Addicted to Love (38 page)

“Are you sure of that?” he asked.

Confused, she blinked at him. What did he mean by his comment? Was he going to challenge her win? Demand a recount? She fully expected it. “I won fair and square.”

His eyes darkened in the moonlight. “I guess that all depends on what you mean by winning.”

Chapter Eighteen

T
he Monday after the election, Kelvin Wentworth flew to Austin to meet with Jackson Traynor. He had the speech rehearsed in his head, but he still couldn’t believe he was going to deliver it. After all the lobbying he’d done to get them to consider Valentine for a theme park, he was going in there to tell them the deal was off. The whole deal with Amusement Corp had been contingent on his putting in an airport and hotels and restaurants. He was withdrawing his end of the bargain.

What was wrong with him?

Giada Vito. That was what. She had him so tied up in knots Kelvin didn’t know who he was anymore.

The knots twisted even tighter when he walked into the conference room and spied Giada sitting there in a gray tweed suit, purple blouse, and a sharp new hairstyle shot through with streaks of auburn. He’d always been a sucker for redheads.

One look into her enigmatic brown eyes kicked his pulse up and he felt strangely breathless.

“What’s she doing here?” Kelvin asked Mr. Traynor. He was so unnerved at the sight of Giada he went on the defensive, tightening his shoulders, narrowing his eyes, and curling his hands into fists.

“Mayor-elect Vito is the one who called this meeting,” Traynor said.

“Could I see you in the hallway for a moment, Ms. Vito?” Kelvin asked, not sure what he was going to do with her once he got her out there, but his hands were just itching to hold her.

“If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen.” Giada smiled at the men collected around the conference table. “We’ll be right back.”

She followed Kelvin into the corridor. Once the door snapped closed behind them, he turned to face her. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I came to tell them to back off Valentine Land,” Kelvin said.

“And I came to give them my complete support.”

“Why?” they asked each other in unison, and then both said, “Because you were right.”

They looked at each other and laughed.

“Are we friends now?” he asked.

“Better than friends,” she said, a seductive look coming into her eyes.

Kelvin felt his body respond. He couldn’t take not touching her one minute longer. He slung an arm around her waist and tugged her to him, caveman-style.

Giada wrapped herself around him as if she’d been yearning for him to do just that. Her enthusiasm caught him off-balance and he had to tighten his grip on her to keep from stumbling.

He’d heard about hot-blooded Italian women; was he about to get the scoop firsthand?

“I can’t believe you traveled here to give up your dream for me,” she said.

“Ditto.”

Her eyes rounded. “So what does this mean?”

“You tell me.”

“I think it means you like me.” She lowered her eyelids, sent him a sultry glance. “A lot.”

He snorted. “ ‘Like’ isn’t the word for it.”

“Why, Mayor, what are you saying?”

“I’m not the mayor anymore. You are.”

“Not until January.” She studied his face. “Is this going to be an issue for us?”

“Us?” he echoed.

“As in you and me. Or is that too forward? Too much of an assumption?”

“I’ve been a bachelor all my life.”

“I know,” she said, her gaze never leaving his face. “I’ve never been married, either.”

“Too hard to get along with?” he teased.

“No harder than you.”

“I’m pretty hard right now.”

“I can tell.” Her laugh was throaty.

“I think I just might be falling in love with you.”

“You sure of that?”

“Okay, I’ll admit it. I’m head over heels,” he said, looking at her as intently as she was looking at him. “How do you feel about me?”

“I fell for you hook, line, and sinker.”

“So you’d marry me if I asked?”

“Are you asking?”

“Of course not. I’m a die-hard romantic. If I were asking you to marry me, I would make a Valentine-sized production out of it.”

“That’s good,” she said, “because I’ve come to expect big productions out of you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not a subtle guy.”

“Subtlety is overrated. Besides, you have the ability to change.” She reached up to run a finger over his cheek. It was all he could do not to shudder with desire at her light touch. “I still can’t believe you came here to turn down Amusement Corp’s offer.”

“I had a mistake to correct. You were absolutely right. I was letting my ego get in the way of what was best for Valentine. You know I love that town.”

“It’s one of the things I love most about you,” she murmured.

He heard only respect and admiration in her voice and it made him love her all the more.

“You know,” she said, “I’m a novice when it comes to public office. I was hoping you might give me some pointers.”

“You mean it?”

“I’m not as confident as I appear. In fact”—she lowered her voice—“I’m scared to death. I mean, I’m responsible for running an entire town. A little guidance would be much appreciated.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not just saying that to stroke my ego.”

She shook her head. “I’m being honest here. For the first time in my life I feel like I can admit when I’m overwhelmed and it’s all because you make me feel secure enough in my insecurity.”

“Woman,” he said, “I am so turned on by you right now.”

He pulled his car keys from his pocket. “You want to drive to the airport or shall I, after we tell Amusement Corp Tyler can have the theme park? If they want it badly enough to hire Purdy Maculroy to vandalize his hometown, they can have it, problems and all.”

“You can drive this time,” she said. “I’ll drive home from the airport.”

“Deal,” Kelvin said and then he kissed her, knowing he’d made the best move for Valentine he’d ever made in his life.

R
ACHAEL WAS KEEPING
the faith as best she could. It was hard since she was living at Mrs. Potter’s alone now that her mother had moved back home. Her parents were doing well. Her dad was healing and her mother was radiant in a way Rachael had never seen before.

She decorated the house for Christmas and wrote her column for
Texas Monthly.
She’d upped her attendance at Romanceaholics meetings from once a week to twice a week, then to three times a week, until she was attending a meeting somewhere almost every day — often driving as far away as Del Rio to find a session.

But no matter how many meetings she attended, she couldn’t get Brody out of her head. He was always there, a constant in the back of her mind. No matter what else she was doing, she thought of him. Attending meetings, running errands, giving speeches, or writing her column. He was with her, his name a silent prayer.

Brody, Brody, Brody.

She kept waiting for him to make a move. To convince her that romance
was
all that it was cracked up to be. She had a speech prepared to shoot down his arguments. She kept it tucked in her purse.

He did not make a move.

That rattled her.

Why didn’t he make a move?

You don’t want him to make a move. This was supposed to be casual sex, remember. You lived in the moment. The moment is over. Live in this current moment.

But by contrast, this moment without him in it felt lonely and dull.

You’re romanticizing him again.

It was harder living here without her mother for distraction. She called her friends several times a day. Delaney and Tish, with their babies to attend to, sounded distracted and rushed. Jillian was the only one who would patiently listen to her talk about Brody and then tell her to stay strong.

It was hard to do when he was quietly, secretly doing nice things for her.

Every morning since that night in the cabin, she found the
Valentine Gazette
sitting on her front welcome mat instead of in the shrubbery where it usually landed. After a cold snap blew through one morning, covering the cars in a sheet of ice, she toddled outside, wearing three layers of clothing and armed with an ice scraper, only to discover that her windshield was already scraped clean.

When the flood lamp over the driveway went out, Rachael arrived home one evening to find the light shining brightly and Brody Carlton standing on his front porch in the dark, watching until she was safely inside.

She’d raised a hand to thank him.

He’d waved back.

That had been the extent of their exchange.

But he was quietly, steadfastly showing her what real love was. She was just so scared to trust. To believe again.

The fact that he wasn’t tempting her tempted her all the more. She found excuses to go across the street. Borrow a cup of sugar from Deana. Invite Maisy over to make Christmas cookies. Christmas caroling with her Romanceaholics Anonymous group.

None of those brief encounters satisfied.

Then on Christmas Eve, as she was wrapping presents, the doorbell rang. Her mind leaped to one conclusion.

Brody!

Excited by the notion that the sheriff was on the front porch standing underneath the mistletoe she’d hung up, she raced downstairs and flung the door open without first checking to see who it was.

Trace Hoolihan stood there holding a gigantic bouquet of pink roses.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

“I came to see you,” Trace murmured, his voice coming out thick and husky.

“Me?” She narrowed her eyes. “What for?”

Trace took a deep breath. He was just as handsome as ever. Too handsome, actually, with his slicked-back, stylishly long blond hair, perfect nose, tanned skin, and big, white, straight smile. He looked as if he’d stepped off the cover of
GQ
in his tailored suit, cranberry silk tie, expensive Italian shoes, and camel-colored cashmere coat.

She couldn’t help comparing him to Brody.

Rugged, good-looking Brody with his dark, precision-cut hair, crooked nose, and lopsided smile. If he were to be on the cover of anything, it would be
Outdoor
magazine or
Texas Highways,
in his Stetson, cowboy boots, and
faded blue jeans.

She thought of how easy life had been for Trace, a banker’s son, and how hard Brody had had it. Losing both parents by the time he was fifteen, being in the Twin Towers when tragedy struck, leaving behind a piece of himself in Iraq. How had she ever preferred the softness of someone like Trace to the substance of a man like Brody?

“You look so beautiful,” Trace said.

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “What do you want?”

“I came to tell you how sorry I am for the way I treated you.”

Then before Rachael had time to react, Trace tossed the bouquet onto the porch swing, pulled her into his arms,
and kissed her underneath the mistletoe.

B
RODY WAS CRUISING
down the street in his Crown Vic, returning from picking up nutmeg at the grocery store. Deana was whipping up eggnog for Kelvin’s annual Christmas party that evening. He’d been wondering if Rachael would be attending when he saw her standing on her front porch kissing some guy. One look at the red Corvette with the Illinois plates in the driveway, the Chicago Bears parking pass sticker on the back windshield, and a huge bouquet of pink roses sitting on the porch swing, and he knew the guy in question was most likely her old flame Trace Hoolihan trying to weasel his way back into her good graces.

The realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

Rachael was getting back together with her ex.

You blew it, buddy-boy. Holding back was not the way to go. As much as Rachael denies she wants romance, that’s exactly what she wants.

His gut soured and sweat beaded at his collar. His caveman instincts had him wanting to slam the car in park right there in the middle of the street, get out, and challenge Hoolihan to a good old-fashioned fistfight, winner take Rachael.

But he couldn’t give in to his natural inclinations for three reasons. One, he was an officer of the law and he didn’t take his duty lightly. Two, after Iraq, he’d sworn off violence. Three, Rachael wasn’t a possession men could fight over. She was a human being with a mind of her own. He couldn’t treat her like an object. If Trace was the man she wanted, it would do no good to get angry. Never mind that she was tearing him apart inside. That was his cross to bear. He loved her, even if she didn’t love him back.

Wincing, he turned into his driveway and got out of the car, just in time to see Rachael let Trace Hoolihan into her house.

And with that, the tender hope for the future Brody had been nurturing for weeks was snuffed right out.

“T
HE
B
EARS ARE
headed for the play-offs and I’m first-string running back,” Trace said. He peeled off his cashmere coat and hung it on the rack by the door while Rachael trailed into the kitchen scouting for a vase for the roses.

She’d let him in only to get him off the porch, and she prayed none of the neighbors had seen him. She knew how quickly gossip spread through Valentine.

Her lips were still damp from Trace’s wet, sloppy kiss. How had she ever convinced herself that she liked his kisses? She wiped her mouth with the back of a hand and finally just stuck the roses in a Mason jar.

“Don’t you have a vase for those?” Trace asked, coming into the kitchen behind her.

“This is as sophisticated as it gets,” she said, feeling irritated.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Let’s see. You ran out on our wedding to join the Chicago Bears and then you disrespected me on national television. Why on earth would I be mad at you?”

Trace hung his head, looking chagrined. “Not two of my finer moments. I’m truly sorry for that. But you got back at me,” he pointed out, “with the whole YouTube thing.”

“You saw that?”

“I was the laughingstock of the locker room for weeks.”