Page 20 of A Touch of Spring Magic

They had a history. Not with a capital H, but they’d been competitors. Frenemies. Flirts. And she’d crossed the line a few times as had he, and then she’d used him. Regret burned in her chest. Funny how she felt worse about it twelve years later than she had at the time.

She shut off the water. Grabbed a towel and stared at her drenched reflection. All her life she’d followed the rules. The path set before her. Goals clear. Today, everything felt a little muddied.

Like the pond water.

She considered blowing her hair dry so the waves and curls would be tamed, but she’d only be back out in the pond later today or tomorrow, cleaning it out so she could repair or replace the pump and filtration system. A garden should have a water feature, and it would be a lovely backdrop for Chloe and Rustin’s party.

She dressed, imagining her flared, body-hugging jeans and light blue cashmere sweater were armor. She pulled her hair back in a low ponytail, smoothed on moisturizer and a slick of tinted lip gloss. She reached for mascara but resisted. Already the cashmere sweater was wildly out of place and overkill. Dormant plants and weeds weren’t impressed by makeup. And she didn’t care what Brent Stevens thought of her appearance.

That’s progress.

Her new confidence lasted until she went downstairs and saw Storm standing in her kitchen in front of the large window that looked out over the garden. When did he get so dang tall? And were his shoulders even broader than his athletic high school peak? Storm leafed through a book. That better not be some garden book he’d brought to show her how the trained pros did it. She stepped forward, and when he turned, she saw that he had theSouthern Love Spellsbook in his hand.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded and swiped the book out of his hands and quickly stuffed it in a low cabinet next to the stove where she kept her pots.

“Sorry. Is it a family heirloom? I was just curious. You always liked to bake, and Miss Millie’s meat loaf, mashed potatoes and collard greens at her diner were always a favorite from my childhood. I confess,” he said smiling far too appealingly. “I wanted to spy.”

She’d tucked the book in Chloe’s tote last night. How did it get back here? “Did Chloe tell you to bring it back?”

Storm leaned against her marble countertop and looked far too comfortable and not even a little remorseful for prowling. She hadn’t even invited him to come into the house, which was rude, but…it might be dumb, but today she was feeling that history.

“What’s up with the book?” he asked, surprising her. “The Mayes are all about their history and ancestry. I didn’t think tossing an heirloom cookbook in the cupboard was how the Mayes operated.”

Jessica winced. She’d been insufferable as a child. Daddy’s girl. Maye to her toenails. Convinced of her place in the world, which had consisted of Belmont, North Carolina, at the time.

So cringe.

“It’s not a family heirloom,” she said quickly.

“Seems like,” he noted. “Lots of different handwriting. Notes. Advice. Seems like something you’d keep on hand. Some stuff’s in a foreign language.”

“You really looked through it,” she accused, not sure why that made her feel so vulnerable. She hadn’t had the nerve to look at it again after baking cookies for Rustin in December.

A slight flush stained his cheekbones. And she shouldnotfind that attractive.

“Chloe found it in Grandma Millie’s outdoor library.” She aimed for casual, knowing that Brent—there, she could think of him by his adult name, not his high school nickname—as a former high school newspaper editor knew how to pick at scabs for details. “She left it here one night, thinking I might want to borrow, but I don’t.”

“Funny name for a cookbook. Should I warn any Belmont bachelors?”

Of course he noticed the title.

“Ha, ha.” She crossed her arms. “Storm, I mean Brent—” She gulped in a breath and then chickened out. “I told Chloe she could keep the book last night. You didn’t need to bring it back.”

“I didn’t. It was propped up by the stove, open to a recipe that looked interesting.”

“I don’t want to hear about it. Not one word.” She pressed a finger against his lips. His pupils flared. She’d forgotten the power of his spectacular eyes—honey warm, showing every thought and emotion like a film projector.

“Not like Miss Millie to ditch a family heirloom.”

“No, Grandma Millie was…I mean she still is…” A chill ran down her spine, shivered through her blood. Why had she used past tense? “Grandma Millie is exacting. She has high expectations of herself and others, and she is the most generous person there is, but I don’t need help in the garden. I know she asked you to help me because of your degree and experience, but I don’t need help.”

“I’ve been out there, walked it.”

She bristled. “I didn’t invite you.”

“Ready fire aim, Jay.” His smile was both rueful and amused.

She’d forgotten he used to call her that. It had irritated her then and it did now.

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