Page 96 of A Beach House Beginning

“What a blessing you had your grandmother,” Christa murmured, her hand covering his on the railing in a comforting kind of gesture.

It warmed him, both her touch and her words. He had often thought the same thing—that without Junemarie’s steady influence he probably would have traveled the same road as his mother, a desperate, lost soul always looking for the next fix.

The day he’d realized broncobusting had become like a drug to him—that he was coming to need the exhilaration and the adrenaline and, yeah, even the adulation of the fans—was the day he’d decided it was time to think about retiring.

Another reason he’d stopped drinking—because he’d been coming to need that oblivion too much.

Christa’s small hand still covered his on the railing and the connection between them seemed to pulse with life.

He was falling for her.

Falling hard.

The idea intrigued him just as much as it scared the hell out of him. He’d never been in love before. Never even come close. He’d been attracted to other women, of course, but he’d never known this fragile emotion fluttering through his insides.

He wanted desperately to kiss her again. She was so close, so soft, so very, very appealing...

And she had firmly asked him not to a couple of weeks ago.

He let out a breath. But hadn’t he told her he would probably try again? Anyway, she wasn’t exactly keeping distance between them. She was right next to him—andshewas the one who had initiated contact. She was practically holding his hand, for pete’s sake.

One more kiss, he promised himself. That’s all. He would be leaving any day now and this was probably his last chance.

Her gaze met his and he was certain he saw a warm and enticing welcome there. He saw her pupils widen, saw a fragile pulse beating at the curve of her throat, and he leaned forward.

Just before his mouth would have brushed hers, she jerked away.

“I’ve got to turn the chicken,” she managed, though her voice came out breathy and strangled.

“Right. The chicken.” He let out a long breath. Probably better this way. He would already miss her entirely too much when he left Sage Flats.

This had to stop.

After dinner, Christa sat at Ellen’s quilting frame with her mother, practicing the most basic of stitches—all she dared—while Jace helped Hope work on walking.

It was entirely too domestic a scene, probably the reason for this restlessness she couldn’t quite shake.

No. She knew the reason. Because some part of her ached to recapture those moments on the deck when he had nearly kissed her—to rewind and replay and see what might have happened if she hadn’t panicked and rushed away.

Impossible. What was the matter with her? She knew what would have happened. He would have kissed her, she would have responded...and she would have fallen even deeper for him.

The whole situation was fraught with emotional pitfalls. She had recognized it from the very beginning, but she was too foolish to put a stop to it.

She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but he had become so tightly stitched into the fabric of their lives that she had no idea how they would yank him out when he left Sage Flats.

And he would. She knew it, could feel his departure looming nearer. Hope would be devastated when he left—and hadn’t her daughter been through enough pain?

Christa would be devastated, too.

She pressed a hand to her stomach, beneath the level of the quilting frame, hoping Ellen didn’t notice.

Oh, what a mess. She was falling in love with him—his gentleness with Hope, his caring for Ellen, the laughter he had brought into their lives.

She had the oddest feeling they had all been lying dormant for five months, just waiting for him to blow into their lives and shake things up.

“Everything all right?” Ellen asked.

She met her gaze, hoping her perceptive mother couldn’t see the wild tumult of emotion in her eyes. “Of course,” she lied. “Everything’s fine.”

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