Return To Me. Shannon McKenna

must have heard by now that Simon Riley is back in town,” he began.

      Bingo. She’d guessed it. A headache gathered in the back of her head, throbbing with each beat of her heart. “Yes, I did hear that.”

      “But you haven’t seen him?” Ray’s expression switched like a TV channel into Look #3, Deeply Concerned.

      “I got home just now,” she said. “I was in town running errands.”

      “So he hasn’t been by here yet, then?” Ray persisted.

      “Haven’t seen a trace of him. What’s on your mind, Mr. Mitchell?”

      Ray sipped his tea and gazed out the kitchen window at the bushes that screened Gus’s house. “I’m worried. Even before you got involved with Brad, I was uncomfortable with the idea of a lovely young lady living alone right next to someone so unstable as Gus Riley.”

      “Hardly alone,” Ellen pointed out. “I never have less than six guests in the house with me at any given time.”

      Ray waved that inconsequential detail away. “Be that as it may, Gus had a history of mental illness. He was a land mine that could have exploded at any time. What he did to himself was a tragedy, and I’m deeply sorry for his pain, but I won’t hide from you, honey—that mine has finally exploded. No one has to tiptoe around it anymore. That may sound callous to a tender-hearted young lady such as yourself, but…”

      “Speak your mind. I can take it,” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t agree with you, though. Gus was always perfectly polite to me.”

      Sort of. Whenever she’d brought goodies to Gus’s house, she’d been greeted with the sound of a shotgun being pumped. But since he’d always put the gun aside and offered her coffee, it was no big deal.

      “Now there’s another unexploded land mine in town,” Ray said. “And it’s just too close to you. Again.”

      “You mean Simon?” She blinked with exaggerated innocence, just to see if he’d notice her sarcasm.

      He did not appear to register it. “Yes, I do mean Simon, honey. Entirely aside from that business with the fire—”

      “Simon did not set that fire!” Her voice was getting shrill again.

      “Ellen. Honey,” Ray said. “I saw him running away from the stables with my own eyes.”

      “But you didn’t see him set the fire!”

      Ray sighed. “Be that as it may. It’s been a long time, and I’m willing to forgive and forget—”

      “How can you forgive someone for something they didn’t do?”

      Solemnly Sincere took over on Ray’s face. “Let the matter of the fire be, honey. I just want you out of range. I want you to consider moving away from Kent House if Simon should decide to stay at Gus’s. I doubt he’ll stay long, since I’m quite sure his welcome here will be pretty darned cool, but for the time being, what do you say?”

      Ellen stared at him blankly. “Mr. Mitchell, I run a business. I’m fully booked through October. Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”

      “I’m suggesting that you might need to re-order your priorities,” Ray said earnestly. “You’re welcome to stay with Diana and me until the wedding. We have plenty of room. That would be the best solution.”

      Ellen shook her head. “I appreciate your offer and your concern, but I just can’t do that. And now I really need to get started with my teatime preparations. So if you’ll excuse me…?”

      Ray set his glass in the sink. “Think about it,” he urged. “Tell us the second you start to feel uneasy. The door is always open to you, Ellen. I promise that no one will say ‘I told you so.’”

      “It won’t be necessary, Mr. Mitchell, but thanks very much.”

      She watched Ray from the window. He cast a last, lingering glance down at Gus’s house before he got into the Volvo and drove away.

      Another bizarre episode in an atypical day, but she couldn’t really focus on it. Her mind was stuck on Simon. If he ever did come around to see her, he would find her very changed. She wasn’t a lonely, puppyish kid anymore, begging for his attention.

      Like she’d begged for his kiss the night he’d run away.

      And oh, God, she really shouldn’t think about that. She had to think about something else. Quick. Softening the butter for the scones she had to bake for teatime. Rinsing the blueberries. Anything at all.

      She started putting groceries away, but it was no good. The memory reeled through her mind, unstoppable.

      The night that he’d climbed up the oak to her bedroom window to tell her goodbye, she’d told him to wait. Tossed the contents of her piggy bank into her pillowcase. Run downstairs to the kitchen, thrown everything she found into the pillowcase: salami, yogurt, granola bars, trail mix.

      Her legs shook, and a lump like a cannonball was in her throat. She couldn’t bear for him to go. She’d never had a chance to make him see her as anything but a tagalong kid who needed help with her homework. She’d barely begun to grow boobs. She was a late bloomer, almost sixteen, but she looked about twelve. She would never know what it was like to kiss him, or dance with him, or—or anything else.

      She’d found him on the lawn, shoulders shaking. His face was pressed against his knees, his long legs folded up tight against his chest, like he was trying to take up less space.

      She’d dropped down to her knees next to him, and shocked them both speechless by demanding that he kiss her goodbye.

      The memory still had the power to make her face go red, right there, in front of her open refrigerator, a slippery quart of half-and-half in her hand. She’d been so bold. Years later, she still had no idea where she’d found the nerve to do that. It was unimaginable.

      At first he’d made fun of her, told her he didn’t feel that way about her, and don’t be a dingbat. Then the mocking smile faded out of his eyes, changed into a wary, waiting expression. And it happened.

      Something intangible kindled between them. An ancient, prickling instinct, a swelling heat that made her skin feel too small for her body. Mysterious and powerful. Just remembering it made her shiver.

      She remembered every sensual detail. Her hand splayed against his chest, his pounding heart, the damp warmth of his sweat. Her other hand against his cheek. The fine bones, the soft skin, the sharp angle of his jaw. The smell of smoke that clung to his hair.

      The look in his eyes, almost scared. As if she, clueless, goofy, awkward El Kent had some mysterious power over him, to bestow or withhold something he was desperate for. It made her dizzy.

      She leaned closer slowly until she felt his breath against her face, jerking in and out of his open mouth. The instant her lips touched his, the spark whooshed into flame. He’d pulled her onto his lap, wound his fingers through her hair and kissed her. Really kissed her, until her soul melted and mixed with his. Every part of her buzzed with his electricity. His lips coaxed her mouth open, ardent and eager.

      She wrapped her arms around his neck, the world turning itself over and over until she was on her back, in the grass, crushing down her mother’s bed of purple petunias. His body was feverishly hot. His hands slid under her nightgown, shoving it up. Touching her all over, making her shudder and gasp.

      She felt so clear and bright and sure. Now was the time, and he was the one. She’d chosen him years ago, before she even understood what she was choosing him for. She wrapped herself around his wiry, shaking body and offered him everything she had, everything she was.

      And he took it.

      The memory made her thighs clench. Clutching his back, staring into his wide, frightened eyes. Pain that was intimate and terrible and sweet. A storm of emotion and sensation. Collapsing into a tight, panting knot with him afterwards,