Running from Love

The gravel crunched beneath the tires of my rental sedan, each revolution sounding like a small, mocking countdown. Ten miles from town. Five miles. Two.

I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. Returning to Pinecrest was supposed to be a surgical strike: attend my brother Jason's rehearsal dinner on Friday, smile through the church ceremony on Saturday, dance one obligatory slow dance, and board the first flight back to Chicago by Sunday noon.

That had been the foolproof strategy.

Until the porch lights of the Tucker farmhouse flickered to life across the lane, and a tall silhouette stepped out onto the veranda. Broad shoulders. Rolled-up denim sleeves. A familiar, confident stance that instantly set off a warning siren somewhere deep behind my ribs.

Cooper Tucker.

He hadn't changed, and yet everything about him had. He descended the wooden steps with that easy, athlete's grace that always looked effortless. When his hazel eyes caught mine through the dusty windshield, the slow, crooked grin that spread across his face stole the breath right out of my lungs.

'Welcome home, Clara,' his voice carried across the crisp mountain air, warm and rich as cedar. 'You've got a lot of explaining to do.'