Chapter
one
Five hundred and eleven days had passed since he’d seen her last.
Five hundred and eleven days that had been hollower and duller and at times brutally lonely for him because Britt Bradford hadn’t been physically present in any of them.
Five hundred and eleven days constituted a streak that, within minutes, would finally come to an end. Because he, Zander Kingston Ford, had returned home.
He sank his hands into the pockets of his sweat shirt and walked beneath the cherry trees arching over the entrance to Merryweather Historical Village. On this morning in early April, pale pink blossoms covered the branches.
He catalogued the details of the village the way a landowner might, with proprietary intensity. He knew this village, this town, and this corner of Washington state very, very well. This place, more than anywhere else on earth, had become his home.
The landscaping around the base of the village’s buildings looked fuller than it had before he’d gone, and a fresh load of gravel had been laid on the walking paths. Everything else was exactly as Zander remembered. The deep green of the lawn that all thirteen historical structures faced. The white trunks of the aspens between the buildings. The pale gray of the clouds rolling in fromthe Pacific. The wooden sign hanging outside Britt’s chocolate shop that spelledSweet Artin black letters.
None of the stores that occupied the buildings would open for another hour. However, he knew that Britt would have arrived in her kitchen at six this morning.
In his lifetime, Zander had acquired knowledge about many things: technology, writing, adventure sports, travel, history. But he was a true expert at only one subject. The subject of Britt.
As soon as he’d awakened this morning, anticipation and apprehension had gone to war inside of him. Anticipation, because he was shamefully desperate to see her again. Apprehension, because he’d left Merryweather for several reasons a year and a half ago. But the greatest of those reasons had been her.
He was halfway across the village on his way to Sweet Art when the shop’s door swung open and two women walked out. One of them was Britt. He would have recognized the natural confidence of her posture even if he’d been twice as far away. She was neither tall nor short. Simultaneously slim and strong. Perfectly proportioned.
Zander’s progress cut to a halt. His breath stilled in his throat.
Britt and the other woman paused on Sweet Art’s porch to talk. Britt wore her white chef’s coat with exercise pants. She’d collected her dark brown hair into a knot on the top of her head just like she almost always did when making chocolate.
The women parted, and Britt turned his direction, back toward her shop. Her attention swept past him, then stopped. Lifting a hand to shield her eyes, she zeroed in on him.
His heart froze for an instant, then restarted with hard, drumming beats.
With a whoop of sound, Britt pounded down Sweet Art’s steps and sprinted in his direction. The village seemed to be sound asleep, but even if it had been packed with people, she’d have run to him exactly the same way. She wasn’t shy.
Joy—deep, simple joy—pulled his mouth into a grin. He opened his arms and caught her with anoomph. Then he spun her around in the air twice. Carefully, he set her back on her feet, steadying herthe way he always had emotionally. She hugged him tight, pressing the side of her face against his chest for several long moments.
She was in his arms.Britt was in his arms. Her silky hair whispered against the underside of his jaw. Her crisp perfume—the one she’d adopted during the two years she’d spent in France after graduating from culinary school—filled his senses with the smell of flowers, blackberry, orange, and sunshine. Greedy to catalogue every sensation, he worked to file them all away—
She broke contact and lifted her face to smile at him.
And just like that, standing in the middle of Merryweather Historical Village and looking into her face without continents separating them, the biggest part of his soul—the part that had been missing for a year and a half—locked back into place.
He loved her.
Instantly, the pleasure of that truth was cut in half by pain. Loving her was his greatest blessing. But it was also his greatest curse, because she didn’t love him the way that he loved her. Zander was no stranger to loving people who didn’t love him back. He ought to have adjusted to it by now, but where Britt was concerned, he never had. They were friends. Britt had always thought of him as her very good friend.
She set her palms on his shoulders. “You came back.”
“I promised you I would.”
She had the features of a warrior princess. Her eyebrows communicated determination. Her almond-shaped brown eyes revealed fierce creativity. Her chin broadcast independence. Her lips were full. Her nose straight and slender.
“You got taller,” she accused.
“Nope. I’m still five eleven.”
“Then I must have gotten shorter.”
“You’re exactly the same.”
