gracious.

“Hi. I’m Randi Carter, the principal of Brookhollow High,” she said.

Crap, he felt a favor coming next.... He waited for it, hoping he was wrong. “Kate was just telling me that you’re a bestselling mystery writer. I apologize—I barely have time to read for pleasure and I’m unfamiliar with your work.” She followed his gaze down to the books in her arms. “These are for the homeroom classes.”

“I haven’t produced anything in a while actually, so...”

“Will you be in town long?” she asked.

He hesitated. But then thought, he’d pretty much already blown his cover, anyway. Giving away more of his coveted private information couldn’t hurt. “A few weeks.” His original goal had been two. Now he hoped he could make his deadline, which was a little over three weeks away.

“Great. Well, what we were just discussing, and wondering, is if you might be available to do a school visit while you were here?”

And there it was. “A school visit?”

“Yes, for my grade-twelve creative-writing class.”

He looked from her back to Kate, the librarian, who was nodding her encouragement. “You want me to come talk to the students?”

“If you could. We rarely...okay, never...have your caliber of writing talent in Brookhollow and there are a few students in that class that show real promise. I think getting to meet you would be a great honor for them, and any knowledge you can impart to them would be greatly appreciated.”

“Oh...um...” Coming here to avoid reminders of how much he missed Amelia had certainly backfired. There were children everywhere—more children than adults in Brookhollow. The B & B and the day care next door were unavoidable, but purposely going into the school? He’d have to be crazy.

“Only if you have time, of course,” Kate said, earning a frown and a shhh from Randi.

Both women were staring at him expectantly. As if he should be excited to do his duty by the local school and support such a worthy cause. Sure, at seventeen he would have killed for this kind of opportunity. But now... These two didn’t understand that he had three weeks to write this book, finish the series that had made his name. Find a way to support his child and win back custody. Three weeks.

Why wouldn’t they stop staring at him?

Finally, slowly, he said, “I’ll be there,” wondering how he could possibly agree to this and still get what he wanted—needed—and leave Brookhollow in just three weeks

Three weeks.

* * *

“LOGAN, WHAT DOES THIS say?” Leigh squinted at the smeared scribbled ink on the back of a tiny ripped piece of napkin, stuffed among the pages of notes. She turned it over in her hands. “Isn’t this from Jack in the Box?”

“Inspiration always hits when I don’t have a real piece of paper,” he replied. “Let me see.” They were sitting side by side on the bench inside the—thankfully heated—gazebo that evening. They were making progress, and the night before they’d managed to get through the remaining handwritten notes he’d left to type in. During the day, he’d worked on more content, as well as he could. “Oh, this was new dialogue I’d thought of to add to scene three in chapter four. Thanks, I was looking for this.”

She suspected he’d forgotten he’d even written it, but she kept the thought to herself.

Taking the laptop from her, Logan scrolled back to find the spot in the fourth chapter. Then he slid the laptop back to her. “I’ll read it to you.”

“Okay, go.” Leigh popped a piece of lemon-poppy-seed muffin into her mouth and got ready to type. She turned to look at him when he remained silent. “What?”

“How are you not two hundred pounds eating all of these muffins?” He stared at her. “I mean every night we work together, you consume, like, half a dozen.”

She arched an eyebrow.

He held his hands up. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with it.... It just amazes me. You must have an incredible metabolism.”

Hmm...maybe she should allow him to think she was one of those lucky people who could eat anything they wanted without gaining weight. Instead she said, “It’s my grandma’s secret ingredient.”

“Which is?”

“I can’t reveal it,” she said through another mouthful.

“Who am I going to tell? Seriously, do I look like I’m going to run out and open a competing bakery in Brookhollow?”

She studied him. “Maybe I should make you sign something.”

“Ha.” He rolled his eyes. “Funny lady.”

Leigh coughed on crumbs as she suppressed a laugh. “It’s protein powder.... Plus she uses a sugar substitute.” She pushed the basket at him.

He reached inside and took one. He hesitated, examining it. He sniffed it. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me these were healthy to eat before now,” he said through a mouthful.

“Excuse me, I hadn’t realized you were trying to keep your boyish physique.”

Now it was his turn to choke on his muffin. “Okay, let’s continue,” he managed to say.

“Ready.”

He remained silent behind her.

“What now? Time’s wasting.”

“I know, I just noticed how small your hands are. No wonder you type so slow. Can you even reach all the keys?”

Leigh glanced at him, eyebrow raised yet again. “Are we typing or not?”

“Sorry. Okay, so the first line of dialogue is, ‘Don’t go down there.’”

“Wait,” she interrupted.

“What?”

“Who’s saying this?”

“The detective.”

She frowned and pursed her lips.

“What?”

She hesitated, then shook her head. This was his book. “Nothing,” she said, typing in the dialogue.

Logan held a hand out to stop her. “No, really, what?” He frowned, studying the words on the page.

Leigh sighed. “Okay, it’s just that it doesn’t make sense.”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“That the detective would say, ‘Don’t go down there.’ It’s kind of like telling a child, ‘Don’t look in the cupboard for a cookie.’ Of course they’re going to do it now, even if they hadn’t planned to.”

“Exactly,” Logan said with a nod.

“You want the bad guy to go downstairs? But in the next scene, that doesn’t work in the detective’s favor.”

“Not in that scene, but eventually it will.” Logan reached for his notes and flipped ahead. “See, here.” He pointed to a scribbled paragraph, written diagonally across a length of cash register receipt.

“Is this from the grocery store?” Leigh picked it up and turned it over.

“Yes.” Logan took it from her and turned it back, scribbled side up. “See here, when the detective sneaks out of the basement through the door leading to the root cellar...”

“Where did the root cellar come from?” Leigh frowned.

“Chapter one—you didn’t read it.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Can we continue now? Me doing the writing—you typing?” Logan asked with amusement.

“Sure.”

His cell rang in his pocket and he stood, checking the caller ID. His expression darkened.

“If you have to answer that, go ahead. I think I can make out the rest...if I squint really hard.” But the light moment between them had disappeared.

“I’m sorry, it’s important,” he said as it rang again. Moving away, he answered the call.

Leigh watched his long, anxious strides as he paced the backyard. In the silence of the neighborhood, it was impossible not to hear his side of the conversation, despite the distance he put between them.

She felt a pang of guilt listening, but she couldn’t help it. She was curious about him. Really curious. Since their first night working together, she’d tried to resist the urge to look him up on the computer, but that afternoon she’d caved. Not that she’d learned anything about his personal life.

“Yes, of course I have time to speak to her.... Hi, sweetheart, you’re up late,” he said, glancing at his watch.

Sweetheart?

“How was school today?” she heard him ask.

It sounded as though he was talking to a child. His?

“Give them time, they’ll come around. You’re the coolest kid I know.”

The concern in his voice touched her.

“That’s great. I can’t wait to see it.... I know, I miss you, too...just another couple of weeks....”

Couple of weeks for what? Man, she had to stop eavesdropping. His call was none of her business.

“Okay, be good for your mom.... I love you.” He disconnected the call and Leigh watched as he stood there for a second longer. He turned back toward her and their eyes met momentarily, before she quickly returned hers to the laptop screen.

Logan climbed the few steps to the gazebo and sat back on the bench. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” Don’t ask questions. It was none of her business.

“Where did we leave off?”

“The detective is going downstairs,” Leigh said. Clearly, he wasn’t about to explain the call.

“Right.” Logan cleared his throat, then stood again. “That was my daughter.”

She fought to conceal her surprise. Never would she have pegged him for a father. How old was the girl? Did that mean he was married? Divorced? Where was she? Despite the insane curiosity mounting within her, she struggled to respect his privacy. “Really, Logan, that’s your business.”

Quietly, he rejoined her on the bench. “Okay, sorry, tell me again—where were we?”

“The detective’s going downstairs....” Leigh prodded, studying him. The little piece of himself he’d displayed in those few seconds had revealed a different side of the man she was getting to know.

A man she wanted to get to know even better.

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