Small-Town Homecoming. Lissa Manley

“So, when Gramps died, Grams had a hard time running the place on her own, and I hadn’t been able to get a teaching job since graduating from college, so I came here to help her.”

      “Did you know then that the place needed so much work?”

      “No, not really. I mean, I knew it was hard work—I saw my grandparents run it for years. But I didn’t have a clue to the precarious position the business was in.”

      “Would that have changed your mind?”

      “No,” she said. “Keeping the business in the family was just the right thing to do. And I couldn’t imagine turning it over to strangers. Some of my happiest memories took place here, in this house.”

      He cast his gaze around. “When was the house built?”

      “It was constructed in 1928. Grams and Gramps bought it in 1960 and totally refurbished it themselves.”

      “It has to be expensive to maintain.”

      “It is. Especially since Grams didn’t have the head or the heart to maintain it properly after Gramps’s death.” It had made Jenna so sad to see Grams give up on life once she was alone. Though in a way, Grams’s fading after Gramps passed was a testament to their extraordinary relationship.

      “And you never considered selling it?” Curt asked, leaning a hip against the workbench. “From a business standpoint, it might make more sense to get out from underneath the burden of keeping this place going.”

      She shook her head. “I promised Grams I wouldn’t. I’ll never forget the day she realized the truth of her own health situation.” Jenna swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “She took my hand and begged me to keep the inn afloat, no matter what. How could I say no?” Her dad had pushed for Jenna to take over, too. Jenna could hardly refuse him.

      “And...you’re the kind of person who never breaks a promise, right?” he said softly.

      She liked that he saw that in her; she strived to be dependable and steady. She’d never won an academic award or scored the winning goal in a soccer game, but she could be counted on in tough times. “I try to be.” She tilted her head to the side and regarded the bouquet in front of her. Needed more mums.

      He looked at the bouquet. “It looks great. In fact,” he said, scanning all of her creations, “they all look great.”

      His praise warmed her up inside. “Thanks.”

      “What else can I do?” He fidgeted. “I’d rather stay busy.”

      “Well...they all still need bows.” She grabbed the spool of sapphire-blue ribbon Phoebe had picked out. “Wanna help?” Another set of hands was a luxury she should take advantage of while she had the chance.

      “Ah, so you’re a risk taker, too.”

      She drew her eyebrows together. “How so?”

      “I have no idea how to tie a bow, so you’re taking a big risk asking me to help.”

      “Ah.” She saw where this was going. “Well, I know how and it’s easy. I’ll show you.”

      “I’ll give it my best shot,” he said with a rueful smile. “Hopefully you won’t regret it. I’ve never been really crafty.”

      “Are you underestimating my skills as a teacher?” she asked in mock seriousness, dropping her chin.

      He held up his hands. “No, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

      “Good,” she said. “Let me tie one so you can see the general method, and then you can try, all right?”

      “Sounds like a plan,” he replied. “Tie away.”

      Explaining as she went, she unwound some ribbon and then set out to make a multilooped florist bow, going slower than normal so he could see how it was done. Loop, twist, loop, twist, until she had a pretty bow. Then she attached a pick with wire and put the whole ribbon concoction into one of the floral-filled vases, positioned just so, with the tails of the ribbon trailing down the front of the vase.

      “Ta-da!” she said with a flourish. “A lovely bow to grace a lovely bouquet to grace a lovely reception table.”

      He regarded her with doubt in his eyes. “You actually think I can do this?”

      “You can do anything you set your mind to.” Words to live by in Jenna’s family.

      “I’d like to believe that.”

      She handed him the ribbon. “Don’t worry. I’ll help with the first one.”

      “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” His shadowed jaw set with determination, Curt took the ribbon and started looping and twisting as she’d showed him.

      After a few tries, he sighed. “This ribbon is slippery,” he said after he’d started over twice. “I can’t hold on and twist at the same time.”

      She moved closer, so she was almost touching his elbow. “Put your hand like this,” she said, taking a hold of his left hand to adjust the angle. Instantly, tingles traveled from where their hands met up to her arm, and straight to her stomach. A whiff of his spicy aftershave hit her in a wave, all masculine and fresh-smelling. Her breathing went all funny.

      “Oh, okay,” he said, adjusting his grip on the bow.

      Trembling, she let go and moved back, needing space. “So make your loop and twist...”

      His brow furrowed, he did as she instructed, but after two twists, the whole thing fell apart. “Oh, man, this is harder than it looks.”

      “It just takes a little practice,” she replied. “Here, let me show you again.” She took the ribbon from him, being careful not to make contact with his hand. She had to maintain control.