Hart's Hollow Farm (New Americana 4)

“What did you like?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and savoring the way her gaze gentled as she focused on his face.

Her head tilted. “Hmm?”

“When you were a kid,” he prompted. “What kind of things did you like the best?”

She looked down at her cup, her slim finger tracing the rim and brow furrowing. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, come on.” He scooted closer. “There has to be something. Everyone’s got at least one thing they miss.”

Her finger stopped moving. She raised a brow and returned his stare. “Well, what about you?”

Mitch grinned. “That’s easy.” He tapped the almost empty plate. “You already know about these. And the other thing I miss is riding my bike on the back roads. Those long dirt ones with steep hills and belly-flipping drops. Ducking and dodging low-hanging limbs.” He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of wind skating through his hair, down the back of his neck, and billowing his shirt. “Every mile I pumped those pedals took me farther from my dad and let me relax. Helped me lower my guard and just be me.” When he opened his eyes, he saw the caring light in her eyes, and felt warm inside. “The older I got, the harder it became to catch that feeling. There were times I thought I’d never find it again.”

“And did you?” She moved her hand to the table, palm down, and slid it across to nudge his knuckles. “Ever find it again, I mean?”

He flexed his fingers, rested them on her warm wrist. “Here lately, yeah.”

Her cheeks flushed. She bit her lip, but a smile broke out across her face all the same.

“So, what is it you miss?” he asked, pressing. “There has to be something.”

Her smile dimmed, and she hesitated briefly before answering. “I never stayed in one place very long until I was ten. And after that, I lived in a children’s home in Atlanta until I aged out.” She shrugged. “It was a really nice place, with really good people who cared, but I guess it was always just a place, you know? I never really thought of it as my home.”

So that was it. The evasiveness and uneasiness when he’d asked about her family, and the guarded look in her eyes when she’d mentioned having lost something precious in her life, were a result of never having had a home or a family she felt she could call her own.

The first night she’d spent at Hart’s Hollow, he’d stood at the threshold of the guest room, laid out his intentions to talk Emmy around to his way of thinking, then leave. Said he was returning home as soon as possible and suggested she do the same.

She’d mulled over his words, a haunted look in her eyes, her attention drifting away from him. Then she’d said softly, “If I had one.”

But there was something more. A dark pain that never seemed to leave her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Kristen.” He spoke softly, rubbing his thumb across her wrist in gentle circles.

“Don’t be.” Straightening, she shifted to a more comfortable position on the booth’s vinyl seat. “I was well provided for, had lots of adults to go to when I needed advice or support, and as a matter of fact, one of the counselors helped me find my first apartment. The first place I could truly call my own.” Her gaze dropped to the table, and she slid her hand from beneath his to toy with an empty sugar packet. “It was small, but it had this beautiful window seat in the master bedroom, and in the fall, I’d crack that window open, grab a blank canvas, and we’d paint for—” She stopped, her mouth tightening, then visibly shook herself. “I’d paint every morning, before I left for work, close that window, then leave, knowing that same spot would be right there waiting for me when I returned.”

Mitch hesitated, eyed the blank expression she’d carefully adopted, then asked, “When you said we . . . ?”

At first, she didn’t answer. But after taking a sip of coffee, she said, “I was engaged for one year. I met Jason not long after I turned nineteen. He was one year older and in his second year of college. He grew up with very little family—just his mother and grandfather, from what he told me—and they never really had much, so he was on a mission to make a better life for himself.” She pushed the sugar packet around with her pinkie. “I was looking for that, too, but we ended up wanting different things in the long run.”

“What kinds of things?”

She picked up the packet. Twisted it around her finger. “I wanted a family, and he didn’t. So I ended up walking away.” There was a wealth of pain in her words. It throbbed in her tone and coated her voice.

“Do you regret it?”

Her green eyes lifted to meet his. “No. That was nonnegotiable for me.”

He lifted his cup, took a deep swallow of the rich brew, then asked quietly, “Do you still love him?”

She studied his face for a minute. “We were so young and inexperienced when we met, I don’t think either of us really knew what love was.”

“And now?”

“I think fondly of him from time to time. I wish him well. But that’s all.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “What about you? Have you ever been in love?”

“Not in the past.” He set down his cup, took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “But the present seems to have a mind of its own.”

Her pink lips parted, a small intake of breath sounded and those gorgeous eyes of hers darkened to a deeper shade of green.