Courting Hope. Jenna Mindel

plan?

      A youth center? Hope had talked Sinclair out of his set course several times when they were kids. Could she do it again?

      Judy gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Come back when you’re ready.”

      Hope watched her mother’s lifelong friend walk away, knowing Judy was right. If she quit now, what chance did Hope have for getting the preschool project back on track? It’d fizzle and die—another dream gone.

      An image of the completed addition blazed through her mind. Dorrie and her two girls were part of that image. They needed supervision over the summer break. Lots of kids did. Hope knew the community and its needs. Unfortunately, so did Sinclair. After all, he was a local boy returned home.

      Tipping her head back with a groan, Hope stared at the blue sky above. Like it or not, people depended on her and she needed to get back to work.

      * * *

      Sinclair took in the small space of his barren office. He had a desk, a couple chairs and a bookshelf. He could easily see Hope’s empty desk from his. The church offices had been situated along the side of the basement opposite the kitchen and an open area used for Sunday school and probably fellowship dinners. He had a nice-sized window with a view of hayfields, and beyond the parking lot, cherry orchards covered the hills and more fields.

      He spotted Hope pacing. She’d changed since the last time he’d seen her. A family member’s death did that to a person on some level, but he also detected a confidence in her that he didn’t remember. Her outward appearance was different, too—so different, it had taken him a couple minutes to recognize her.

      Hope had slimmed down, losing her college freshman fifteen and then some. With her bushy long hair cut into a short cap of dusky waves, she looked good. Maybe too good. And they’d be working together.

      He’d searched online for ministry positions in northern Michigan for months. There were three churches in his hometown of LeNaro, but the only pastoral staff opening had been here—a community church three miles north of town and smack in the middle of cherry farm country.

      He should have known that Hope might still work in this office. She’d worked here through college, but she’d been planning to go to Spain the summer he’d left. He never thought to ask about her during his interview.

      He stepped away from the window. Knowing Hope ran the office wouldn’t have made a lick of difference in his decision. He’d come home to make amends for his past. If he faced an uphill battle, it was no less than he deserved.

      His brother Ryan barely spoke to him, and Hope still blamed him for Sara’s death. He could see it in her eyes. Her pretty gray eyes that were no longer hidden behind Coke-bottle glasses.

      Judy stuck her head into his office. “You okay?”

      He nodded, even though it felt like he’d been hit in the gut by a ground ball that had taken a bad hop. “I take it Jim and Teresa Petersen attend here, as well. Maybe I should call and let them know.”

      It was his first position as a pastor, and he’d walked into a personal beehive. He could take getting stung, but for how long?

      “I’ll talk to them tonight and let you know how it goes.” Judy’s eyes softened.

      “Thanks.”

      Three years ago, Judy Graves had encouraged him to work through Sara’s accident by sticking around to face his part in it. Judy had been firmly in his corner during the short police investigation. It looked like she was still there.

      “You’re here for a reason, Sinclair. Don’t forget that.”

      “It’s why I came home.”

      Judy gave him a thatta-boy nod and left.

      Sinclair glanced back at the window, where sunlight streamed into the room. He stood and opened it, letting in a cool breeze despite the uncommonly hot weather for mid-June in northern Michigan. He’d never grown accustomed to the oppressive heat he’d experienced in the years he spent in Haiti, but he’d managed. He’d worked through it. He’d do the same with Hope, if she’d let him.

      * * *

      Hope wiped her face with fast-food napkins that she had stashed in her car’s glove compartment before stepping out of her Jetta. After a therapeutic cry and some soft music, she felt halfway ready to go back to work.

      She spotted Sinclair reaching into an ancient candy-apple-red Camaro. He still drove that target for speeding tickets. He hadn’t changed.

      “Nice image for a minister.”

      He whirled around and smiled. “What?”

      It was a cruel joke that a guy nicknamed Sin had such a tempting smile. She’d always called him by his full name. Not only did she like it better, but she believed using his full name shielded her from the temptation to follow his antics into trouble.

      Sometimes it had worked. Sometimes it hadn’t.

      She pointed at his vehicle. “That car.”

      His smile only grew wider. “I’m not about an image.”

      Hope gave a snort and lifted one eyebrow.

      Who was he trying to kid? He reeked with the same reckless charm he’d always had. All show and no substance, like the ridiculously fast car he’d driven since high school.

      “That car will do you no good come winter, you know.” Hope sounded like somebody’s mother. No, worse, someone’s grandmother.

      Sinclair’s smile widened. “I know. I’ll figure it out.”

      He was good at doing that. He constantly lived with a no worries now, figure it out later mentality. She remembered a youth rally they’d attended, and Sinclair had confided in her that he’d been called to the ministry. He’d bragged to her that he’d pastor a church someday, but she’d laughed at the idea. Hope hadn’t believed he’d follow through. Yet here he was, her new pastor.

      He walked toward her. “I’m worried you might quit.”

      “I might.”

      “Please don’t.”

      “Why?” Hope enjoyed watching him squirm for an answer.

      Then he looked at her with intense eyes and said, “Because I need you.”

      How many years had she dreamed of hearing those words come from him? Hope swallowed hard and looked away. Sinclair Marsh never needed anyone.

      “That bothers you.” His voice was laced with empathy.

      “You bother me.” Hope didn’t want his understanding. She didn’t want anything from him anymore.

      “I’m sorry to hear that.” His voice softened.

      Was that regret she read in his eyes? She quickly looked away again. “How ’bout you do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

      “Our jobs cross. We’re going to end up in the middle of that intersection quite a bit. What then?”

      He made a good point. How in the world were they going to go about their day-to-day duties without crashing into each other? “We’ll just have to deal with it.”

      His gaze softened further. “Hope—”

      She held her hand up to stop him from talking about Sara. “Don’t go there.”

      “We have to. Eventually.”

      “Maybe, but not today.” Hope turned and headed for the church office.

      * * *

      By the time Hope made it home later that afternoon, her emotions were all over the place. She felt rubbed raw. All afternoon she’d been aware of Sinclair’s presence. At the coffeemaker or the laser printer. The last straw had been hearing him on the piano upstairs in the sanctuary. The guy had played