A Journey's End Read online

  A Journey’s End

  Ann Christopher

  Contents

  A JOURNEY’S END

  Also by Ann Christopher

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue

  Also by Ann Christopher

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  Introduction to Excerpt

  Excerpt from LET’S DO IT

  About the Author

  A JOURNEY’S END

  Five sexy brothers. One small town. Journey’s End.

  Can two wounded people find happiness together?

  Meet widower and loner James Harper, who avoids romance like the plague.

  And vivacious single mom Miranda Lowe, whose nasty divorce blew up her life.

  What happens when you repeatedly throw them together? Come to Journey’s End and find out...

  If you love sexy small-town romance that features strong families, pick up A Journey’s End today!

  “Ann Christopher gets it right every time. Emotional, page-turning reads and characters that stay with you long after you close the book.”

  --Lori Foster, New York Times Bestselling Author

  “Ann Christopher’s gift with words will leave you captivated and breathless.”

  —Brenda Jackson, New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author

  Journey’s End Series

  #1 A Journey’s End

  #2 LET’S DO IT

  #3 ON FIRE

  #4 LET’S STAY TOGETHER (Novella)

  Also by Ann Christopher

  JOURNEY’S END Small-Town Contemporary Romance Series

  “Book” 1: A JOURNEY’S END Novella

  Book 2: LET’S DO IT

  Book 3: ON FIRE

  “Book” 4: LET’S STAY TOGETHER Novella

  Book 5: UNTITLED (Daniel & Zoya)

  DEADLY Romantic Suspense Series

  Book 1: DEADLY PURSUIT

  Book 2: DEADLY DESIRES

  Book 3: DEADLY SECRETS

  IT’S COMPLICATED Series

  RISK

  TROUBLE

  The Davies Legacy: TWINS OF SIN Series

  Book 1: SINFUL SEDUCTION

  Book 2: SINFUL TEMPTATION

  Book 3: SINFUL ATTRACTION

  Book 4: SINFUL PARADISE

  WARNER FAMILY SECRETS & LIES Series

  Book 1: TENDER SECRETS

  Book 2: ROAD TO SEDUCTION

  Book 3: CAMPAIGN FOR SEDUCTION

  Book 4: REDEMPTION’S KISS

  Book 5: REDEMPTION’S TOUCH

  Single Titles

  CASE FOR SEDUCTION

  THE SURGEON’S SECRET BABY

  SEDUCED ON THE RED CARPET

  JUST ABOUT SEX

  SWEETER THAN REVENGE

  Novellas

  TAILS OF LOVE

  GIFT OF LOVE

  BELLA MONSTRUM Young Adult Horror Series

  Book 1: MONSTRUM

  Chapter 1

  “Hit me. Hurry.”

  Grinning, Miranda Lowe passed the oversized cappuccino mug across the counter to her friend Zoya, who was red-nosed, bleary-eyed and hunched inside her puffy jacket looking distinctly the worse for the wear.

  “Here,” she told Zoya. “Drink some quick. Before your hands start shaking.”

  Zoya took a grateful sip, her eyes rolling closed. “One of these days, I’m going to get you drunk so you’ll tell me what you put in here that makes it so addictive. It’s chicory, right?”

  “Nope. Crack.”

  “I knew it.” Zoya eyeballed the glass cases on either side of the counter, her gaze skimming over the pastries. “You’d better give me a caramel scone, too.”

  Miranda grabbed a fat scone. It was still warm from the oven and gooey with icing. “For medicinal purposes?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go with that. Why don’t you come sit with me and have one, too?”

  Miranda wiped her hands on her apron, ignored the temptation of something sweet and buttery, and tried to look happy with the cup of peppermint tea she’d been nursing for the last hour.

  “I’ll sit with you for a minute, but I’m not eating a scone. I’ll let you get fat by yourself, thanks.”

  Zoya, who was an effortless size six—skinny witch—frowned as they headed to a small table near the picture window facing the street and sat. “You can’t have any more to lose, Randi.”

  Miranda slapped one hip. Thanks to her religious and endless calorie counting and treadmill walking, it was now merely curvy rather than meaty, and she wasn’t taking any chances. “One scone and it’s all over for me. I’m not trying to lose. I just want to maintain my size twelve. So you sit there and say a prayer of gratitude that you were blessed with a”—she scowled and made quotation marks with her fingers—“fast metabolism.”

  Laughing, Zoya took a big bite.

  Miranda watched, trying not to hate her.

  Not that she ever could, of course.

  They’d been close since the day Miranda opened shop here in town and Zoya showed up with a warm batch of chocolate chip cookies to welcome her to the neighborhood. Since then, they’d bonded over their shared love of hiking, baking, wine-tastings and pretty much everything else.

  “I know I keep saying this,” Zoya said, chewing, “but I really love the holiday decorations. It’s so cozy. I could stay here all day.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you come decorate my shop for me?” Zoya ran the quilt and yarn arts boutique a couple doors down. “I think it needs something else and we’ve got two whole days till New Year’s. Plenty of time.”

  “The fifty Christmas quilts you have hanging on the walls aren’t enough?”

  Zoya sighed. “I don’t know. It looks better here.”

  With a swell of pride and satisfaction, Miranda surveyed her small domain, which was empty now that the morning rush had quieted down. Java Nectar was everything she’d wanted it to be when she moved here to Journey’s End two years ago. Fresh from her nasty divorce after ten years of marriage, she’d poured her heart—and her settlement money—into making her small business a success.

  The location—for her new life and her new career—had been crucial, and she’d chosen carefully after spending time in several towns north of Manhattan. Journey’s End, which was nestled between the Hudson River and Emerald Lake, was quaint but upscale and only about an hour and a half outside the city. As such, it was a favorite destination for people with disposable income and an urge to spend time out of town, and Miranda liked to think that her little coffeehouse was the heart of it all.

  With an indigo awning and matching market-umbrella-covered tables in the warm months, it was midway down the storefronts on DeGroot Avenue, between the antiques shop and the outdoor gear shop. The inside was cheery, with sky blue walls, weathered tables, chairs, benches, and reading areas around the stone hearth, where she kept a roaring fire stoked all through the winter. She normally kept jazz classics playing, but she’d switched to holiday songs promptly on Black Friday.

  Since December was her favorite time of year, especially this year, when her seven-year-old twin boys would be with her rather than her ex in Brooklyn, she’d gone a little overboard with the decorations. There was a fresh Christmas tree, of course, strung with golden beads and glittering white lights and decorated with the painted wooden candy canes the local kids had decorated on her last crafts and coffee day. More white lights—could you ever have too many white lights? —and fresh pine garlands wound their way around the counters and doorframes. Bowls filled with ci
nnamon-scented pinecones served as table centerpieces. Carved wooden nutcrackers and Santa Clauses lined the stone hearth and mantel, and a large brass menorah had a special place in the front window.

  The overall effect was, Miranda hoped, welcoming and comforting.

  “So did the boys like their quilts?” Zoya asked, snapping her out of her thoughts.

  Miranda had stashed a holiday lap quilt under the tree for each of the boys this year. She’d made them during the December sessions of Zoya’s quilt club.

  “They loved them.” Miranda grinned as she remembered their delight the first time they snuggled down with their gifts to watch a movie on the sofa. “They’ve been dragging them everywhere they go, all around the house. Those poor abused quilts need to be washed already. It’s great.”

  “That’s awesome! When’re they coming back?”

  The twins had spent the weekend in the city with their father. Miranda had spent her alone time wallowing in the peace and quiet, but only for ten-minute increments. Then she’d swung the other way and missed the boys’ nonstop chattering and bickering.

  Yeah, she was a mess.

  “They’re getting back tonight,” she told Zoya. “We’re going to do our usual—watch Toy Story, fall asleep on the sofa, then wake up in time for the ball drop and a glass of sparkling grape juice. We’re big partiers. You know. “

  “Every day is like a day in Vegas at your house—uh-oh.” Zoya suddenly spied something out the window. Trying to hide her growing smile behind her mug as she took another sip of coffee, she tipped her head toward the street. “Here comes your favorite person.”

  Miranda stilled, but her pulse kicked into overdrive. Worse, prickly heat crept over her cheeks until she felt as vividly fluorescent as the night-lights at Yankee Stadium.

  Zoya watched her with narrowed eyes and keen interest, which didn’t help the situation.

  Making a valiant stab at casual indifference, Miranda shrugged, turned her head and glanced out the window in time to see the only pebble in the shoe of her new, post-divorce, single-mom existence here in idyllic Journey’s End:

  A huge black truck, spotlessly clean despite the recent snowfall and resulting sludge in the streets, pulled up to the curb, executed a perfect parallel park, and went quiet. The driver’s side door opened. A man unfolded his tall body from the cab and, unsmiling, headed for Java Nectar.

  Miranda’s breath hitched.

  James Harper had arrived for his morning cup of coffee.

  Chapter 2

  “He’s not my favorite person, so I don’t know why you say that every time he shows up. And I don’t hate him, either. I don’t think about him at all, okay?”

  Painfully aware that she was dissolving into a babbling bundle of nerves, Miranda tried to shut up. Zoya continued to watch her, brows raised. Miranda smoothed her hair behind her ear. Zoya waited.

  The babbling resumed.

  “He’s a customer, I serve him coffee, he pays, he leaves, end of story,” Miranda added, now fidgeting in her seat. “And he’s the boys’ troop leader, but that’s it. We had one date months ago. Big deal. Who cares? I’m over it. I am so over it.” She waved a hand. “His loss. He’s still not over his wife’s death, I guess. Whatever.”

  Zoya stopped trying to hide her amused grin. “Whatever. Right. So why is your face all red?”

  Miranda got up and blasted Zoya with a gaze as frigid as she could make it. James was almost to the front door now, his limp barely discernible and his booted feet crunching on the salt-covered sidewalk, and Miranda didn’t have time for this conversation. The last thing she needed was for James to realize they were talking about him.

  “If my face is red, it’s probably because you won’t let it go. I’m sorry I ever told you about the date—”

  “The best first date of your life, you said, if I recall correctly,” Zoya continued, unabashed.

  Wistful memories of that magical night, never very far away, drifted back to Miranda.

  The boys had been with their father the weekend that James finally—finally—asked her out. He’d said they’d do dinner, so she’d dressed in her prettiest LBD and waited for him to pick her up, giddy with anticipation in a way she hadn’t been since her first date with her ex.

  When he’d shown up with arms loaded with groceries, she’d been charmed and intrigued. When he’d made her sit, nibble on cheese and olives and sip red wine—a delightful Malbec she’d never tasted before—while he whipped up the most delicious shrimp linguine a girl could imagine, she’d been mesmerized. When they sat down at her dining room table to eat, she’d been enthralled as they’d talked and laughed and laughed and talked. About books and current events, his big family, which included several brothers, all of whom sounded as interesting as he was, her boys, their mutual hobbies (fishing for him; quilting for her) and their tastes in music (classical for him; hip-hop for her).

  The one thing they hadn’t talked about was how he lost his wife two years ago, around the same time she’d gotten divorced, but that hadn’t bothered her. They’d get to it in time, she figured.

  On that first night, though, it was all about fun and laughter.

  After a three-hour dinner, he’d taken her to a little DeGroot Avenue dessert and wine bar (he didn’t bake), where they’d eaten carrot cake and she’d wondered: a) if it was possible to fall in love with someone in one night; and b) if it was always a bad idea to sleep with someone on the first date.

  Deciding that it was, especially for a divorced single mom living in a small town, she’d happily looked forward to their first kiss at the end of the night.

  Except that he’d gotten progressively quieter and more withdrawn on the ride back to her house and dropped her off at her front door with a peck on the cheek and a shifty-eyed promise to call her.

  He’d called the next day, all right.

  To tell her they had “bad timing.”

  Just like that. After all the fun they’d had the night before and after she’d glowed under the warmth of his gaze the entire time, as though his eyes doubled as some sort of high-powered tanning bed—now, suddenly, they had bad timing.

  Well, whatever.

  Bastard.

  Since then, she’d gamely pretended that it was all the same to her. That he hadn’t tap-danced all over her tender heart with the spiked crampons for ice climbing he sold in his stupid little shop next door.

  Not that she was bitter.

  “Best first date ever?” Miranda managed a carefree laugh, a difficult feat considering she was lying through her teeth. “I’m positive I didn’t say that.”

  “Those were your exact words,” Zoya reminded her. “If I recall correctly. Which I do.”

  “Drop. It.”

  All but snarling now, Miranda turned away from Zoya’s soft laughter and marched back to the counter. She made it just as the front door swung open with a jingle of sleigh bells and a sharp gust of wind.

  And there he was, striding into her coffeehouse with that quiet confidence—James Harper, the most appealing guy she’d met in years.

  Otherwise known as the guy who wanted nothing to do with her.

  After holding the door open to admit his sidekick, a forty-pound, blue-eyed husky named Frank (for Sinatra), he paused at Zoya’s table. This gave Miranda a second to arrange her features into an expression that was welcoming but otherwise disinterested.

  And to stare at him, of course.

  As always, he looked as though he’d been ripped from the pages of the latest L.L. Bean or Land’s End catalogue, with his well-worn jeans, a black long-sleeved knit shirt, and one of those plaid, fleece-lined flannel shirts on top. Today’s plaid? Black Watch. Despite the weather—and today it was a sinus-clearing nineteen degrees Fahrenheit in the sun, if you could find any sun—Miranda had never seen him in a true winter coat. He either had a layer of walrus blubber miraculously hidden beneath his broad-shouldered, hard-edged body, or else he was impervious to cold, unlike the rest of the normal
folks around town.

  She was betting on the latter.

  As the owner of Open Sky Outfitters next door—the must-stop shop for hikers, hunters, skiers, campers, dog-mushers, birders, fishers, and anyone else who had a thing for communing with insects, cooking over a fire and/or breathing copious amounts of fresh air while engaged in an enterprise that was uncomfortable in one way or another—he looked like he’d been sent over straight from central casting. Miranda doubted there was any manly activity he couldn’t handle with ridiculous ease. Fell a hundred-year oak with a chainsaw? No problem. Build a log cabin by lunchtime? Make a gourmet meal from dragonflies and toadstools? Catch a trout with his bare hands?

  Check, check and check.

  It probably had something to do with a surplus of testosterone. He was drenched in it. Like Achilles, who’d been held by his heel and dipped into the River Styx so he’d become invulnerable. James here had probably been soaked in a vat of testosterone to make him irresistible to women.

  Right now, for example, Zoya was simpering.

  “Hey, Zoya,” he said in that deep murmur of his. “You staying warm today?”

  Zoya grinned and ran a hand through her hair, tossing it over her shoulder. “I’m working on it.”

  Since no one was looking at her, Miranda figured it was safe to roll her eyes.

  Frank, tags jingling, started to trot over to say hello to Zoya, but froze when James frowned down at him. “Did you wipe your paws, man? Go wipe your paws.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to the mat just inside the door. “Go.”

  Frank, muttering, dropped his head, went back to the mat, and wiped his four paws.

  “Got some news from California,” James told Zoya.

  Zoya stiffened, her smile sliding off her face. She shrugged, making a valiant stab at looking nonchalant. “Oh?”