Just One Kiss (Appletree Cove) Read online

  Grace had been doing her best to pay, but without regular employment, the bank wouldn’t give her a loan.

  “I’ve been working on paying that down. I’ve sent something every month.”

  “We need to see more than a twenty-five-dollar payment—but we may have a solution for you,” Mr. Haviland said. “Can you be in at one today?”

  Had they changed their minds about giving her a loan? Hope had her dancing in place. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll see you then,” he said and hung up.

  Grace showered the sand off and prayed this would be the silver lining Grandma swore by. Since discovering the debt, she’d even accepted temp work, with a new position starting tomorrow, but the upkeep of her home, with the garden and chicken coop, was a part-time job in itself. Add in helping her best friend Lottie with her daughter Violet’s childcare, and her days were packed.

  She chose a bright yellow sundress with yellow sandals and a straw hat with a yellow sunflower then drove to the bank in her 1962 vintage blue-and-white VW van.

  The engine tended to sputter until it warmed up, but today a random metallic noise that shouldn’t be there seemed to grind at the front. She arrived at the bank and parked carefully on a flat area so the van didn’t roll.

  Grace brushed some lip gloss on and smacked her lips together before getting out and crossing the hot tarmac. She opened the glass door to the bank. A plump woman with sleek dyed-blonde hair sat behind a computer monitor and a polished dark wood desk. “Hello,” she said. “Welcome to Kingston Federal Savings and Loan. May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Haviland.”

  “Name?”

  “Grace Sheldon.”

  “Ah, yes, here you are.” The woman stood, her form tightly packed into a silky brown pantsuit. “Right this way.”

  Grace swallowed nervously. Growing up in a commune had given her an anti-establishment view of the world, and being around all of this polish felt…dangerous. As if no matter what she said, it wouldn’t be good enough.

  The woman opened another glass door and said, “Ms. Sheldon to see you, Mr. Haviland.”

  Grace walked hesitantly into his posh office, wary as a rat into a trap. Yet she needed the cheese.

  Roger Haviland rose, stepped from behind his desk, and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Sheldon.” She placed him to be in his forties. His steel-gray hair and black business suit fit him well. “Have a seat.”

  She sank into a black office chair, her shiny black clutch on her lap, nerves tight across her shoulders.

  “I’ve asked you here to discuss your situation.”

  Grace gripped her purse. He didn’t sound quite as chummy now as he had over the phone. “I’d hoped to get a loan to cover the cost of the property taxes, but my application was denied. I didn’t know about the debt when I inherited the house.”

  “I was reading your paperwork. You left your place of employment blank.”

  “Not blank, sir. I’m a freelance photographer.”

  “In order to extend credit, we need a solid employment history of at least one year. Do you have that?” He lifted a hand, palm up.

  “You know I don’t.” Perspiration dotted her upper lip, and her stomach twisted. “But this is my home we’re talking about. Can’t you make an exception?”

  He sighed and tapped his fingers on his black desktop. He turned his computer monitor as if to get a closer look at the numbers. Her future. Her life. Her house. “We at Kingston Federal appreciate the dilemma you find yourself in, but thirty thousand dollars is a substantial debt.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Your grandmother bought the property in 1950, and it has appreciated in value quite a bit since then.” Mr. Haviland leaned toward her, his fingers interlaced. “Have you considered selling the property?”

  Grace frowned. “And then where would I live?”

  Mr. Haviland’s condescending smile bared his teeth like a predator. He just wanted his money without a thought to if she was suddenly homeless. “We’ve given you a chance to come up with the debt over the last six months. The bank is not a charity. I’m sorry, but you have thirty days to pay the balance, or we’ll start foreclosure proceedings.”

  Where was the damn silver lining in this? Broken camera, no money for the hatchling photos, and now she was being threatened with foreclosure?

  Grace left the bank as if her yellow sandals were on fire and called her best friend Lottie.

  “My life is over,” she said in a voice thick with unshed tears. “Uh, do you have thirty thousand dollars I can borrow?”

  “What happened?” Lottie asked. “Come to the coffee shop and I’ll fix you a vanilla chai. Violet will be out of school soon.”

  It wasn’t even two yet, and so much negativity had bombarded her today that she just wanted to go home and pull the covers over her head.

  Grace quickly told her about the bank, and worse, not getting the pictures of the birds because of the pup…and its owner. “The man could’ve been a model or actor, Lottie, he was that gorgeous.” He’d held her so carefully to keep her from being injured when they’d tumbled down the dune; she hadn’t forgotten how it had felt to be in his embrace. Large hands, strong chest, silken skin at his shoulder. “But he thought I was stalking him. And then his dog broke my camera.”

  “Hottie or not, he better pay for that. Did you at least get his name?”

  “That’s just it—I have no idea who this guy is. How am I supposed to get more work for the museum without decent equipment?”

  “Tomorrow will be a better day,” Lottie said.

  “Maybe. I start my new temp job, so that’s something.” She braked at a STOP sign, the van making that odd sound again.

  She needed money now more than ever.

  Chapter Three

  Sawyer’s necessary but unscheduled stop at the animal hospital to drop off the plastic and metal camera-crunching Bert had made him late for his appointment with the realtor. That delay had pushed back his meeting with Bill at the Veteran’s Association, where he was now headed. Late.

  He rolled the window down to enjoy the end-of-summer fresh air—not something he could do in L.A. without getting carjacked or choking on pollution. He detected pine trees and the saltiness of the Pacific, the caw of gulls.

  Grace Sheldon’s accusatory gaze combined with his tardiness made it impossible to relax. He’d ordered a replacement camera online and had it shipped to his house until he had time to locate her. The bright spot in the afternoon was the call from the vet that Bert wouldn’t need surgery—the pieces of the camera he’d ingested would pass safely on their own.

  He found a parking spot on the street in front of a coffee shop opposite the vet center. Cupcakes and muffins were painted around the bottom edges of a large picture window. He crossed the street and walked into the concrete, gray, single-story Veteran’s Association building.

  Wearing camo shorts and a sage shirt, Bill Smith got up when Sawyer entered and hobbled from behind his desk with a smile. “Sawyer! Good to see you.”

  “It’s been three years,” Sawyer said with a smirk. “I couldn’t stay away. Sorry for being late.”

  They shook hands, and Bill gestured for Sawyer to take a seat on a metal folding chair. To the right was a large room with a ping-pong table. Behind Bill was a corkboard with a calendar in the center and various announcements and notices, thumb-tacked photos of men working construction or posing for the camera, linked arm in arm.

  “No worries. I couldn’t believe it when I read your email saying you’d moved to Kingston.” Bill ruffled the top of his strawberry-blond hair. Blue eyes shone above a spray of freckles on his cheeks. “Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, but it’s no thriving metropolis.” He leaned forward, his elbow on the desk as he said wryly, “You’ve got city boy written all over
you.”

  “It’s not L.A. or Seattle, that’s for sure.” Sawyer grinned and sat back in the chair, the creases in his designer jeans over-the-top in the no-frills room. The floor was cement, not even cheap linoleum, and the whole place smelled like industrial cleaner.

  Sawyer looked around for the German shepherd he’d paired with Bill after the soldier had lost his right leg below the knee in an IED incident overseas. “Where’s Sarge?”

  Bill whistled, and Sarge trotted in from a back room. The German shepherd perked his ears when he recognized Sawyer but nudged Bill first, tail sweeping the floor. After a pat on the head, Sarge greeted Sawyer, muzzle at the ready for a good scratch.

  “Hey, boy. How are you?”

  The dog, at five, was in the prime of health with a shiny coat and white teeth. Sarge ambled across from Sawyer to Bill’s desk and lay down.

  Sawyer cleared his throat. “So…did you get a chance to read the email I sent you?”

  “Yeah. You asked if you could hire a construction crew but didn’t give me specifics. What’s up?”

  Sawyer’s publicity team, headed by Jaden Lewinski, had dreamed up the idea of using military veterans to help in the construction of the dog training facility as good PR. Which was great, so long as the work was quality.

  “I bought an old insurance building with acreage for a large-scale service dog training facility.” The interior needed some work, but the bones were solid. “Just picked up the keys. I’m ready to start right away, tomorrow even, for cleanup.” He rubbed his palms over his knees, excited to kick his plans in motion. “If you’ve got the manpower?”

  He’d helped design training centers all over the U.S., but this one would be special—it would be his chance at redemption for forgetting his roots in L.A. Ten years ago, he’d saved pit bulls from dog fights and rehabilitated them, building his reputation as a trainer who could transform any dog. He now wrote books on training but didn’t do the hands-on anymore. That had to change.

  Bill’s eyes brightened. “Do you know how big a crew you’ll need?”

  “I’m not sure just yet—maybe five guys for ripping out carpet and painting. Cleaning. Any of your men do plumbing?”

  “Yeah. Lincoln’s got experience with that.” Bill rolled a pencil across the desk as he sat forward. “And Jimmy, maybe. But Sawyer, I have to be honest here. I’ve got my stars, and then I’ve got my stragglers.”

  “Oh?” Sawyer tensed. There was too much at risk for him on a professional level to allow mistakes.

  “Some of them have been pretty scarred by the world. It takes a toll.”

  “Drugs?” He shook his head, knowing Jaden would nix hiring an addict.

  Bill held up a hand. “Mental illness. And I don’t have to tell you about PTSD. It affects more of our returning soldiers than anybody’s letting on, and God forbid we get actual funding.” His scowl was punctuated by a woof from Sarge at the side of the desk.

  “I want to help,” Sawyer said. He’d call Jaden on the way home and warn him they might need another way. His publicist had been clear that if they didn’t fix Sawyer’s image with Bark Camp, he could forget about his own show, which put his whole career at stake.

  He didn’t share that with Bill but nodded companionably. One veteran with a hammer and someone taking the right picture, and then maybe they could go with a legitimate construction company rather than Bill’s guys.

  The ploy brought a similar dissatisfaction as what had happened with Grace that morning. Her guileless gaze didn’t belong in his head right now. This was business.

  Bill sighed with relief as his eyes narrowed. “Did you see combat?”

  “No.” He’d been fortunate.

  “Thank God for that,” Bill said. “Some of these guys refuse to live in proper housing, preferring the park—no walls, no restrictions.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “With winter coming, I worry about the ones that fight confinement, preferring to live under the pier and around Salsbury Park. They claim they’re enjoying the summer weather.” He shrugged. “Then in the winter, they’ll say they love the snow.”

  The idea that the men didn’t have the basics, like shelter and probably food, gave Sawyer pause. “What’s the hourly wage?”

  “Minimum. It goes to the guys.”

  “I’ll pay a dollar more and feed them lunch and dinner. Nothing fancy, pizza and burgers, maybe.” No man should ever go hungry. He studied the worn faces of the guys on the bulletin board and hoped they could do the job.

  “That’s very generous,” Bill said.

  Sawyer wondered if by going for fame he’d forgotten to be true to his own humanity. He’d given to charities, but they were all animal related. He got to his feet. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee across the street?”

  Bill peered at the empty office space. A lonely potted plant offered a hint of green in the gray and cement welcome area. “Why not? The men will be back in about an hour, if you want to hang around?”

  “I have to pick up my dog from the vet, so I’ll let you take care of the particulars. Whoever you can send my way around eight tomorrow morning would be great—we’ll go from there.” Sawyer needed to chat with his PR team before he made any actual promises, but cleanup shouldn’t be too difficult.

  Sarge stayed at Bill’s side as they crossed the street. Sawyer noticed Bill’s neck flushed with color as they neared the coffee shop. What was that all about? It was mid-seventies and not that warm.

  “What do you recommend?” Sawyer asked.

  “Oh, anything’s good. Lottie bakes everything fresh.”

  At the mention of Lottie’s name, the tips of Bill’s ears turned red. Mystery solved.

  Sawyer rubbed his smooth top lip to hide his smile and then opened the door. He’d bet that Lottie was also pretty—the question was whether or not the two had already dated or if it was a work-in-progress. Sarge stayed on the sidewalk in the shade of a white awning and an outdoor bistro table while he and Bill went in. The scent of freshly brewed coffee blended with chocolate cake. His mouth watered.

  Inside, the floor was white, as were the three tables by the large picture window. Navy-blue chairs were tucked under the tables. Eight feet from the door, a large display case filled with cupcakes and donuts ran half the length of the store.

  At the far end, a little girl with bright red hair leaned over a picture she was coloring, her lip out in concentration. Across from her was the woman whose camera Bert had broken. Grace Sheldon. His mouth dried. The pair had identical curls, though Grace’s were black.

  He’d learned in the military to assess a situation before reacting, and that was the only reason he didn’t gasp, curse, or stride across the bakery to explain about Bert.

  What were the chances she’d be here?

  His stomach knotted. Guilt for how much he’d enjoyed the feel of her in his arms earlier, when she was obviously a mom and probably married, warred with relief that he could tell her why he hadn’t waited for her on the beach.

  Guilt won out and he held his tongue. He’d wanted to kiss her on the dune. In the back of his mind, he’d hoped she was single and that he could ask for a date when he replaced her camera. He knew the softness of her skin. He pulled his gaze away, at a loss and needing to regroup. A mom.

  A woman carried a tray of freshly baked goodness from the kitchen, her pulled-back hair a shade darker red than the girl’s. The smell of cocoa made his stomach rumble, and Sawyer snuck a glance at Grace. She wore a yellow sundress and yellow sandals—pure sunshine. Disappointment clouded his vision.

  “Lottie!” Bill said. “I’ll have one of whatever those are and a cup of coffee. And fix my friend up here with anything he wants.”

  Sawyer stepped toward Grace. He had to apologize for Bert and let her know he’d replace her camera. It was the right thing to do.

  Chapter Four

 
Grace sucked in a breath as she recognized the tall man in pressed jeans and a polo shirt, his short dark brown hair trimmed at his nape. The stranger whose dog had destroyed her camera, standing handsome as you please next to Captain Bill. She wasn’t sure she’d ever see him again, and here he was staring her in the eye.

  Her gaze dropped to his large hands, hands that had held her close as they’d slid down the dune. She hadn’t told Lottie about that part—how he’d ignited sparks that made her wish she’d asked for his name and phone number before she’d left.

  She’d ridiculously thought he’d wait for her to come back and had been disappointed to find only paw prints and broken shells below the tree.

  “Here you are, Bill,” Lottie said, passing over a coffee and pastry.

  “Thanks.” Bill practically sighed. She’d met Bill when Lottie had opened up her coffee shop, and they’d partnered together for donations on community events for the veteran’s association. He was an amazing human being who genuinely cared about his fellow man.

  Lottie didn’t believe Grace when she’d said the very cute Bill had a thing for her. Her friend questioned why he’d be interested in an overworked single mom with an autistic daughter. From the way Bill looked moonstruck at Lottie, Grace guessed he certainly was. But how did Bill know the stranger who’d run off on her?

  “And what can I get for you today?” Lottie politely asked him. Her red brow furrowed as if she recognized him and was trying to recall his name.

  The man nodded at Grace then turned to Lottie. “Coffee and a chocolate donut, please.”

  Thanks to him and his dog, she’d missed her chance at snapping pictures of the hatchlings, and that meant no paycheck. While two grand wouldn’t make a dent in the thirty thousand due to the bank, she’d gotten a call from Eddie, her mechanic, with a quote of eighteen hundred for the repairs on her VW van. He’d warned her last month that she was driving on borrowed time, but he’d soldered what he could to keep her safe until then.