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Catching His Eye
Jo Leigh
One night. One perfect night. I would be happy with that, with the memory… – Emily Proctor, regarding Scott DillonPlain Fane" Emily Proctor had about as much chance of dating the perfectly gorgeous and now-famous Scott Dillon as she did of waking up in a model-size body. But her best friends, The Girlfriends, were determined to grant Emily her fondest wish. Oh, well, it couldn't hurt to give their plan a try…Scott was only back in town to help his family. Once he'd put things right, he was outta there. Except, he'd forgotten the charm of small-town life, the comfort of old friends–like Emily. There was something different about her…. Something that might possibly give Scott a reason to stay.The Girlfriends' Guide to…: Sometimes, all it take to find true love is a little help from a special circle of friends



“I saw Scott Dillon,” Emily told Hope.
“You’re kidding. How? Where? What did he say? Did he notice your gorgeous new look?” Hope grabbed Emily’s shirt and pulled her toward the track. There were quite a few people running, even at six in the morning.
Emily started jogging. If you could call it that. “It wasn’t pretty, Hope. I’d fallen flat on my rear in the middle of the hallway outside my classroom. He helped me up.”
“Was it incredible? Did your eyes meet and—”
“I looked like death warmed over, and he didn’t blink an eye.”
They jogged in silence for a while. “I bet there was more. You probably just didn’t see it.”
Emily didn’t argue. She wiped the sweat from her eyes, pulled up her sagging sweats and moved aside as she heard a runner approaching from behind.
“Hey!” the runner said as he reached her side.
“Emily, I didn’t know you ran.”
Oh no.
Emily smiled at the man, with his windswept hair and perfectly muscled chest. Perfect.
Scott Dillon.
Dear Reader,
November is an exciting month here at Harlequin American Romance. You’ll notice we have a brand-new look—but, of course, you can still count on Harlequin American Romance to bring you four terrific love stories sure to warm your heart.
Back by popular demand, Harlequin American Romance revisits the beloved town of Tyler, Wisconsin, in the RETURN TO TYLER series. Scandals, secrets and romances abound in this small town with fabulous stories written by some of your favorite authors. The always wonderful Jule McBride inaugurates this special four-book series with Secret Baby Spencer.
Bestselling author Muriel Jensen reprises her heartwarming WHO’S THE DADDY? series with Father Fever. Next, a former wallflower finally gets the attention of her high school crush when he returns to town and her friends give her a makeover and some special advice in Catching His Eye, the premiere of Jo Leigh’s THE GIRLFRIENDS’ GUIDE TO…continuing series. Finally, Harlequin American Romance’s theme promotion, HAPPILY WEDDED AFTER, which focuses on marriages of convenience, continues with Pamela Bauer’s The Marriage Portrait.
Enjoy them all—and don’t forget to come back again next month when another installment in the RETURN TO TYLER series from Judy Christenberry is waiting for you.
Wishing you happy reading,
Melissa Jeglinski
Associate Senior Editor
Harlequin American Romance
Catching His Eye
Jo Leigh


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To Trysa, who lights the night with her smile. Who holds us all in her heart.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jo Leigh currently lives just outside Las Vegas, Nevada, where she still can’t get used to the slot machines in the grocery stores. Storytelling has always been a part of her life, whether as a producer in Hollywood, a screenwriter or a novelist. It probably began when she told her third grade teacher that elephants ate her homework.

Books by Jo Leigh
HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE
695—QUICK, FIND A RING!
731—HUSBAND 101
736—DADDY 101
749—IF WISHES WERE…DADDIES
768—CAN’T RESIST A COWBOY
832—DOCTOR, DARLING
851—CATCHING HIS EYE* (#litres_trial_promo)

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE
568—LITTLE GIRL FOUND

HARLEQUIN TEMPTATION
774—ONE WICKED NIGHT
799—SINGLE SHERIFF SEEKS…
827—TANGLED SHEETS
856—HOT AND BOTHERED

How To Catch A Man’s Eye…And Trade It In For His Heart!
Specially created for Emily Proctor by The Girlfriends
“Whatever you do, don’t say yes on the first date!”
Samantha Barnett
“Be mysterious. Don’t finish sentences.
Look off in the distance as if a faraway lover is calling you. Let him wonder and make him wait.”
Julia Carey
“For heaven’s sake, go out and buy new under wear.”
Lily Graham
“Don’t play games. Just walk right up to him and tell him every time you look at him yous get all hot and bothered. For once in your life, say yes!”
Hope Francis
“Take it slowly. Use your head.
It's too easy to make a mistake that will cost you every thing. This is serious.”
Zoey Hoffman
“Help!”
Emily Proctor

Contents
Chapter One (#u2405737e-2fed-5b5f-b30d-47b9406cb91c)
Chapter Two (#ubb133325-60cf-552d-9130-06898b91a25e)
Chapter Three (#u9f1e6000-d611-57aa-bce7-dd040e6fe456)
Chapter Four (#uae9cc3d6-2300-5980-bd97-af16a2f67a43)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One
The Girlfriends’ Sixteenth Anniversary
Emily Proctor poured each of her girlfriends another frozen daiquiri. Midori daiquiris, to be precise. And, if one was getting picky about such things, they weren’t really just girlfriends, they were The Girlfriends. Sworn to be there for each other through thick and thin. Together by choice, forged by sixteen years of school and parents and boyfriends and…oh, just everything.
“I shouldn’t be drinking this,” Lily said, but only after she’d taken a really big swallow. “I have to take JT to soccer at eight in the morning.” She shuddered dramatically, making her impromptu ponytail wave back and forth. “The sitter can’t. She’s going to Dallas first thing tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you call Glen Cassidy…? He has to take Cody, so maybe he’ll pick up JT, too.”
Lily turned to Hope Francis. The polar opposite of Lily, Hope was five foot one to Lily’s five foot seven, and Hope had dark hair, almost black. It was trimmed in a dramatic sort of pageboy. Really angular, though. On her, it worked. She looked exotic, especially with her Winona Ryder eyes, made smoky by the liberal use of black kohl and powder. Not to mention the fire-engine red lipstick, which was mostly on the rim of her glass. The problem with Hope, at least in her own eyes, was that she looked about seventeen, and it drove her insane.
Lily smiled broadly as she uncurled her legs and got up off the couch to follow up on that excellent advice. “That’s why we keep you here, Hope. Because you’re beautiful and brilliant.”
Hope smiled demurely. Then she burped. Loudly.
Everyone cracked up as Emily crawled back on the hotel room bed and scrunched the pillow beneath her. It was so good to be together like this. All of them. Hope, Lily, Sam, Zoey and Julia. The Girlfriends.
They’d met in Mrs. Mann’s fifth-grade class, at Sheridan elementary school. They’d bonded over their outrage at Paul Morrison’s obnoxious game of pulling up their dresses on the playground.
Emily wondered for a moment what had happened to Paul. But that wasn’t important. What was important was that the six of them had come together like pieces of a puzzle. They’d all fit.
As she sipped her drink, Zoey turned the topic to her hair, as she did every year, complaining that it was too red, too curly, too hideous to be shown in public. It was utter nonsense, and the rest of the girls told her so. Every year.
“It’s wonderful hair,” Samantha said. “Very Nicole Kidman.”
Zoey sighed. “Yeah. Wouldn’t it be nice if I also had her body? And her face?”
Julia smiled wryly. “It would be even nicer if you had her husband.”
Zoey, who was sprawled in the chair across from the couch, turned to Julia. “Oh, really? You like him?”
“What’s not to like? That smile. Those eyes. That tight little behind…”
“He’s too short,” Lily said, coming back from her phone call to plop down on the couch again. “I like them tall. Tall and strong and kinda wiry.”
“No kidding?” Julia said, but Emily and everyone else in the room knew she was being sarcastic. Lily had always been specific about the man she was going to marry. Although she never admitted it, her perfect man was one Jesse Hyatt, who had been in high school with them. He’d never given Lily the time of day, unfortunately, but she still considered him the epitome of masculine perfection.
“I,” Lily said, sniffing her displeasure, “have certain standards, which some of you are sadly lacking.”
A great hue and cry came from the floor, the couch, the chair, the bed. Emily laughed. “Oh, please! This from a woman who got knocked up at age sixteen?”
“JT is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Lily said, and from her tone, Emily realized she needed to back off. Most of the time Lily joked with the rest of them about her unorthodox family, but sometimes, like when she’d had a little too much to drink, she could get pretty defensive.
“Sorry, kiddo.” Emily stood up so she could get some cookies. They’d each brought food for the weekend, and as far as Emily could tell, there wasn’t one nutrient in the bunch. They’d concentrated on the three basic food groups: chocolate, chips and cream filling.
Julia snorted in a most unfeminine manner. “Maybe we’d believe you had this non Jesse Hyatt ideal if you’d actually go out on a date. I’ve got news for you. You can’t get your virginity back, no matter how long you hold out.”
“I’m not holding out,” Lily said. “I just haven’t met the right man yet.”
“At least you’re not alone,” Hope said with a sigh. “You’d think one of us would have found Mr. Right by now, wouldn’t you?”
Zoey nodded. “Or at the very least, Mr. Okay.”
Sam shook her head. “I know you’re kidding, Zoey. You must be. Finding a life partner is the most important decision in a woman’s life. It’s not to be taken lightly.”
Hope grinned at Emily. “Too bad Sam’s ideal man is too old for her. And he’s married.”
“Who might that be?” Sam asked, raising her perfectly arched eyebrows.
“Bob Villa, of course. Between the two of you, there wouldn’t be a single store-bought item in your house. You’d knit the couches, he’d build the stove. You’re perfect for each other.”
Sam sighed. “Just because I’m handy—”
“Handy? You out-Martha Stewart Martha Stewart.”
“Look who’s talking, Ms. Everything-Has-To-Match Hope.”
“Hey!” Emily put her hands on her hips, but instead of giving her friends the stern talking-to they deserved, she noticed that of all the women in the room, hers were the only hips that were large, economy-size. It was depressing.
Hope, Lily and Samantha were the perfect width for their height. Julia was too skinny, despite the fact that she ate like a little oinker, darn it. And Zoey was just plain voluptuous, even though she thought she was fat. She wasn’t. But Emily was.
Not life-threateningly fat, but she could lose a good twenty or twenty-five pounds. She should lose—
“Emily?” Hope said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Yes?”
“Weren’t you supposed to be yelling at us?”
“Oh, yeah. Stop it.”
The girls cracked up again, and things were the way they should be once more, only Emily had to force her smile. Couldn’t she go one blessed weekend without obsessing about her weight?
Of course not. Especially after the news she’d heard just this morning. She might as well tell them now. But first, she needed one more cookie before she sat down.
As Emily reached for the bag Lily poured herself another daiquiri.
“I suppose that means you don’t have to take JT tomorrow?” Zoey asked, eyeing the full glass of sweet, cold booze.
“Nope. I can get as toasted as I want.”
“Which isn’t going to be all that toasted,” Sam said. “There will be no throwing up tonight. We’re too old for that nonsense.”
“Yeah,” Hope agreed. “Hangovers have completely lost their charm.”
“I’ve got an announcement,” Emily said. But she must have said it very softly, because no one looked at her. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’ve got an announcement!”
That quieted the room. All eyes were upon her, and she felt her face heat up. She hated blushing, but that was yet another thing she had no control over.
“Well?” Sam said.
“Scott Dillon is coming back to town.”
Silence.
A really long stretch of silence.
Hope looked at Sam. Lily looked at Julia. Zoey looked at Emily, then looked away.
“When?” Lily asked.
“Oh, um, tomorrow.”
“What!” shouted the chorus.
“I’m fine,” Emily assured them. “It’s no big deal.”
“My behind,” Zoey said, bounding to her feet. “Why did you wait so long to say anything?”
“I just found out.”
“In the last five seconds?”
“No. This morning.”
Zoey grabbed a small water bottle from the side table then settled her gaze on Emily. “What’s the story?”
“Kelly told me, since his father died, Scott’s mom is having a tough time running the store. So Scott’s coming home to help until they figure out what to do.”
“Kelly?” Hope turned to Lily. “Isn’t she Jeff Whaley’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah. She’s the one that got that boob job.”
Julia shook her head at the two gossips. “That’s not the main item on the agenda, ladies.”
The miscreants focused on Emily. She wished they’d go on talking about boob jobs. Scott Dillon wasn’t her favorite topic, outside of her daydreams, that is. But at least she didn’t have to go into any lengthy explanations. They all knew she’d been crazy about him since tenth grade. That he’d played Romeo to her Juliet in drama class, which turned the crush into mad, passionate love. And that he’d broken her heart when he’d taken Cathy Turner to the prom.
Her friends even had the decency not to mention that she’d never stood a chance with Scott. A gorgeous guy like him, football captain, president of the class, would never consider a girl like her in a romantic sense. That was not the way the world worked. She was the friend, the sounding board, the one who’d find out if the Cathy Turners of the world were interested in the Scott Dillons. But she’d never be the date. The love interest. Not with her chubby cheeks and her large economy-size hips.
“So, are you going to do something about it?” Zoey asked.
“Like what?”
“Like ask him out.”
Emily burst out laughing. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m not kidding. He’s always liked you, Emily. I mean he still calls you, right?”
“Once. He called once a hundred years ago. As a friend. Nothing more.”
“He’s older now. More mature.”
“And dating older, more mature supermodels. Not one chance in hell he’d ever go for me that way.”
“You don’t know that.”
Emily lifted her right brow.
Zoey’s shoulders sagged. “It could happen,” she said weakly.
“No, it couldn’t,” Emily said with a sigh. “But it sure would have been nice, huh?”
“What?”
“One night. One perfect night. Champagne, a full moon, music, flowers. I would have been happy with that, you know? With the memory.”
No one spoke for a moment and, just as startling, no one ate anything for a moment. Emily guessed they were all thinking of their own secret dreams. Those heartfelt wishes for things that could never be.
She’d be fine. She would. She was a champ at landing on her feet. “Okay,” she said, climbing off the bed again, more than ready to change the subject. “I say we all get into our jammies and start some serious gossip.”
“HUH?”
“Shh.”
Sam blinked, trying to make sense of what she was hearing. It was too dark to see, and what the—
“Come on,” Hope whispered. “And don’t make any noise.”
Sam threw back her covers and climbed out of the cot she’d won playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. It wasn’t the bed, but it wasn’t the floor, either. She followed Hope toward the bathroom, and when she saw that it was nearly four in the morning, she almost turned right around and went back to bed.
Hope anticipated the move, however, and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward whatever the heck was going on.
They reached the bathroom, and Hope shoved Sam inside, then Hope joined her. Once the door was closed, the light came on. Everyone was there. Except Emily.
Zoey had on her Bugs Bunny pajamas. Lily wore a nightshirt that advertised a Stephen King novel. Julia had on a cropped T-shirt that showed off her perfectly flat tummy and boxers that showed off her perfectly gorgeous legs. And Hope? She had on men’s pajamas. Both the top and bottom. Sam’s conservative white nightgown seemed hideously dull.
“Okay, so here’s what I propose,” Hope said, hopping up on the sink counter with far too much energy for four a.m. “I say we give Emily what she wants.”
“A good night’s sleep?” Zoey suggested.
Hope gave her a look. “No. One night with Scott Dillon. One perfect night.”
Sam’s mouth hung open, and she wasn’t alone in her bewilderment. All the girlfriends except Hope, of course, looked stunned.
“Are you nuts?” Lily asked.
Zoey nodded. “She’d kill us.”
Julia sat down on the commode seat. “What are we supposed to do? Hypnotize him into dating her? Buy him for her?”
Hope smiled. “I don’t think it will come to that. I think, if we do our jobs correctly, Scott Dillon will ask Emily Proctor out of his own accord.”
“And why would he,” Lily asked, “when he’s never been interested in her before?”
“Because we’re going to take our little Emily, and turn her into the sexiest, most gorgeous creature he’s ever laid eyes on. That’s why.”
No one spoke. Someone, Zoey probably, hiccuped. They exchanged glances. Finally Hope threw her arms into the air, accidentally sending Emily’s toothbrush flying into the bathtub. “Well? Are we or are we not The Girlfriends?”
“We are,” Zoey said.
“And do we or don’t we help one another?”
“We do,” Sam agreed. “But—”
“But nothing.” Hope leaned forward. “We can do this, guys. And you know what’s going to happen? Emily’s going to come away from this with so much self-confidence, with so much pride, that she’ll be able to get any man she wants. Scott Dillon, George Clooney. Whoever.”
“Little optimistic there, aren’t you, Hope?” Julia asked.
Hope nodded. “I’d agree if it was just me working on Emily. But it’s us. All of us. We can do this, guys. I just know we can.”
Julia waved her hand. “One more thing? What if Emily says no?”
Hope jumped down from the sink. “Then we’ll make her say yes.”
THE FOOTBALL TROPHIES WERE lined up in perfect symmetry, polished to a high sheen, exactly where they’d been nine years ago when he’d moved out of his parents’ home to go to Texas A&M.
Scott shifted his attention to the wall, to the pictures, the green and white flags, the display of Sheridan High memorabilia his parents had preserved like a shrine. They had been good days. Important days. But he’d moved on. At least, he’d tried.
He turned back to his open suitcase and started putting his clothes in the bureau, guilt eating a hole inside him. He didn’t want to be here. He was on the cusp, inches away from a dream career after years of disappointment. Destined, finally, to regain his former glory. But instead of preparing for an interview at ESPN, he was in his old bedroom, in his old town, in his old life.
It wasn’t fair. But, as Coach Teller always said, nothing’s fair except a fine spring day. Coach. At least Scott would get to visit him. That was a good thing.
He heard his mother in the hallway, her slippers scratching lightly on the hardwood floor. “Scott?”
“Yes, Mom?” He shut the top drawer, pasted on a smile and turned to face her. God, she’d gotten old. Old beyond her years. It was frightening.
He’d been born late in his folks’ lives, when his mother had been forty-one and his father forty-five. His mother had always had more energy than any two people he knew, but now she walked with a shuffle. It took her a long time to climb the stairs. She’d stopped coloring her hair, so it was white now, instead of the strawberry-blonde it had been forever. The vibrant part of her had gone, and he wanted more than anything else to help her get it back.
The decline had started when his father died. She’d loved the old man, and Scott had a feeling she wanted to join him. But she wouldn’t. Not while she had her son to care for.
“I’ve made cabbage rolls for dinner,” she said.
“Ah, Mom, you spoil me.”
She smiled, and the wrinkles around her eyes made it hard for him to keep his own grin in place. How could he leave her to fend for herself?
“Do you have everything you need?”
He nodded. “It’s just like it always was.”
“It’s home,” she said. “It’ll always be your home. You know that, don’t you?”
His mother hadn’t ever been a big woman, but she’d shrunk somehow over the years, so when he hugged her, the top of her head came only to his chin. He held her cautiously, afraid to squeeze too hard for fear she’d break. She’d lost too much weight. Her little arms went around his waist, and for a long moment, they rocked each other.
Scott knew without doubt that he was responsible for this woman, just as she’d been responsible for him for all his growing-up years. She wouldn’t sell the store, and she couldn’t run the store, so that left him.
Instead of being the newest ESPN sports commentator at the unheard-of age of twenty-six, he was going to be the manager of Dillon’s Market.
Nothing was fair except a fine spring day.
“ARE YOU INSANE?”
Hope shook her head. “Come on, Emily. You know you want to.”
“I do not!” She hopped off the bed and grabbed her clothes, anxious to get out of her nightgown and end this conversation.
“You do so,” Hope said, following her across the hotel room to the bathroom. “It’ll be a great adventure. And face it, girl, you need an adventure.”
“An adventure in humiliation? No, thank you.”
“Who said anything about humiliation?”
Emily couldn’t believe her friend was so dense. Actually, Hope was such a dreamer, it made sense she couldn’t see the downside of her little scheme. But Lily had both feet firmly on the ground. Sam had been the most practical person in Sheridan, and now that she’d moved, she was probably the most practical person in San Francisco, too. Zoey had some flights of fancy from time to time, but surely she could see this was a disaster waiting to happen.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Emily said. “And when I get out, I don’t want to discuss this again. Capiche?”
Hope opened her mouth, but Emily didn’t stick around to hear her argument. She went into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. Of all the nutty…
She put her fresh clothes on the counter, turned on the water in the shower, and then she blew it. She took off her nightgown and saw herself in the mirror.
Oh, God.
It wasn’t that she was hideous. It was that she was so plain. Nondescript brown hair. Eyes that were a dull shade of brown. Of course, the double chin did wonders for her face. The rest of her? Five feet four inches short and damn near one hundred and sixty. She wanted to cry.
Instead, she banished her own image from her memory and climbed into the shower. Washing occupied her mind for a while, but if she didn’t cool it she’d have no skin left. She stopped her feverish scrubbing and surrendered to the water. With closed eyes, she relaxed her shoulders, unclenched her hands.
They thought they could make her over. Transform her like Cinderella the night of the ball. But she knew better. She didn’t have what it took to be beautiful. Even if she lost all the weight and got new makeup and clothes, she’d still be plain old Emily Proctor. And Emily Proctor didn’t get to have Scott Dillon.
So why bother?
She held her breath for a moment, steadied herself with a hand on the cold wall. For the first time ever, she actually realized what she’d just said.
Why bother? If she couldn’t have Scott Dillon, why bother? Oh, God. She was the one who was insane, not her friends. What kind of a life choice was that? Wasn’t she worth bothering for? Just for being here? For being her?
No. The answer to that had been no her whole life. Because she couldn’t be as pretty as Julia, or as stylish and witty as Hope or as classy as Sam or as brilliant as Zoey, or as brave as Lily, she’d thrown in the towel on her own life.
Coward! That’s what she was. A big, yellow coward. Hiding out in the only place she’d ever lived, sneaking pieces of chocolate instead of feasting at the banquet of life.
She’d lost the game before it had begun.
So what if she’d never get Scott Dillon. If she didn’t do something about her life, she’d never be Emily Proctor. Not the Emily Proctor she was supposed to be.
At twenty-six, she had no idea who that was supposed to be. High school teacher? Yes, but that shouldn’t be all of who she was. Drama teacher? Again, that wasn’t enough. Friend. Yes. Yes, that one was very important. Daughter? Of course. But every definition she came up with was about something outside of herself.
Who was she? Right now, standing naked in the shower at the Sheridan Holiday Inn?
Tears welled only to be washed away, leaving no trace. Her fate would too, if she didn’t do something about it.
And the something closest at hand was as Hope put it, the Scott Dillon Diet, Exercise and Beauty Regimen. With emotional, physical and spiritual help from The Girlfriends.
It would mean no more French fries in the car. No more ice cream in the middle of the night. It would mean exercising, and sticking to it even when it was uncomfortable. She’d actually have to acknowledge her body, her lifestyle, her loneliness.
Something funny happened in her stomach. Fear, but not just fear. Excitement. That was it. She actually felt excited.
Maybe she couldn’t have Scott, but she could have a life. And maybe, if she learned to respect and love herself, she’d be ready to have someone else love her, too.
She turned off the shower and grabbed a towel from the rack. This was it. Her last chance to change her mind. If she told the gang she was in, they’d never let her alone about it. They were nothing if not persistent.
Stepping out onto the bath mat, she looked at the mirror, but all she saw was fog. Moving closer, she rubbed out a large clear circle. It was time to say goodbye. To all the old comforts. To the familiar pain.
She waved, and then the fog crept back and she wasn’t there anymore.

Chapter Two
The lunch bell rang, and twenty-one copies of Romeo and Juliet slammed shut at the same time. It was no use going on. Her fourth-period senior English class had already gone to lunch, even though they waited, albeit impatiently, for her to give the homework assignment and excuse them.
“Read pages eighteen through thirty, and write two pages about the relationship between the Montegues and the Capulets.”
A collective groan almost obscured the scraping of chairs as her students rushed to escape. But today Emily didn’t care. She had her own agenda.
Day four of the regimen had started out badly. Because she was a fool, she’d started her exercise program with far too much vigor, and her muscles, particularly her leg muscles, were proving her folly.
She winced as she erased the blackboard, cursing her own stupidity. Why had she ever agreed to this cockamamy scheme? It was dumb, it hurt, and she didn’t want to play anymore.
She wouldn’t tell the others, though. Not yet. There was plenty of time to disappoint her friends.
And herself.
Damn. There went a perfectly good opportunity to quit. Now she’d have to eat her salad with balsamic vinegar dressing, no oil. She’d have to drink her eight ounces of water. She’d have to keep her word.
But she didn’t have to like it.
It took her ten minutes to gather her things and straighten up the classroom. Unfortunately, she had papers, lots of them, to correct. But after lunch, she had drama, and she didn’t want to lug her things around. Since the auditorium was right there at the parking lot she’d put her stuff in the car, and after sixth period, she’d be out of here.
By the time she’d picked up everything she needed, her arms were full and her muscles protested in a most vivid way. But she went into the hall, lined with lockers and kids and banners announcing the upcoming football game. She put all her things down so she could lock the door, then picked them up again. She headed toward the door, the parking lot, wondering if she was too young to use Ben-Gay.
She heard the accident seconds before it even happened. Tennis shoes slapped the linoleum. Rushed at her like a freight train. But it was too late to get out of the way and she squeezed her eyes shut as she was hit broadside.
Her book bag flew out of her hands. She struggled to keep her balance, but there was no way. She fell hard, landing on her right hip.
The kid, someone she didn’t recognize, didn’t even stop to say he was sorry. He just ran like hell to the end of the hall, and exited, stage right.
Gretchen Foley stared at her from in front of her locker. “Are you all right, Ms. Proctor?”
“Yes, Gretchen. I’m fine.”
“Should I go get the nurse or something?”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Gretchen nodded and headed toward the cafeteria. She didn’t even bother to pick up a single piece of paper. What was it with kids today? Had they all been raised by wolves?
Just then, a masculine hand came out of nowhere, extended in front of her. She sighed, glad that at least one student on campus had some manners.
She looked up at her Lochinvar, and her heart froze. Scott Dillon. Oh, God! Anyone but him! She’d gone out of her way to avoid him. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Especially not like this!
He frowned, making his perfect dark brows come close together. “Are you really all right?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
He glanced at his hand, and she took hold of him, praying she wouldn’t give him a hernia as he helped her up. To her utter relief, he didn’t strain himself at all.
“Hey!” he said. “I didn’t know it was you.”
“It’s me.”
“Well, how do you like that. What are you doing here?”
“I work here.”
“Right. That’s right. I remember.” He shook his head and she wasn’t sure if it was because she was still living in Sheridan, or because she had come to teach at their alma mater. But he didn’t stay perplexed for long. Instead, he started picking up her books and papers.
“It’s great to see you. How you doing, Emily?”
“I’m fine, Scott,” she said, lying through her teeth. “You’re looking well.” And he was. Oh, mama. He was more beautiful than ever. He towered over her at well over six feet. His dark, wavy hair was slightly unkempt, and he looked devilishly handsome. Dark chocolate eyes sparkled behind sinfully long lashes. And that smile. She’d been a sucker for that smile since day one.
He waved away her compliment, handed her the last of her papers, then glanced down the hall. “I’m supposed to meet Coach for lunch. I’m late.”
“Go. Go on.”
“But you need help with your books.”
“I can handle it. Honestly. Now go. I know Coach hates it when anyone’s late. It was good to see you again.”
“Yeah. We’ll have to get together for coffee or something.”
She nodded, but he didn’t see. He’d already started down the hall. Down the very same hall where she’d watched him, five days a week, and loved him from afar. Where he’d kissed Cathy Turner, blissfully unaware that he’d broken her heart.
Her smile died. She had to congratulate herself. She’d sounded perfectly normal. Perfectly calm. Despite the turmoil swirling inside. He’d seen her at her worst. Splayed on the floor like some giant amoeba, arms and legs akimbo, hair a horror, and she’d even managed to lose one shoe.
Perfect. A fairy-tale reunion if she’d ever seen one. She’d managed to blow it before it had even begun—
Wait.
This wasn’t about Scott, right? The sudden urge for fast food might be about him, but her determination not to give in was hers and hers alone.
So he’d seen her. So what? It was bound to happen. So it wasn’t in the most flattering light. Big deal. The truth was, they’d been friends, once. Good friends. They’d talked about their dreams for a shining future. Shared their fears and laughter as they sat in the last row of the auditorium waiting for their turn on the stage. Despite her crush, she’d liked Scott. She’d never understood what he saw in Cathy, but hey, who knows? Maybe Cathy had hidden depth. Really well-hidden. But that was neither here nor there. What was relevant now was Emily’s desire to go the distance. To be the best she could be.
It was time to eat her salad. With balsamic vinegar, no oil.
SCOTT HURRIED DOWN the familiar halls, wishing he’d come earlier so that he could have lingered, savored his memories. But as Emily said, Coach hated to be kept waiting.
Emily Proctor.
He hadn’t expected to see her again. It surprised him that she’d stayed in Sheridan. She was so bright, he imagined her in New York or something, writing books or in politics. She’d be a good teacher, though. Her students were lucky.
He’d thought about her from time to time. About their talks, mostly. About how he’d looked forward to his classes with her. He’d taken out his yearbook once and seeing her picture was like a dose of medicine. She’d been a better friend in high school than he’d understood at the time. He regretted not keeping in touch with her.
As he passed the lockers, the pep-rally posters and the students with their backpacks and cell phones, the smell of the place brought him back to his own days here. Funny about that smell. He hadn’t noticed it back then, but when he’d walked through the front doors a few minutes ago, it had hit him hard. The combination of young, sweaty bodies, perfume, old gym socks, books, chalk…It was the smell of his youth, of his heyday. A damn fine smell.
And then to bump into Emily? That really took him back. She’d been so easy to talk to. So funny. She’d had those long bangs. He remembered wondering how she saw with all that hair in her eyes. And she was always hanging out with her girlfriends. Giggling, passing notes, getting into the kind of trouble that got stern looks from teachers. Nothing more. Innocent. But then, hadn’t they all been innocent back then?
Yeah. Emily Proctor. She’d been great. A good friend. Maybe she could be his friend, again. It didn’t look like he was leaving anytime soon. The store was a mess and needed someone in charge. There wasn’t anyone standing in the wings. The job was his whether he wanted it or not.
He pushed open the door to the quad and set out for the gym. The trees seemed bigger, the grass scragglier, but the biggest change he noticed was the students. They looked so young! At twenty-six he’d never thought much about his age, but now the truth hit him that he wasn’t the hotshot he used to be. That star had tarnished with the snap of his right ankle. Every year, new and better players made first string, and the one thing that would have made Scott special, the chance to be ESPN’s youngest sports commentator ever, had slipped through his fingers like so much sand.
His gait slowed as he passed the science building. He wished he could just go. Cut out with no regrets, go to Bristol and take that interview. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did.
So the next best thing was to get the hell over it. Get on with the life he had, instead of dreaming about the life he was supposed to have.
A dose of Coach was exactly what he needed.
THE GRASS WAS STILL WET, which added insult to injury. No one should be up at this hour, let alone doing sit-ups in the grassy middle of the high school track field.
Only three more to go.
Emily glared at Hope, which was pretty easy to do considering Hope was currently sitting on Emily’s feet while she did her sit-ups. What Hope didn’t know was that her life was spared only by the fact that Emily wasn’t strong enough to knock her down.
“Come on, Emily. You can do it.”
“Go—” Emily forced her aching abs to lift her to a sitting position. “To—” She touched her elbows to her knees, and started a slow ascent back to position one. But instead of keeping her head an inch from the floor, she collapsed. “Hell,” she said breathlessly, but proud she’d made the effort.
“Come on, you wussie girl. You weak-assed lazy bones. Two more!”
She tried. And failed. Her groan echoed off the empty bleachers. “I’ll give you a hundred dollars to go away.”
Hope laughed. “Your money’s no good here, missy. I want to see another sit-up and I want to see it now!”
“Then go rent An Officer and a Gentleman. But first, get off me.”
Hope sighed heavily as she moved over. “Pitiful.”
“Let’s see you do twenty sit-ups.”
“If I had time, I’d do exactly that.”
“You lie like a rug,” Emily said, rubbing her stomach and feeling quite sorry for herself.
“Hey! I do ten pull-ups and twenty push-ups every day.”
“You do not.”
“I could do them. If I woke up in time.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, if I had a brother, he’d like cheese.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Just help me up.”
Hope jumped up sprightly, then held her hand out. Emily grabbed it, much as she had grabbed Scott’s hand two days ago.
“I saw him, you know,” Emily said.
“Pardon?”
“I said, I saw him.”
“Him who?”
Emily sighed. “Scott Dillon. Remember him? The point of all this torture?”
“Oh, him. You’re kidding. How? Where? What did he say?”
“I have to go shower.”
“Oh, no. You’re not leaving. You’re coming with me. We’re doing two laps around the track before we finish.”
“What do you mean, we? I’m not doing any such thing.”
Hope grabbed her by the T-shirt and pulled her toward the high school track. There were quite a few people jogging already, even though it was only just past six in the morning, on a Saturday no less. Some teachers, but mostly students circled the infield, almost every one of them looking tan and fit and wonderful in their little teeny shorts. Not her. No one laid eyes on her thighs. Ever.
She started jogging, if you could call it that. It was more a lumbering walk, actually. But Hope let go of her shirt, so that was something.
“So, tell me. Damn, girl, you sure do know how to build the suspense.”
“It wasn’t pretty, Hope.”
“Huh?”
“I was flat on my butt in the middle of the hallway outside my classroom.”
Hope stopped. Emily jogged past her. Slowly.
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Why were you on the floor?”
“Doing yoga.” She was too tired for sarcasm. After gulping a few breaths, she slowed her pace a wee bit. “Some kid, and I think it might have been Tommy Wells, crashed into me, and I fell.”
“And?”
“And Scott helped me up.”
“Was it incredible? Did your eyes meet and—”
“It was humiliating. I looked like death warmed over and he didn’t blink an eye.”
“He didn’t remember you?”
“Yes, he did. But it was nothing. A big fat zero.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was there.”
“Oh.”
They jogged in silence for a while. Emily might have said more, but her lungs were preoccupied with trying to save her life.
“I bet there was more. You probably just didn’t see it.”
“There was no more.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Emily didn’t argue with her. But she did move to the right as she heard an approaching runner. She also wiped the sweat from her eyes and pulled up her sagging sweats.
“Hey!” the runner said as he got to her side.
Oh, God.
“Emily! I didn’t know you ran.”
She smiled at Scott, who looked like he should have been on a box of Wheaties with his perfect chest and windswept hair. She thought about her own hair, elegantly swathed in a decrepit sweatband, with just a few insouciant tendrils plastered against her cheek. About the shirt she had so carefully chosen this morning, emblazoned with Bart Simpson shouting “Don’t Have a Cow!”
“Hey, Scott,” Hope said, looking far too pretty.
“Hope? Oh, man, this is old home week. You’re still here, too?”
“I ask myself why every morning, but yes, I’m still here.
He laughed as he slowed down to meet Emily’s pace, and try as she might she couldn’t improve it. It was probably better to go slow than to actually have a heart attack at the next quarter-mile. On the other hand…
“So what about that cup of coffee we talked about the other day?” he asked.
She nodded, not sure if she could continue to jog and speak at the same time.
“Great. How about tomorrow. You don’t work on Sunday, do you?”
She shook her head this time.
“I’ll have to,” he said, “but I can take a break around four if that works for you.”
Again she nodded. This time throwing in a smile.
“Great. I’ll call you. You’re in the book?”
More nodding.
“Okay, then.” He turned to Hope. “Great seeing you again.”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice as even as his. “Nice to have you back.”
“Have a good run,” he said, then he put on some speed, leaving her and Hope in the dust.
At least he gave Emily something terrific to look at as he raced away. She kept moving her legs, swinging her arms, all the while looking for an escape plan. At the next curve in the track, she headed for the girls’ locker room, and she didn’t stop until she was safely inside.
She made her way to a bench and collapsed, her lungs burning like fire, her legs like Jell-O, her face so hot she could fry an egg on her forehead.
The door slammed and Hope found her still gasping for breath.
“Oh, my God!” she said. “What are the odds? But hey, he asked you out. That’s something. That’s incredible.”
Emily looked up into Hope’s beautiful, sweatfree face. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Tomorrow. I heard him ask you. And you said yes.”
“For the record, I said nothing. There’s no way I’m going to coffee with him tomorrow.”
Hope sat down on the other side of the bench. “Emily—”
“Don’t start. Don’t quibble. Just know that I quit. Right here, right now. It was a stupid idea.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. But what I don’t understand is why you want to quit.”
“You were right there!”
“Where?”
“Don’t be dense, Hope. He thinks I’m his buddy from English lit. He’ll never see me any other way.”
“You don’t know that.”
Emily gave her a look, but she didn’t argue. In fact, all her arguments ended right then. Except…
“It’s completely unacceptable. You’re going to see him if I have to drag you to the coffee shop by your hair.”
“You and what army?”
“Lily, Sam, Zoey, Julia—”
“Sam and Zoey aren’t even in town.”
“They’ll fly in for the occasion.”
Emily let go a troubled sigh. She’d had such dreams about meeting Scott. How she’d look, her hair, her nails. How cool she’d be, sophisticated enough to sit next to Dorothy at the Algonquin. She’d imagined his reaction dozens of times. His eyes widening, his jaw slackening. His inability to string three words together. It was supposed to have been heaven. A meeting so gorgeous songs would be written about it.
Instead, she’d sweated and gasped, panted like a dog. She could have gotten over the incident in the school hallway. But now she was two strikes down. She wasn’t anxious to go up to bat again.
“Are you listening to me?” Hope asked.
Not only had Emily not been listening, she hadn’t even seen Hope get up and take her shirt off. Her dark hair was a mess, but it still managed to look sexy and sleek. Hope, who considered her looks average, who thought that she was too short and her nose too big, wasn’t any of those things. She was beautiful. Everyone saw it but her.
“Why do we do this to ourselves?” Emily asked, surprised that she’d said it aloud.
“What?”
“Think of ourselves in the worst possible light.” Hope grabbed her T-shirt and pulled it on, then came back to the bench. “I don’t know. We do, though, don’t we?”
“All the time. It’s never about how happy we are with our eyes, but how miserable we are with our nose.”
Hope nodded. “Men don’t do that.”
“I’ll say. They think if they can stand upright they’re hot stuff.”
“So go see him, Em. Why not?”
Emily met her gaze. “I don’t know.”
“I do. Go. Go with no expectations except to see an old friend. Go without making yourself nuts, just like you were meeting one of us. Go and talk to him, and let him see who you are now. The very worst that’s going to happen is you’ll have a new friend.”
She nodded. “Okay. Why not? I’ll go, and I’ll talk and I’ll leave my expectations at home.”

Chapter Three
Scott handed Mrs. Newberry her package of green beans then forced a smile. The immediate reward of a return smile did little to elevate his mood. He couldn’t stop thinking about the plane tickets sitting in his suitcase. First class, round trip from Los Angeles to Bristol, Connecticut. The plane would be in the air right now, with some other passenger in his seat.
“Are the tomatoes ripe?” a strident voice said from behind him.
He turned to find Dora Weeks, one of his mother’s closest friends. She was his mother’s age, but right now, she looked years younger. She was a tiny thing, not even five feet tall, with completely white close-cropped hair. The biggest thing about her were her glasses, which were so thick they made her eyes look twice their size.
“Yes, Mrs. Weeks, they’re ripe.”
“Not too ripe.”
“No. In fact, if you’d like I can help you pick one out.”
She nodded. “Your father always picked out my tomatoes.”
“He was good at that,” Scott said, an unexpected twinge hitting his heart.
“That’s right.” Mrs. Weeks followed him toward the produce department, forcing him to slow his walk to a crawl. “He knew his vegetables.”
“He also taught me, Mrs. Weeks.” They passed the bread aisle, and Scott noticed the stock was low. Of course that meant he had to fix it, because there was no stock boy anymore. Not for a month. His mother hadn’t even tried to hire a new one.
He finally reached the tomatoes, and he looked for a beauty. All the produce was good, that hadn’t changed, but there were tomatoes and there were tomatoes.
He sniffed a contender, searching for a distinct aroma he knew intimately but couldn’t describe. Years of working part-time and summers in the store under his father’s watchful gaze had made Scott a grocer, whether he liked it or not.
“Your mother must be so proud.”
“Thank you. I had a good run, before the old ankle blew.”
Mrs. Weeks looked up at him, her huge Mr. Magoo eyes confused. “A good run? I meant she must be so proud that you came home. That you’re here when she needs you. She’s not well, you know. She tries to hide it, but I can tell.”
Plane tickets flashed in his mind for a second, but he chased them away. If he started down that path, he’d never find his way back. “I know, Mrs. Weeks, and I’m very grateful you watch out for her.”
“I do my best.”
He presented his tomato on his open palm. “Here she is. Best tomato in the place.”
Mrs. Weeks smiled as she took the vegetable in her hands. She smelled it and smiled. “Like father like son.”
I hope not. The uncharitable thought caught him off guard. What a thing to think. His father had been a fine man. Honest and thorough and kind, even though he was tough. He’d worked his whole life so that the family would have a decent house and cars, and so that Scott could go to college.
“You tell Mary I’ll come by on Tuesday.”
“I will, Mrs. Weeks.”
She headed toward the checkout counter. He wondered if her daughter came to visit. Probably. Probably called all the time. Franny Weeks was eleven years older than him, and she used to be his baby-sitter. She’d been a piece of work. Always had her nose in a book. Hated sports, even watching them.
He headed toward the bread aisle to see what he had to bring from the back. For nine-thirty on a Sunday morning, there were quite a few people in the small store. Neighbors, each one.
He noticed Jack Gates, who had retired after a lifetime of working at the hardware store. Scott remembered when Jack had helped him build a doghouse for Knute, Scott’s old mutt. Knute had passed on fifteen years ago, but the doghouse, still in the backyard, looked weathered but sturdy. Just like Jack himself.
Aura Lee Merchant studied the salad dressing, her body shaking with Parkinson’s disease. She’d been a teacher at Sheridan Elementary, although he hadn’t been in her class.
Ted Cooper, Mrs. Freed, Karen Crane. They’d all been coming here for years. No superstores for them. They liked the personal service, but more, they liked the continuity. At least that was his theory.
But whatever the reason they liked the store, they would stop coming if things didn’t improve. The rolls were almost all gone. Half the name brand breads were gone, too. He’d better call the distributors and find out what was going on.
A young man, surprising in this store of older customers, approached him tentatively. “Mr. Dillon?”
“Yep.”
The boy cleared his throat. Wiped his hands on his jeans. He looked to Scott to be about thirteen. His Cowboys T-shirt had seen better days, but it was clean. “I’m Jeff Grogin.”
“How you doing?”
Jeff thrust out his hand. Scott shook it, wondering if this was his next stock boy.
“Is it true that during the state championships you threw for 549 yards?”
A fan. Too young to have seen Scott play. But in a town this size, his football career was as well-known as the Pledge of Allegiance. “Yep. It’s true.”
The boy blinked a couple of times. “I play some football, too.”
“Do you?”
“For the Tigers. I’m the varsity quarterback.”
“How old are you?”
“Seventeen, sir.”
Sir. Suddenly Scott felt like he was a hundred. “Well, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you’d like to, um maybe have a Coke or something?”
Scott raised his eyebrow. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
Bobby’s face flushed scarlet. “No! I mean, no, sir. I just thought—”
Scott waved away the boy’s explanation and smiled to show he’d been kidding. “I know what you mean. Sure, sure. We can do that. Just not today.”
“Anytime, sir.”
“But we can’t go if you keep calling me sir. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. I mean—”
“Scott. Scott is the name you’re looking for.”
The boy, who Scott still couldn’t believe was old enough to play football, grinned like he’d just won a new car. “Great. Maybe tomorrow? Or Tuesday. Tuesday would be just fine.”
“You seem to have some free time on your hands.”
“I do. A little, I mean. With school and practice and homework—”
“How’d you like to talk about football three, four times a week?”
Bobby’s eyes widened until they were almost as large as Mrs. Weeks’. “Oh, man! Are you serious?”
Scott nodded. “I need a stock boy. Part-time.”
“A job?”
“A job.”
“Wow. I’d have to make sure the hours wouldn’t interfere with practice. Coach says—”
“I know what Coach says. What do you say tomorrow you give me your schedule, and we’ll work around it. When we have our soda, that is.”
Bobby nodded vigorously. “Sure thing, Scott.” He said the name as if it were underlined.
It was Scott’s turn to thrust out his hand. The boy took it eagerly and, after a rousing shake, he let go and headed out of the bread aisle.
Scott wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this little conversation. He was glad to have the help at the store, but he wasn’t very comfortable with all that sir stuff. And he didn’t want to talk about football. Not much, anyway.
He didn’t want to be one of those guys who sat in bars and talked about the glory days. Not at twenty-six.
He looked at his watch. Another hour until he could get out of here. Meet with Emily. That would be good. Of all the people he knew in Sheridan, Emily and Coach were the two he respected most. Coach, because he was the best strategist in high school football. And Emily? Emily because, well she was Emily.
As he walked to the stockroom, he wondered if she was married. Probably. Smart men snatched up women like her.
EMILY SAW THE CHIP in her nail polish just as Scott walked up to the table. She smiled as if her manicure was perfect. He slid into the booth with a sigh.
“Hey, Em,” he said so casually anyone would think they met like this every week. In fact, she’d figured out exactly when they’d last sat down to talk. Senior year, graduation. Just before the ceremony was about to begin, Scott had walked right up to her, taken her hand, and led her to a bench on the quad. Her heart had pounded so furiously she was sure he could hear it.
But his stealing her away wasn’t quite as romantic as her imagination presumed. He thanked her for all the times she’d listened to him go on about school and Cathy and football. He thanked her, in his shy, stumbling way, for helping him with English. And then he said goodbye, even though it wasn’t even summer yet. He’d said goodbye like he wasn’t ever coming back.
Who would have guessed that nine years later they’d be sitting in the last empty booth at Zeke’s Place? That the afternoon sun would stream through the holes in the plastic window shades in such a way. That he’d look at her with the same friendly eyes. As she thought it, she realized with a start that his eyes weren’t the same at all. They were older, although not by much, but that wasn’t the thing. Her memory of that day in the quad was vibrant inside her, and the most vivid of the memories was the look of excitement in Scott’s eyes. A look that held every promise, a look a man might have just before a great voyage. Now, his eyes seemed dull, defeated. She hoped it wasn’t so. “You look tired.”
“I am.” He signaled the waiter, who came right to the table. “I’ll have a Corona.” He looked at Emily.
“Iced tea, please.”
The waiter nodded and left to get their drinks. Then it was just her, Scott and the butterflies in her stomach. Tired or not, he still did it for her. Did it in a major way. A small part of her wanted to tell him how she’d loved him back in high school. But then sanity reared its blessed head. “So,” she said, steering the conversation in the direction it was supposed to go, “why are you so tired?”
He shook his head and her gaze was caught by his hair. The overhead light showed his subtle highlights, but it was the thickness that made her want to touch it. “The store. It’s taking a lot more work than I imagined.”
“I was so sorry to hear about your father.”
“Thanks. I miss him.”
“I’ll bet,” she said, amazed that even though he still made her nervous, it wasn’t all that hard to talk to him. In fact, it was more like old times than she ever would have imagined. “And I’ll bet your mother misses him, too.”
“Oh, yeah. She’s having a hard time of it.”
“How wonderful that you could come back to help.”
His jaw flexed, and his gaze shifted away. He put down his menu, then moved his water glass an inch to the left.
“Rather be somewhere else, eh?”
His eyes widened in surprise. “How did you…?”
“You may be a great football player, Scott, but you’re as subtle as a bull moose.”
He grinned. “Boy, some things never change.”
“Pardon?”
“You never did have a problem telling the truth, did you?”
She shrugged. “Only to myself.”
He studied her for a long while, as if he’d just realized who she was. What was he seeing? Was he marching down memory lane, too?
The drinks came, distracting him.
“Want to talk about it?” she asked.
“What?”
“Where you’d rather be?”
The left side of his mouth quirked up. “This is just like high school, remember?”
“The library.”
“And the bench by the fountain.”
She remembered each and every time they’d talked like this. In fact, her diaries, long relegated to the back of her closet, held almost verbatim transcripts of their discussions. Every word had been golden to her, and she’d thought him the funniest, sweetest, smartest guy in the world.
At least that had changed. Oh, he was funny and sweet and smart, he just wasn’t a deity anymore. But he sure was gorgeous. All sorts of muscles in her body contracted at that thought. She knew he was human, that he had faults, that he more than likely wasn’t the least bit suitable for her, but she didn’t care. She still wanted her night. One night where she’d catch him staring, unadulterated lust shining in his eyes. Was it too much to ask for?
“Those were good times,” he said. “I’m not sure if I ever really thanked you for your help with Cathy.”
Pop. Her bubble burst at the mention of Cathy Turner. The belle of Sheridan High, and the one person in the whole world that Emily hated. Not that she knew Cathy all that well, but every time she’d run into her over the years, Emily had been left with a bad taste in her mouth.
Cathy had been the head cheerleader, and that about said it all. Perfect little body. Perfect hair. Perfect clothes. And most annoying, a perfect boyfriend.
She waved away the thanks. “I want to hear what’s going on now.”
“I’m glad to be helping Mom out with the store, but…”
“But?”
“But the timing sucks.”
“Why?”
“I was supposed to go for an interview tomorrow. At ESPN. The sports network.”
She nodded. “An interview for what?”
He leaned in, his eyes lighting with a hint of that old inner fire. “It’s a brand-new idea. Something no one’s tried before. They’re going to send someone to all the high school teams to profile the best players, the stars of the future. And they want someone young to do it.”
“You’d be good at that.”
He nodded unselfconsciously. “I would. That’s the thing. I’d be perfect for the job, except—”
“Except you’re back here, and ESPN is in Connecticut.”
“How’d you know that?”
She smiled enigmatically. “I know everything, Scott. Don’t you remember?”
He laughed at the old joke, but his heart wasn’t in it.
“Your mother, does she know?”
“Oh, no. She doesn’t have a clue.”
“And I suppose you’re not going to tell her?”
“I don’t want her to feel worse than she already does.”
“What are you going to do?”
His answer was delayed by the arrival of their waiter, finally ready to take their orders. Scott wanted a burger with all the trimmings. So did Emily, but she ordered a salad instead, dressing on the side, of course.
“I’m going to work at the store,” Scott said as soon as the waiter left. “Mom won’t sell it. I’ve already asked about that.”
“And no one else can run it for her?”
“She doesn’t trust anyone but me.”
“I understand.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know if I do. I mean, why would this plum of a job fall in my lap, just to be snatched away like this? It doesn’t seem right.”
“It isn’t right or wrong, Scott. It’s not personal at all, even if it feels like it is.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried being stoic, and it works for a while. But then the reality of what I’m missing comes up and whacks me in the face.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” He sat for a moment, lost in the thought of a future that wasn’t to be his, then took a big swig from his beer. “What’s your story?” he asked.
“Me? No story. I teach. I enjoy it. I’m still tight with The Girlfriends.”
“Oh, man. I haven’t thought of that in years. You guys were crazy.”
“We still are.”
“Good. Some things shouldn’t change.”
Emily watched as he leaned back in his chair and looked around the diner. There were lots of places to eat in Sheridan, but when someone asked if you wanted a cup of coffee what they really meant was if you wanted to meet them at Zeke’s Place. The service was good, the decor inoffensive if bland, and the coffee strong and pure, none of that latte half-caff for Zeke.
Emily had been coming here since she was a girl, and she’d sat in this very booth and whined about the man across from her. How he didn’t know she was alive. How he kept going out with that horrible Cathy Turner.
She’d loved him for so long, it was as much a part of her as her hair, her eyes. Why couldn’t she get over him? It would make life so much easier.
“You have a husband?” Scott asked.
She shook her head.
He shrugged and her gaze went to his broad shoulders, but she couldn’t think about those now. “I figured you’d be married by now. Have a kid or two.”
“Me?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t even have a boyfriend. I mean right now. I have had a boyfriend before, don’t get me wrong, but he moved to San Antonio. So no, I don’t have a…” She shut her mouth before she made things worse. Change the subject, Em. “What about you? You must have a wife.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“I was seeing someone, but it wasn’t serious. She wouldn’t like it here anyway. She’s a city gal.”
“Ah. No Cathy Turner, eh?”
“That ended after high school.”
The food arrived before she could shout “Yippee,” saving her from utter humiliation. Her salad seemed as interesting as a brown paper bag, while Scott’s burger looked amazingly delicious. She poured on a little dressing, and dug in with all the enthusiasm she could muster.
He didn’t have a girlfriend! Of course, she’d known Cathy Turner was history. Cathy had married and divorced. She and Scott had been apart for ages, and yet there was a small part of her that couldn’t help putting the two of them together.
“I never thought I’d be back here,” he said. “Not to live, I mean. I worked so damn hard to get out.”
“You don’t like Sheridan?”
“You do?”
She nodded. “It’s a wonderful town.”
“It’s in the sticks. There’s nothing here. Nothing.”
She took another bite of salad as the roller coaster that was her life shot downhill. He hated it here. Once he figured out what to do about the store, he’d be gone. And she couldn’t blame him. ESPN was an exciting job opportunity, and if that didn’t come through, there would be something else. Something glamorous, someplace exciting. The high school teacher from Sheridan would disappear from his consciousness once more, as if she’d never been there at all.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his burger halfway to his mouth.
“Salad,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not a big fan.”
“Want some of my burger?”
“No, thanks. I’d better eat my vegetables.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes and Scott devoured his burger. What an appetite! He’d always eaten a lot, more than anyone she’d ever met, and yet he had a six-pack stomach and the best butt in five counties. Another two bites, and the burger was gone. She hadn’t put a dent in her salad.
“When did the Red Rock close?” he asked.
“About two years ago,” she said, remembering the old theater that had been such a part of her teenage years. “It just couldn’t compete with the Cineplex.”
He shook his head. “Too bad. It was a great place.”
“Things change. It’s inevitable.”
“Not all things,” he said with a smile.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the same. The same Emily I remember. Your hair, your laugh. You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I don’t think that’s a compliment,” she said, her voice cool as a cucumber despite the fact she was screaming inside. The same hair? Oh God, he was right. She did have the same hair. And the same clothes, and the same dumpy body.
But not for long. Scott or no Scott, she was about to become the brand-new Emily Proctor.

Chapter Four
The next day Scott watched Cathy Turner walk out of his office. It wasn’t an option, as far as he could tell. The way she sashayed was an invitation straight to her bedroom, reminding him of that old childhood saw, ‘It must be jelly ’cause jam don’t shake like that.’
He leaned back in his office chair, glad for the break, and glad that Cathy had come by. The years had been good to her, she seemed happy. The way she talked about her divorce made him think it was a good move for her. Prettier now than in school. She’d softened her hair and her makeup, at least that was his guess. He wasn’t so terrific in the observation department. More than one of his girlfriends had complained bitterly when they’d changed their hair or bought a new dress and he hadn’t noticed. He couldn’t help it. He just didn’t see things like that.
He’d better go back to the floor. Since he’d taken over, business had been booming. At first he’d thought it was because everyone was glad to see the old place well stocked and cared for. But that wasn’t it. Sure, the old customers came by, but the bulk of the new customers were from Pinehurst, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Pinehurst had two Randall’s, including a flagship store, an Albertson’s and several specialty stores. Dillon’s was known for its great produce, but still, it was too far to come for a good apple.
He wasn’t complaining, though. His mother had felt good enough to come to the store in the afternoons at least three times a week, and it made her happy to see the parking lot full of cars, the aisles bustling with shoppers. She’d told him they were coming to see him, but that couldn’t be true. Yeah, he’d been a pro football player, but that was then. This was now, and his new title was grocery store manager.
His thoughts returned to Cathy. Asking her out felt right. He’d always liked Cathy, even though she was an incredible snob. She laughed at his jokes, and she never ran out of things to say. She was easy to be with, and right now he didn’t need any complications.

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