Rachel, the owner, held me up even longer. She’s chatty and I didn’t want to be rude to the first person I met in the town I now call home. After living most of my life in southern Georgia, I know how to get away from a chatty lady, but—truth be told—I enjoyed talking with Rachel. She seems nice, and it’s been a while since I engaged in friendly conversation with someone who doesn’t know my history. Too long, in fact.
My friends back home still look at me like I’m a broken woman. In many respects, I guess I still am. I still struggle with the pain of my loss, but it’s been two years since the accident. It’spast time for my friends to stop treating me like I’ll break from a light breeze.
Their treatment toward me only got worse after I announced I was moving across the country. They accused me of running away from my emotions rather than facing everything head on. Their concern was noted. I disagreed and left.
I didn’t exactly make it easy on them. Since the accident, I distanced myself from them and avoided my family. I just couldn’t handle the looks they gave me. The only person back home I talk to regularly is Elizabeth, my twenty-five-year-old daughter. At least she understands. Then again, she also shares my pain.
It’s easier this way.
The pity and sadness in my friends’ eyes is too much. With a stranger like Rachel, the conversation—if nothing else—is honest.
In Watercress Falls, Montana, I have a chance for a new start. And I plan on making the most of it.
Rushing into the kitchen, I prepare my grind and brew coffee maker and clean out two mugs. I have to make a good impression on the architect coming. There aren’t many options for custom remodels like this.
Who am I kidding?He’s myonlyoption. If he doesn’t agree to do the job, I’m screwed.
Buying this chalet was a risk. Then again, so many things in life are a risk. I’ve learned that the hard way. Like when my husband and seventeen-year-old son got into our car to go buy popcorn and never came back. That was a risk I didn’t plan for. It was also the last time I saw them alive.
But I refuse to let their deaths stop me from living. I need to regain my life—both personally and professionally. I’ve struggled to write since the accident. It’s hard to be creative when I’m surrounded by sad memories. When my agentsuggested a change in scenery, I don’t think this is what she meant. Regardless, she was right. I missed two deadlines for my latest manuscript, and I can’t miss the next one. My editor has been very patient with me under the circumstances, but enough is enough.
I threw a dart at a map—silly, I know—and Montana was the winner. I hired a realtor, and now, here I am.
As soon as the realtor sent me the listing for this chalet, I had to have it. This place has so much hidden potential. All it needs is someone who cares and is willing to give it the love it deserves. Plus, a huge project like this is just what I need to construct a life after loss.
Despite what my family and friends say, I’m not being irrational or crazy. And I’m not hiding. I gave moving across the country to livealonea lot of thought. This is a fresh start for me—a new beginning—and something I desperately need.
All that remains for me in Georgia are tears and constant heartache. I need healing and that’s never going to happen while living in a house filled with constant reminders of what I lost.
So, I bought a fixer-upper—sight unseen—in the Rocky Mountains of northern Montana, packed up my life, and moved over 2,500 miles across the country.
The old chalet is surrounded by snowcapped mountains, rolling hills, and open field views from the local ranches that inhabit the area. The population of locals is low, but the realtor said the summer months bring in lots of tourists. In addition to the large chalet, the property contains a few small cabins that used to be open as rentals for hunting—a future project to consider once the main house is remodeled. For now, I’m in search ofquiet solitude.
A quick run through of the house only makes me feel worse about this morning's meeting. Boxes are scattered everywhere, and the clutter unsettles me. I had everything planned out togive me enough time to prepare, but my plans meant nothing to the moving company I hired.
I was supposed to arrive a week ago, but my arrival was delayed due to a mix up with the moving company. They switched my move-in date with another family. While I was waiting for hours for the truck to show up, another family panicked when my truck arrived at their house a week early—an unnecessary headache that sent me into a downward emotional spiral.
At least they significantly discounted my moving expenses, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about my current situation. My life is a disorganized mess, and I hope the architect doesn’t hold it against me.
I barely make it back to the kitchen when a knock on the door sounds throughout the house. My nerves instantly kick into overdrive. I study my reflection in the kitchen window and force a smile, attempting to disguise the tiredness dragging down my face.
This meeting has to go well.
I openthe door and freeze.
“You.” A faint whisper escapes my lips. My heart rate kicks up several notches, and my palms sweat. What are the odds? The handsome man with the rock-hard body I ran into this morning stands on my porch.
Running into him was one of the few times I didn’t mind being such a klutz. When I smacked into his chest, I felt every defined curve of his toned body against my own. His firm, yet gentle, grip around my waist when he broke my fall still lingers.
My eyes roam his face, taking in his bright green eyes, hard jawline, thin pink lips, and partially gray hair. Even when I was younger, I couldn’t resist the sexy, distinguished look of a man with gray hair, and this one has the perfect combination of salt and pepper with silver temples. His close-cut beard is mostly gray with the perfect amount of scruff. He still looks young despite the gray, and his eyes dance with life.Perfect.
“Camille?” His lips move. I hear my name, but my brain doesn’t respond. I can’t stop staring at him. He’s beautiful in a hard, sexy kind of way.Can men be beautiful?It feels odd to think of him that way, but right at the same time. “Are you Camille Barnes?”
“Y… y… yes.” I manage to spit out. It’s been two years since a man had this effect on me. I’m not even sure what this effect is, but I feelsomething. I force myself to smile and push my shoulders back. “You must be Adam Langdon.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He smiles—a wide, open mouth smile that hits his eyes. My insides flutter. I swallow hard and lean against the door frame to support my trembling body.
“Forgive me. Where are my manners?” I wave him in. “Please, come in.”
