Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (bill gates books recommendations .TXT) 📗

Neva gasped. "The guy Liberty mentioned. One of the ones you were hunting?"

"He is. And he's not." Mick reached up, brushed strands of hair from her face, the corner of her mouth. "He and Harry made an exchange. The boy for some information that will get Ezra closer to getting out of the situation he's in."

She couldn't process any of it. All that mattered was that he was here. "Oh, Mick. You're making my head spin."

A brow came up over eyes that brimmed with moisture and were as red as hers. "In a good way, I hope."

God, but she loved this man. "In every possible way."

He hooked an elbow around her neck and brought her with him out of the cave. "Let's get out of here and call the sheriff. You can tell me all about it while we wait."

Seventeen

Five days later

She was the only person Candy knew in Pit Stop who refused to drive a truck. Except for Jeanne Munroe. And unless she was driving Neva's. Which she admitted to doing a lot because she liked parking her own car in the building behind the Barn. It was half garage and half storage shed, where they kept the riding lawn mower and power tools— the sorts of things most people's barns were used for.

Today, Saturday, seemed like a Jaguar kind of day.

The drive from home to town took about twenty minutes. She didn't mind—not that she could've done a thing about it anyway—because it gave her time to think about where she was going and what she'd say when she got there.

Of course, she'd been working on putting the words together for more than a few days, talking them through until they made some sort of sense, wondering if they still would when she finally managed to get them out. Apologies had never come easy. And it was obvious from her debacle with Spencer that she lacked a Toastmasters' communications skills.

Now that she was here, however, pulling into the Munroe's driveway, it was equally obvious that she should've scribbled crib notes in her palm. She parked nearer the front of the house than the back.

Her door opened onto the sidewalk cut from the drive in an L to the front steps. The house reminded her a lot of Neva's. Two-story, white frame, heather blue shutters around taupe window casings.

The biggest exterior difference was the porch. The Mun-roe's was little more than a cozy welcoming alcove, too small for a swing or a railing. She smoothed her palms down her skirt, this one knee-length and black linen, fluffed her bangs with her fingertips, checked the bow ties on the vamps of her Bruno Magli pumps.

And then she knocked. And waited. Making sure the hem of her sleeveless white menswear-styled shirt hadn't come untucked. She was squirreled around, looking over her shoulder at her waistband, when the door opened. She whirled back and swallowed hard. "Hello, Sheriff."

Yancey Munroe nodded. "Ms. Roman."

"I was wondering if Spencer was home and if I could see him. If he was. Is." Whatever, gah! She knew he was home. His truck was here. And she'd called his line earlier and hung up when he answered.

The sheriff pushed the door open and invited her in. "He's in his room. It's up the stairs"—he pointed toward the staircase next to the kitchen entrance—"to the left. The second door."

"Thank you," she murmured, holding tight to the shoulder strap of her bag. "I won't be long."

He shook his head, seemingly pleasant. Strangely affable. Maybe even .. . cheerful. "Take your time. I'm just watching a ball game. Jeanne's out picking up a few things."

Candy simply smiled and nodded as she crossed the room with its sofa and matching recliners, its entertainment armoire and dried floral arrangements, all done in oak and heathery shades of peacock and sage. It was a nice home, a comfortable home, exactly the Ail-American sort that fit Spencer.

Climbing the stairs, she glanced briefly at the framed family portraits, mostly of Spencer, and the athletic team portraits, all including Spencer, and thought again of how their backgrounds hadn't kept them from finding one another and connecting as tightly as they had.

It was that connection she'd come here for. It was one she wanted to test without making promises. Life offered no guarantees; she knew that. But she couldn't let Spencer leave until she'd fixed what she'd broken so badly. If she wasn't so tense, she'd laugh. How could it take her so many times to get this right?

She knocked on his door, took a deep breath when he answered, "Yeah. Come in," and did, pushing the door open into what her idea had always been of a jock's bedroom. Trophies and ribbons, posters and photos. And Spencer on his back on the bed, tossing a football into the air and catching it. Toss, catch, toss, catch—until he looked over and saw her.

Then he didn't toss anymore. He just stared, took her in from head to toe, finally cleared his throat and asked, "Whaddaya want?"

A better reception, for one thing. She closed the door, crossed toward the desk next to the bed, set her purse beside his computer keyboard, swiveled the chair around and sat. Demurely. Knees together. Feet together. Jesus Lord, she even kept her hands laced together in her lap.

"I wanted to see you."

He started tossing the ball again. "Look your fill. I'm not going anywhere."

Or so he thought now. "Good. I like a captive audience."

"I thought you wanted to see me. Not talk to me."

She clucked her tongue. "Now, when have you known me to do anything without talking?"

Ball in his hand, he glanced over, snorted. "That would be never."

"Exactly." And then she paused because as she'd suspected, everything she'd planned to say was gone. "Here's the thing, Spencer. I'm a mess. I mean, I was already a mess when you met me, but the other day ... in my apartment"— she gestured with