Fall Into His Kiss Read online

  Fall Into His Kiss

  Jenny Schwartz

  The path reluctantly taken can lead to love.

  Rachel Cruft lost her dream job at a New York advertising agency because she refused to compromise her principles. Now, she’s back in her hometown of Bideer, Texas, trying to pick up the pieces of her life—and pick herself up from the floor of the supermarket. Ouch!

  Wyatt Allenjo is trying to save Rachel from flying cans of tuna when he knocks her over. It’s not the best way to introduce himself. However, life is filled with second chances, and Wyatt gets his when he enlists Rachel’s expertise to prepare for a magazine photo shoot at his house and gallery. The photo shoot has the potential to establish him as a major wood sculptor, and put Bideer on the tourist map.

  As Rachel spends time with Wyatt, she’s charmed by his gentle strength, woodcraft and kindness, and laughingly appreciative of her extended family’s attempts to help.

  But Wyatt isn’t the only one offered a second chance. Rachel is presented with the opportunity to return to her New York career, with her principled stance respected. Will she choose her old ambitions of advertising success or allow a new dream the freedom to grow?

  For fans of woodworking cowboys and sparkling romance.

  Fall Into His Kiss is a short story, a 45 minute read.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Note From The Author

  Chapter 1

  Rachel blinked rapidly as the cans of tuna in front of her shimmered a little. Just a little. She wasn’t really crying, not over tuna, but she couldn’t help remembering that only a month ago she’d been eating sushi in New York, and now, here she was, back in Bideer, Texas, shopping to make tuna casserole for her Gramps.

  Of course, her tuna casserole was famous and she loved her Gramps, but how had everything gone so wrong, so fast? She’d been on the fast track to success, a rising advertising executive—okay, maybe executive was stretching it, but she’d been respected and good at her job and…

  “Excuse me.” A long, tanned and muscular arm stretched past her and nabbed a can of tuna, hesitated, and then, calloused fingers added a second can. That was a mite ambitious. The cans were large. The first can tilted, wavered and hurtled down towards Rachel’s toes, bare in casual sandals.

  She jerked back. The other customer lunged sideways and, off balance, Rachel toppled.

  “Peachy. Can life get any better?” Here she was, lying on the floor of a small supermarket, the mushrooms she’d placed in her basket bouncing away. If only she wasn’t twenty years too old for a toddler tantrum, she’d start bawling. And her elbow hurt.

  “Um.”

  She looked up, and then, up some more. It had been a few years since she’d been home for more than flying visits. Once she left for college, life had been busy. Study, work, interning, more work. The point was, she didn’t recognize the stranger standing in front of her.

  He was tall and burly. Burly was a good word. Broad, solid and strong. His faded blue t-shirt stretched over wide shoulders and a massive chest.

  But once she looked above his shoulders, above the square line of his jaw and surprisingly sensitive mouth, she connected with his eyes.

  Gentle, deep brown and startled, his eyes tracked her sprawled disaster in horror and evident apology. He had to be a few years older than her, nearly thirty, but this was no swaggering he-man, despite his size. Dark brown hair fell over his eyes, needing a cut.

  “I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand to help her up.

  She stared at the large paw and delicately cleared her throat.

  “Oh!”

  They both studied his dilemma. He’d caught the delinquent can of tuna, and now had one in each hand. Slowly, he put both on a shelf.

  Meantime, she scrambled up. Even standing, he remained significantly taller than her. That was a novelty. She was a tall girl and had had to learn not to hunch over in an attempt to fit in.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  She rubbed at her elbow. “No.”

  He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Nothing that matters,” she amended.

  “I really am sorry.” He crouched easily and gathered up her mushrooms, tumbling them into her basket.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. What did one more hit to her dignity matter? She picked a can of tuna off the shelf and departed to replace the bruised and abused mushrooms. As she turned the corner of the aisle, she saw he watched her, but she couldn’t summon a neighborly smile.

  Wyatt Allenjo stood in the canned foods aisle and mentally kicked himself. If he could have physically kicked himself, without alarming other shoppers, he’d have done so. “Way to go, man,” he muttered under his breath.

  The woman was gorgeous. He’d seen her in the vegetable department, selecting carrots and green onions, not to mention those mushrooms, and he’d over-filled his own bag of apples, watching. It had taken two aisles of surreptitious stalking for him to build up his nerve to speak to her, and even then, it was only because she’d stood for so long in front of the canned tuna that he’d dared to address her. And what had he said? “Excuse me.”

  So witty. So dashing and debonair. No wonder he was single. Something that hadn’t bothered him too much, until her.

  It was her red hair and that tall, lithe body, athletic and strong, in jeans and a casual white cotton shirt that attracted him. Jeans suited her.

  He could delude himself that he’d have thought of something intelligent to say to her if only, in standing close to her to pick up the tuna, he hadn’t inhaled her scent.

  She looked classy and big city confident, but she smelled of sweet violets.

  The incongruity had rocked his world and made him uncharacteristically clumsy.

  He winced. Yeah, knocking her over hadn’t been his finest moment.

  She’d definitely hurt her elbow. She probably considered him a wild man of the mountain and would cross the street rather than encounter him again.

  Disgusted with himself, he headed for the frozen foods section and meals-for-one.

  Some things never change, and that was a good thing.

  “Come here, girl, and give me a hug.”

  Obedient to the smiling command, Rachel walked around the checkout counter and hugged Mabel. The older woman had worked at the supermarket for as long as Rachel could remember, and looked set to do so forever. Mabel adored being at the center of things, and the supermarket gave her a chance to pick up all the latest gossip. Not that Mabel was ever unkind. She was simply interested in people.

  Rachel returned Mabel’s cuddly hug before they got down to the business of ringing up her purchases and asking after family.

  Mid-way through the conversation, and fortunately before Mabel could ask the reason for Rachel’s reluctant homecoming, someone queued behind her at the only open checkout.

  “Hi, Wyatt.” Mabel positively beamed.

  Rachel turned and found herself staring at her tuna assailant.

  “Hi, Mabel.” But Wyatt looked at Rachel.

  “How’s your house going?” Mabel asked. “Are you ready for the big photo shoot?”

  “No.”

  An unexpected grin turned up the corners of Rachel’s mouth. She could feel the smile threatening. If Wyatt thought monosyllabic answers would deter Mabel, he was out of luck.

  He stood solid, but looked hunted.

  “You should ask Rachel for help,” Mabel said.

  Rachel’s head shot around to stare at her. “What?”

  “Your aunt Lucy said you’ve lost your fancy New York job. So you have time to help Wyatt.”

 
Rachel cringed. So much for hoping Mabel didn’t know her story. Small towns, you had to love them—and grit your teeth as you smiled. “I’m sure…uh…Wyatt doesn’t need my help.”

  “I do.”

  “You…what?” She’d have whiplash at the rate she was spinning around. “You don’t even know me.”

  Mabel fixed that. “Wyatt, this here is Rachel Cruft, Alan’s granddaughter. Rachel, Wyatt Allenjo. He moved to town three—”

  “Four.”

  “Four years ago.” Mabel took the correction in her stride. “He’s a carpenter.”

  Rachel handed over money to pay her bill.

  “Actually, I’m a sculptor. I started out as a carpenter, worked construction with my stepdad.”

  “I’m sure you’re a nice guy.” Rachel put her change away and picked up her shopping bags.

  “Stop right there, missy,” Mabel said. “This is not just about Wyatt and his big break. If he becomes famous, the whole town could benefit from tourism.”

  Panic flitted across Wyatt’s stoic expression. Evidently, fame scared him more than it appealed.

  Rachel halted. She watched Mabel deftly scanning Wyatt’s shopping: apples, cereal, milk, ready meals.

  “Who is the photo shoot for?”

  Wyatt named a hugely famous house style magazine.

  Rachel blinked. “Really?”

  “My agent organized it. Mikal’s cut up he can’t be here. Broke his leg water skiing.” Wyatt ducked his head. “I do need some help presenting the house. Mikal had me send photos of how it is now and he says it’s too soulless. He says people want to see the house of…” He grimaced. “An artist and woodsman.”

  “Manly, comfortable, but styled,” Rachel said.

  Mabel beamed at her. “That’s the ticket.” She pushed Wyatt’s change at him. “Now, you take Rachel for coffee and explain the whole thing to her. Maybe buy her pie, too, at the diner. She always liked cherry pie.”

  “Mabel, the man has frozen meals. He can’t go having coffee.” Rachel rolled her eyes, offering Wyatt a means of escape.

  “I’ve got a cooler in my pickup. The food’ll be fine in there…unless you’re busy?”

  And if Rachel said she was, there stood Mabel, ready to pounce and remind everyone that Rachel was out of work, fired from her New York job, slinking home with her tail between her legs. “Coffee sounds good.”

  “Sorry.” Wyatt nudged Rachel’s knee under the diner’s narrow table, for the third time. “I’ve got long legs.”

  “So have I.”

  “I noticed.” Heck, he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He hid his red face, or part of it, behind his coffee mug.

  Rachel took pity on him, or else she really wanted to get this done and escape. “Tell me about the photo shoot. When is it and did they give you a brief?”

  “It’s in eight days, next Thursday.”

  She nodded, sipping coffee.

  “I didn’t get a brief or anything, just Mikal saying to cozy up the house and hide Jezebel.”

  “Jezebel?”

  “My donkey. No one wanted her at the auction and I thought she’d be company for my horse, Hercules. She is; company, that is. But she’s also evil-tempered with strangers.”

  “Still, in the distance, donkeys are cute and a bit different.” Clear gray eyes looked straight at him. “Different is good, but not too different. You need to show everyone what they dream country living is like and add a few quirky touches. Quirky because you’re an artist.”

  “I’m not quirky.”

  She grinned at him. “We’ll pretend.”

  Her smile punched him in the solar plexus, knocking the air out of him. It was so unexpected, radiant and hinting at complicity. We’ll pretend. “So, you’ll help me?” he managed.

  “Like Mabel is giving either of us a choice.” But Rachel didn’t sound annoyed. “I’ll come and see your house, tomorrow, if that works for you?”

  He nodded fervently. “Any time.”

  “Nine o’clock. We can walk around, I’ll get a sense of things, and sketch you some ideas. If you like them, we’re in business.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” She stood, gathering up her shopping bags.

  “Do you need my address?” He patted his pockets, hoping for a magically-appearing pencil.

  “Gramps will know it. I’ll ask him.”

  Wyatt smiled. Alan Cruft was a good man and a good forester. “Yeah. He’ll know it.”

  He was still standing when the door closed behind Rachel. He let out a huge breath and crashed back into his chair. Then his shoulders jerked. “Pie! I forgot to buy her pie.”

  Chapter 2

  Gramps had known Wyatt’s address, and he’d given his approval of the man and Rachel’s new project, along with directions. So as she slowed for the turn into Atfield Road, she also turned over what she’d learned of her new client.

  Wyatt Allenjo was twenty eight, single, well-respected, good with wood and a hard worker. He’d also stepped up two years ago, coming home from a trip to Los Angeles with a recently discovered teenage half-brother courtesy of their wandering, no-good father. According to Gramps, the kid had graduated from surly and rebellious into a decent enough young man who’d recently entered the marines.

  Rachel thought that said good things about Wyatt.

  And thinking about Wyatt and the photo shoot took her mind off her troubles. She needed to look for work, but she was wary. Once bitten, twice shy. Could she work in an industry where standing your ground got you fired? Should she try for a government job? Where should she work? She had contacts in New York, but looking around the woods, seeing the leaves just beginning to turn color with the cool weather, did she want to return to the Big Apple?

  She’d missed Texas, missed the space and freedom, and her family.

  “Oops.” She almost over-shot Wyatt’s driveway. There was only a faded green mailbox to mark it. “He needs a sign.”

  She turned the old boat of a car Gramps had lent her into the driveway and rattled down it. At least she needn’t worry about the car’s suspension. A retired but still active mechanic, Gramps aimed to restore the 1970s classic car, one day.

  The driveway ended and there stood the house.

  It could have been worse. In fact, the house had the potential to be charming. She’d expected something in wood, but the house was gray stone, square and cottage-y. A porch across half the front suggested the Arts and Craft movement of the early twentieth century. The windows were wood-framed, painted white, crisp and sparkling. In fact, anything that could be cleaned or renovated, had been, but the result was stark functionality. It was a house, not a home.

  The barn was better. Red and snug, it stood to the left of the house. Timber lay behind and to the side of it, seasoning. There was a strip of cleared field before the woods returned, the yellowing leaves of oaks intermingling with the solid green of pines and marching up the hill, beautiful against the clear blue sky.

  “Hi.” Wyatt crossed the porch. “Do you mind dogs?”

  Two massive beasts accompanied him, one rusty brown, the other dark gray.

  “Dogs are fine.” She got out of the car, suddenly awkward. In the store, he’d seemed much less impressive, but on his own land Wyatt was breath-takingly right; a man who’d found where he belonged—and that was immensely attractive. He was as strong and resilient as the trees around him, but also warm and watching her with a shy yet ready welcome that knocked her off balance. For a woman unsure of her place in the world, knowing herself welcome, even valued, made her unexpectedly emotional. She bent to hide her too-expressive face. “Hi. And who are you?” she addressed the dogs.

  “Sunny and Beau.”

  The dogs were friendly and wonderful ice-breakers. By the time Rachel had fussed them, she’d recovered herself. “Will you show me your house?”

  “Come in.”

  The dogs escorted her inside, while Wyatt held the door.

  Men hadn�
�t held doors for her in New York, and the courtesy underscored her welcome. “Thank you,” she murmured as she moved past him.

  She paused just inside the small hall and inhaled deeply. She caught the scent of Wyatt—man, timber and the fresh outdoors—and of the house. It smelled cool and faintly of paint and cleaning products.

  “The living room is through here.”

  Rachel flushed. She must have looked stupid, freezing in the hall. She hurried to explain. “I was trying to pick up how your house smells. Scent influences us all subliminally. The magazine readers won’t be able to smell your house, but the journalist and photographer will. We want to influence their mood so that it slants the article in your favor.”

  Wyatt inhaled. “I can’t smell anything. Except violets, and that’s you.” Approval rumbled in his voice.

  She shivered. “You smell of new wood, like a carpenter should.”

  They stared at each other an instant. Scent was an intimate thing. It was disconcerting to both be so aware of each other. They weren’t on a date.

  She cleared her throat. “You said the living room is through here. Oh.” She should have been prepared for it. After all, the outside of the house had shown her Wyatt’s high standards of maintenance, but the lack of softening attention to detail, especially color.

  “That doesn’t sound like a good ‘oh’.” He trailed her into the room.

  “The fireplace is lovely.” The stonework was particularly fine, its gray color threaded with silver and sepia.

  “It needs curtains.” He paced to the window. The sun brought red highlights out of his dark hair. “I never bothered with curtains or blinds because there’s no one to see in and…”

  “Curtains aren’t a guy thing,” she finished, smiling.

  “Yeah.” He grinned.

  “I’ll fix the curtains. As for the furniture.” It stood on a lovely polished wood floor, but the two recliners and sofa were about ten years old, gray and ugly. “Did you say you made furniture?”