“You married your senior-class history teacher?” He blinked twice. “You married Show-No-Mercy Hanlon?”
She nodded.
“How? When?”
“Earlier this year. I came back for the high-school reunion, and well, things started happening.” A faraway look came into her eyes, accompanied by a smile of satisfaction he could only wonder about.
“Well, congratulations,” he said with a sincere nod. “You look happy, Reb. That must have been one hell of a reunion.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, it was. Remember Jade Macleod? She showed up with a stranger she met on her way there. They’re getting married next month. And come to think of it, someone even brought up your name that night.” Shaking her finger at him and laughing, Reb leaned closer. “You’d better watch yourself, Nick Buchanan. Coming back to Follett River after all these years could change your life, too.”
He gave a playful shudder. “Warning taken.”
“Good,” she said, glancing at her watch then backing away. “Look, I have to see a man about installing a pool heater, but I’ll call you soon. You’re staying at the Hotel Maxwell. Right?”
“Yes,” he said, before lifting his chin and stilling her steps. “Hold on a second. Whatever happened to that pretty blond friend of yours? You know. The one who’d planned out her whole life. She was dating Andy Sloan, I think.” He scratched at the side of his head. “What was her name? Maggie?” he asked, knowing it wasn’t.
“Meggie? You mean Megan?”
He nodded. “That’s it.”
Rebecca studied him for a few seconds, then beamed him a smile. “Why don’t you ask her yourself? She’s over at Bailey’s. Except it’s not Bailey’s anymore. It’s the Chocolate Chip Café now.”
Rebecca Hanlon stepped into the street and around to her car door. “Meggie bought the business and turned it into a kind of coffee bar.”
Nick felt his eyebrows lift in surprise. The night he left Follett River Megan had told him a lot of things, but planning to own a coffee bar wasn’t one of them.
“Did she ever—?”
“Gotta run, Nick,” Reb said, cutting him off as she got into her car. “Oh. Ignore the Closed sign on the door. This time of night Meggie’s in the back baking. Just go on in and surprise her. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
Love to see me? He waved as Rebecca drove off. I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Besides, he really didn’t have time for personal visits tonight. Running into Rebecca had been a fluke, and the minutes he’d taken reminiscing with her were already cutting into the hour he’d set aside to study zoning ordinances. Then he thought about the promotion he was being considered for. What he ought to be doing was cutting across the town square to the hotel, instead of thinking about looking up a pretty blonde he hadn’t seen in a decade.
Running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, he couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the last time he saw Megan. She was standing beside his motorcycle, glaring at him while turning down his offer to relieve her of her virginity.
“I want a life, Nick. Not just one wild moment I’m sure I’ll regret. And, please,” she said primly, “don’t tell me again what I’ll be missing. It’s what you’ll be missing that should concern you. A safe, secure and respectable life right here in Follett River.”
She took a step closer and wrapped her fingers around the bike’s handlebar. “Nick, I want it to be someone who cares enough to offer me his last name. Not a forwarding address.”
Back then, Nick had recognized the budding signs of Megan’s sensual nature even if she hadn’t, but at age twenty the last thing he wanted was a white picket fence defining the parameters of his young life. Playing his bad-boy image to the hilt, he’d pulled her into his arms, closed his mouth over hers and begun the hottest, deepest, wettest kiss of his life. When he felt her beginning to respond, he eased away, gave her a “whatever” shrug, then rode off.
He thought about how cavalier, if not downright insensitive he’d acted that night. She was barely eighteen then, and as innocent as they came. He rubbed at his chin, surprised, after all this time, by the trace of guilt still niggling at him. Letting his breath out slowly, he looked toward her café. Hesitation resonated within him.
“Get over it,” he murmured, heading up the street. He was thirty years old, not thirteen. She had most likely forgotten the incident. Besides, he thought as he stared at the doorknob, they were bound to run into each other anyway, since he would be in town for the next several months. What would it hurt to stop by and say hello?
The first thing that struck him as he walked inside the shadowed interior was the aroma of coffee and spice and the sense of orderliness about the place. But what had he expected? The lingering smell of greasy French fries? Cola syrup sticking to the bottoms of his shoes? Those No Loitering signs thumbtacked to the walls? Not likely, with Megan in charge.
As he headed for the rectangle of light at the back of the place, he took in the brass-framed posters of European cafés adorning the walls, the ornate cappuccino machine behind the counter and the lavishly decorated desserts in the display case.
This definitely wasn’t Bailey’s hangout anymore. He stopped at the open door, looked into the brightly lit kitchen and smiled. Not Bailey’s by a mile.
A long-legged blonde, leaning over the work surface, was sprinkling powdered sugar across a tray of pastries. Salsa music blared at top volume from a radio just inside the door. Each shake of the sugar can coincided with the beat of the music, while her hips kept time with the rhythm. Firm, curvy, shorts-covered hips. Short shorts. When the music suddenly broke into a conga, she reached to lift her sun-streaked blond hair off her neck. Flexing her knees, she managed an enticing series of bumps and grinds while shimmying her shoulders.
Nick repositioned the pager attached to his belt, then leaned against the doorjamb as the woman continued to do amazing things to his libido. He pictured himself curving his hands around her hips to feel them moving. Or to hold them still. He cleared his throat noisily.
“Can I cut in? Or don’t you need a partner for that?”
The instant he spoke, the spirited show ended in an arcing cloud of powdered sugar as she whipped around to face him. She lost her grip on the can, sending it flying across the room. He momentarily lost her in the white swirl.
When the air began to clear, Nick barely noticed the white powder on his shoes; he was too busy admiring the way it was settling on her. From those high cheekbones, all the way to her lightly tanned thighs, she looked as if she’d been hit with a miniature blizzard. Her grape-colored cropped top had moved upward with her jerky movements, revealing a sugar-filled belly button surrounded by flawless porcelain skin.
She squinted under the bright lights, then turned to snatch a cream puff from the tray.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, raising the pastry high as if it were a hand grenade. More powdered sugar drifted through the air, but she waved it away.
“I’ll give you a hint,” he said, taking a step inside the kitchen. He turned down the volume on the radio, then raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s not Elvis.”
Her green eyes widened. And those full, soft and lusciously kissable lips parted. The last time he saw her, she had the same expression on her face. He smiled with purely masculine satisfaction, knowing that he could still elicit the same response. And this time, he hadn’t even stolen a kiss from her.
“Remember me, Megan?”
“Nick?” she whispered, lowering the cream puff. “Nick Buchanan?” Her disbelieving