Keep On Loving You. Christie Ridgway

household inhabitants rushed for the foyer again. Zan slugged down a mouthful of beer before they came back, ushering people in front of them.

      Zan got to his feet, prepared for more introductions and greetings.

      Shay Walker, who had turned chic on him, squealed like the young girl she used to be when she caught sight of him. He caught her up, whirled her around, and then they grinned at each other. “Wow, you grew up good,” she said.

      “Back atcha.” Then he turned and held out his hand to a big man with wide shoulders and a sturdy build. “Jace, right?”

      The other man’s grip was strong. “Nice to meet you.” He indicated a teenager a step behind him. “My daughter, London.”

      She sketched a wave. Zan followed suit.

      Then Brett was in his face. “You live. And you’re here, once again mooching a Walker meal.”

      “Some things never change.” Except others did, because then he was meeting the man’s wife, Angelica, an exotic brunette with a smile that could melt steel. He glanced at his old friend. “I’m speechless.”

      Brett smiled, slow, his gaze resting on his bride’s face. “I’m a lucky SOB.”

      But Zan would swear that was him as the chatter rose around him. When he’d called Poppy to say hello, she’d mentioned a family dinner and, as she’d said, he’d invited himself. So once again he was in the midst of chatter and laughter and teasing, just as if he’d never left. Their warmth and camaraderie had always been on loan, of course; he wasn’t really part of their clan, but he fell right into the comfort of it, like a big feather bed.

      Okay, he might have experienced a brief pang of melancholy when he compared this convivial atmosphere to the mausoleum-ish air of his grandfather’s house, knowing he’d have to return to it at evening’s end, but then somebody handed him another beer. Following that, Poppy passed him a small plate of appetizers—including little tiny hot dogs covered in puff pastry that a man would have to be dead not to appreciate—and then another presence strode into the kitchen.

      Mackenzie.

      Mason claimed her attention first, followed by Grimm. She bent to kiss the boy’s head and followed up by petting the dog. Then she straightened, and he swallowed, hard. For some reason his throat felt tight.

      A big, ivory-colored sweater swallowed her slim frame. It had a lace inset at the neck, making it nearly transparent from her collarbone to her cleavage. Ruffles of the stuff hung from the knitted hem. Denim clung to her legs and she wore tall leather boots that strode across the floor as she moved among her family members, dispensing hugs and kisses.

      Then she turned toward the island, where he sat, and the crowd shifted.

      Their eyes met.

      A chill washed over his skin as her gaze turned icy.

      Whoops. She was still mad about that kiss. He popped off the stool and reached for the open wine bottle nearby. A free glass sat beside it and he poured out a healthy dose, then took it to Mac like a peace offering. “How was your day?” he asked, pressing the stem into her hand.

      “Why are you here?”

      “To eat dinner,” Poppy called out, fortunately leaving out the part where he’d invited himself. “And it’s time.” She removed a huge casserole dish from the oven.

      The exodus from the kitchen to the dining room and its long table covered over any further Zan-Mac awkwardness. She ended up across from him and a couple of seats down, but that was all right. If she and her temper needed space after their lip-lock in her office a couple of days before, so be it.

      Okay, maybe he was a little ticked that she was ticked. It wasn’t as if it had been intentional.

      Lie.

      But he hadn’t intended it to happen, that was true. The opportunity had just presented itself as she moved her lips toward him, coming in for a cheek-swipe. Instead of offering up the side of his face, he’d cheated just a little and provided his mouth instead.

      Sue him.

      He hadn’t even tried any tongue.

      But still, the kiss had been electric. Zing. Hiss. Wowza.

      Mac had panicked, jerking away and staring at him through accusatory eyes. That won’t happen again, she’d said.

      He’d responded with a shrug and left as he’d promised, happy enough that it had happened once. Not that he’d explained any of that. But why wouldn’t he be pleased that the old black magic had set off a spark? It only went to prove that his memory had not overelaborated all the sputter and steam that had been kissing Mac.

      The flames and the burn that had been bedding Mac.

      Best not to think about that now, though. He applied himself instead to helpings of an excellent lasagna, green salad and garlic bread. As the meal wound down, he tuned into the talk around the table. Then he had to turn to the woman on his right, Angelica, Brett’s wife.

      “What cabins?” he asked in an undertone.

      “Do you know about the mountain, the fire?”

      He nodded. The Walkers owned a tract of land, the last from what their ancestors had purchased when they’d first arrived to log the mountains 150 years before. A small ski resort had been situated there, run by the family, which had burned to the ground when they were kids. “They’re rebuilding?”

      “Can’t,” Angelica reported. “Their dad sold off the top of the mountain—”

      “To a man who refuses to speak with us,” her husband said from the other side of the table. He must have caught the drift of Zan’s conversation with Angelica. “Victor Fremont.”

      “No spitting,” Ryan put in, holding up a hand.

      While no actual saliva was involved, the siblings turned their heads to the side and pretended to spit on the rug at their feet. Four shoes rubbed there and then four fingers made crosses over their respective hearts.

      “May his days be cursed,” Poppy muttered.

      Zan didn’t bother to suppress a grin. This was such a Walker thing. They were a ferocious band, and he’d reveled being associated with them when he’d lived here. Still, the explanation wasn’t completely clear. “Cabins?”

      From her place at the end of the table, Poppy—hostess, mother, almost-wife, it still boggled the mind—leaned his way. “Don’t you remember? There are a dozen of them—now eleven—that have been sitting empty all these years. I came up with the brilliant idea to refurbish them and rent them out.”

      High-end seclusion, she went on to explain. No Wi-Fi. Rustic surroundings with luxury bedding. Gourmet food and drink available for delivery.

      “Sounds good to me,” Zan said.

      “I know.” Poppy beamed. “We’re all on board—and excited.”

      Near the other end of the table, Mac raised her hand. “Voice of reason calling.”

      Poppy groaned and Shay and Brett frowned at her.

      “Voice of pessimism,” Poppy grumbled.

      Which was weird, Zan thought, as Mac talked about advertising and discoverability and maintenance costs—all communicating her clear doubts. Truly, as Poppy said, very pessimistic, which wasn’t like the old Mac at all. The old Mac had been full-speed-ahead, we-can-do-anything, let’s-put-on-a-show.

      This Mac was... Maybe it was just maturity.

      Angelica leaned close, speaking under the general conversation. “I wish they could find a way to regain the mountaintop property and rebuild the ski resort,” she said. “Let me show you the drawing that Brett did in college for a lodge.”

      Pulling out her phone, she called up a photo on the screen,