A Journey's End (Journey's End #1) Read online

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

  “Daniel’s moving back,” James said.

  “Oh,” Zoya said faintly, color rising over her cheeks. Then she abruptly stood and grabbed her coat, abandoning her coffee. “Well. I’d better get back to the shop. I’ll see you two later.”

  “But—” Miranda began.

  “I’ll call you later,” Zoya told her. “Bye.”

  With that, she hurried out.

  Miranda picked her bottom jaw off the floor and looked to James, whose expression was grim as he approached the counter. “What the heck was that all about?”

  “She and my brother have a, ah, history. I thought I should give her a heads-up.”

  Miranda frowned, disgruntled. She hated being out of the loop. “She’s never mentioned it. I’ll have to punish her severely when I get the chance.”

  Dimples bracketed his mouth, although his smile never quite took hold. It never did with her. “Have at it. So. Morning.”

  As always, he gave her a crisp, impersonal nod.

  “Morning,” Miranda replied.

  Their gazes connected and held. Predictably, any other thoughts she had, including curiosity about Zoya and Daniel, flew right out of her head.

  That was what being close to James did to her.

  For the billionth time, Miranda wondered why he had such a powerful effect on her. He was sexy, yeah, but so what? Lots of men were sexy, including a couple guys she’d briefly dated in the city right after the divorce, but they blew it the second they opened their mouths and actually said something—often something ill informed or narcissistic. Maybe that was the issue. With the notable exception of the night of their date, James never spoke two words when one would do, and he never spoke when silence was an option. He’d’ve been a good choice to teach, say, Gary Cooper or John Wayne something about strong and silent.

  So, yeah, she’d probably hate him if he ever opened up and started talking to her again.

  Plus, he wasn’t even handsome—not in any traditional sense. He was ...striking. Arresting. His sleek brown hair, which never received much attention from a brush, invariably curled around his ears, nape and forehead. His straight nose had a ridge in it, and one of his thick brows was always higher than the other, giving him a perpetual look of skepticism. His cheeks were too severe, and his full lips didn’t do much smiling, at least when she was around.

  His eyes . . .

  “Did you save any coffee for me?” he asked.

  See? There he went again. Looking at her. With those gleaming brown eyes that revealed little and seemed to hide everything.

  Yeah. It was the eyes that got to her.

  “I think I can scrounge something up,” she said, turning to the machine.

  “Thanks.”

  This was where things got awkward. When she poured for other customers, it was easy to lapse into banter about kids, the weather or the Jets. But James didn’t talk much, especially to her, and she was determined not to be chatty with him—“Our timing is bad,” he’d told her; oh, please—so that didn’t leave much middle ground for small talk.

  She always had a thrill of awareness between her shoulder blades, as though he was staring at her.

  Except that when she pivoted back around with his to-go cup, he was checking his smart phone.

  “Here you go,” she said. “Coffee. Large. Black. Hot.”

  He glanced up, nodding his thanks. And then, to her utter astonishment, he said something ...more.

  “I’m afraid you’ll slip me something with whipped cream in it one of these days.”

  That unlikely image got a snort out of her, but she wrestled it into submission before it became a laugh.

  “You? No way.”

  He almost smiled.

  Flustered, she passed the cup across the counter to him.

  Their fingers brushed.

  The brief contact shouldn’t have been that electrifying. It shouldn’t have made sparks of heat shoot up her arm. She shouldn’t have jerked her hand away under the pretense of straightening her ponytail.

  “So,” she said, now running her hand over the top of her head. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” He hesitated. Something flickered in his expression, disappearing before she could analyze it. “How about ...one of those.”

  He pointed to a brownie, the first he’d ever requested even though he came for his morning coffee every weekday morning.

  Her jaw dropped, and she spoke before she could stop herself. “You don’t eat brownies.”

  “You didn’t know I eat brownies. There’s a difference.”

  On that enigmatic note, he reached for his wallet and handed her the money. She took it, making sure there was no skin-to-skin contact this time. He didn’t immediately turn to go, and she felt the weight of his gaze on the top of her head as she grabbed his brownie, which meant that another awkward moment was in the making.

  Luckily, Frank saved her. He trotted over to the edge of the counter, sat back on his haunches facing Miranda, and raised a paw to shake. Frank considered this an ironclad deal: if she shook, she owed him a treat.

  She shook. “Hi, Frankie. How’s the good boy? Huh? How’s the good boy?”

  Frank leaned his head back and did a husky ooo-ooh sound, reminding her that he wasn’t that far removed from his wolf cousins. Laughing, she took a treat from the dog jar she kept for such occasions (she made a mean biscuit, with oats, honey and peanut butter) and tossed it to him. He caught it with a quick snap of his jaws and gulped it down with barely a crunch, his tail wagging happily.

  “He’s such a good boy. Yes, he is.” The smile was still lingering on her face when she raised her gaze and discovered James looking at her. Really looking in a way that no one else ever did. Focused. Intent. Unwavering.

  Her thoughts scattered like the snowflakes beginning to drift outside.

  “I hate to sound like a broken record, but Frank’s a, uh, great dog.”

  “Thanks.” Blinking and pointing his thumb over his shoulder, James reeled in whatever he’d been thinking and locked it safely away. He took a step or two toward the door, Frank trotting after him. “Gotta open the store.”

  “Bye,” she said.

  He paused long enough to look back over his shoulder. “You should close up early. Snow’s coming.”

  That didn’t jibe with what the forecaster had said this morning. She glanced out the window, where a couple of wimpy flakes were trying to fall.

  “What, that? It’s nothing.”

  He tapped his left thigh. “The leg never lies.”

  Curiosity got the best of her. The story behind his limp was a topic of endless speculation around town, especially with her boys and the others in his scout group. The latest outlandish rumor? He’d been bitten by a shark while scuba diving in Australia.

  “How did you hurt your leg?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.” Those dimples grooved down his cheeks again, softening his harsh features and framing his perfect mouth.

  “Just so you know? I plan to keep asking until I wear you down.”

  He cocked one of his heavy brows. “If anyone can wear me down, it’d be you.”

  The husky note in his voice sent a shiver rippling down her spine as she watched him leave, the door swinging shut behind him.

  Chapter 3

  Stubborn woman.

  James crunched through snow that was at least four to six inches deep on the way to his truck. Thank God he’d worn his heavy boots; he’d just had that feeling.

  It was now three-thirty, and the shops all up and down DeGroot Avenue were quiet and deserted. Everyone with any sense had looked up, seen the promise of a wintry mess written in the slate gray sky and clouds, ignored the weather forecast and gone home to batten down the hatches by now.

  With one notable exception.

  The lights were still on in Java Nectar, and the
cheery sign was still flipped to the OPEN side. Open. Right. Like there was anyone within a ten-block radius who’d be looking for coffee when they’d all be buried in snowdrifts come dusk.

  He looked to Frank for his opinion. The husky, probably the only living soul in Journey’s End that was delighted to be deluged with a blinding assortment of cotton-ball-sized snowflakes, was rolling around on his back, making canine angels in the pristine white layer on the sidewalk. His thick black and white fur was caked with icy deposits, not that that mattered when you were bred to run in the Alaskan tundra, and he seemed determined to eat as much snow as possible.

  James had never seen the dumb dog look happier.

  “Frank,” he said. “Focus.”

  With a grunt, Frank scurried to his feet, gave himself a vigorous shake, sat back on his haunches, and looked up at James, ears cocked.

  “She’s still here.” James pointed to the coffeehouse.

  Frank, following the path of James’s finger, whined.

  “Look.” James smacked the hood of Miranda’s car in front of his truck. It was a beleaguered Saturn sedan that had already, he was guessing, seen ten winters, maybe more. “Can you believe this?”

  Frank barked, a clear I can’t freaking believe it either.

  “Let’s go.”

  With Frank trotting behind, snuffling snow for as long as possible, they walked through the glass door with its cheerful bell, into the warmth of Java Nectar and Miranda’s presence.

  It was neat and deserted, and the only movement came from the crackling fire. No sign of anyone.

  James hesitated, looking around as he wiped his feet and made sure Frank wiped his paws. Miranda had enough to do, raising two rambunctious boys alone and running a small business full-time, without them tracking in a snowy mess for her to clean up.

  “Miranda?”

  There was a sniffling sound, and then she emerged from one of the tall wingback chairs in front of the hearth. Judging by her wide-eyed surprise, she hadn’t heard the bells’ jingle when he came in, which was weird. Hastily smoothing her apron, she dabbed a tissue at her nose with one hand and kept something clutched in the other.

  “Hi,” she said, clearing her throat. “Sorry. Did you want some coffee to go?”

  “No.” Arrested and dismayed by this display of vulnerability from Miranda, who was, other than his mother, the strongest woman he knew, he floundered. “What’re you, ah, still doing here?” He cleared his throat, trying to get a handle on the growing tightness in his chest. “Have you looked outside? You need to go home. While you still can.”

  Blinking, she looked to the picture window and registered the blinding winter wonderland. “Oh.” Raising the tissue again, she ducked her head and took a quick swipe at her eyes. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  “Probably?”

  “As soon as I clean up and pick up a couple groceries, I’ll head out.”

  He watched her with growing unease. “The place is clean. I’m betting you already have enough groceries for a couple days. You need to bank the fire and go home. Now.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, reaching down to scratch Frank’s ears when he ambled over and sat at her feet.

  Yeah, okay. James scrubbed a hand over his head, running through his options and making a decision. He couldn’t ignore the obvious any longer, even if it meant embarrassing her. He could do a lot of things, but walking away when this woman had tears sparkling in her big baby browns apparently wasn’t one of them.

  That, in a nutshell, was the problem with Miranda:

  She got to him.

  It wasn’t enough that she had the kick-ass body of some bombshell actress, with wide hips, a tight butt and, best of all, overflowing breasts that refused to be fully restrained behind a blouse, sweater, apron, or whatever she was wearing at any given time. It wasn’t enough that her face was shaped like a perfect heart, with a perky nose, pointy chin, and the kind of pouty berry mouth that immediately made a man lapse into X-rated fantasies. It wasn’t enough that her dimpled white smile spread joy in every direction or that her brown eyes held the blinding warmth of the noonday Sahara sun.

  No.

  There was something else about her, and he felt it as a slow curl of need deep in his chest and his belly every time he saw her, and always had.

  She ...got to him.

  Whether he was ready for it or not—and he was decidedly not—she just did.

  “Miranda.” He paused to clear his voice, which had unexpectedly lapsed into the hoarse range. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s nothing,” she began automatically squaring her shoulders with the unyielding strength that ran through her like veins or tendons.

  “Miranda.” He couldn’t help it. Maybe she’d knock his head off for him, but he had to touch her. He’d done the right thing and kept his hands to himself since that peck at the end of their first and only date, and for that he deserved some sort of medal of honor, but he was fresh out of noble right now. Some urges were too strong to resist. Maybe it was that tiny dose of her skin that he’d felt earlier when their hands brushed, making him greedy. Whatever. He had to. Reaching out, he stroked the fine satin warmth of her cheek and cupped her chin. “Tell me.”

  To his intense pleasure, she didn’t shriek, slap him or run away. She looked up at him with those teary almond eyes and he felt the undeniable rise of some primal protective instinct. It commandeered his body, possessing him. Honest to God, if she said she needed some powdered unicorn horn to brew in her coffee, he’d run out and try to find some for her.

  “It’s no big deal. I know I’m overreacting.” She shrugged and held up the thing she’d been holding in her tissue-free hand. It was a phone. “My ex just texted me. They’re stranded in the city. Everyone’s socked in. So the boys won’t be able to get here in time for New Year’s Eve. That’s all.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ve never spent a New Year’s away from them. Since they were born.”

  “Oh.”

  “We have a whole New Year’s Eve routine. And the holidays are kind of a big deal to me.”

  He swept the room with his peripheral vision, noticing, for the millionth time, the tree and the lights, the endless decorations, the iced gingerbread slices in the display case and the spiced eggnog mentioned on the chalkboard, among other things. Really, the place looked like an annex to Santa’s North Pole installation. If this was what she did with her store, he could just imagine how she’d tricked out her house for her boys and how much she must miss them.

  Somewhere in the center of his chest, a knot tightened.

  “But I’ll be okay,” Miranda said, hanging on to her game face.

  She shrugged again, stepping back and away from his hand, which hadn’t had nearly enough of the feel of her skin. Something in her expression flickered out and slammed the gate shut against him, banishing him to one of the nastier circles of hell when he’d just had a fleeting glimpse of heaven.

  He didn’t like being exiled from her good graces.

  Hated it, in fact.

  “And you probably shouldn’t touch me,” she added, her voice now laced with frost. “Since we’ve got bad timing and all.”

  James winced and managed to stifle the curse on the tip of his tongue. Hamstrung and fuming with silent frustration, he tried to figure out what to do now. Except that solutions seemed to be in short supply today.

  So ...okay. He’d had that little dig coming, and he couldn’t blame her for throwing his long-ago words back in his stupid face. But just because he’d made that bed of thorns didn’t mean he was willing to lie in it for the rest of his lonely life.

  And he was fast reaching the point where his yearning for Miranda outweighed any other considerations, like the looming but shapeless fears that kept him in a stranglehold most of the time.

  There were even moments—like now—when he wondered if all his avoidance tactics these last several months had been for nothing.

  If maybe
his feelings for Miranda had already streaked well beyond the point of no return.

  If maybe he’d known by the end of their only date, if not within five minutes of meeting her, that his existence had been irrevocably sliced into two parts:

  Before Miranda entered his life and after Miranda entered his life.

  Scrubbing a hand over his nape, he tried to put a lid on his churning emotions and focus on his immediate issue, which was getting her home safely.

  “Miranda—” he began.

  “You’d better go too, right?” Regaining her usual crisp detachment, she headed to the fireplace, picked up the poker and moved the screen out of her way. “Thanks for your concern. Drive safe. Bye.”

  Lord, she was making him crazy. “I’ll get the fire.”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “I’ll drive you home, then. You’re up the hill from me—”

  “My car’s right out front.”

  “With no four-wheel drive!”

  She’d been poking at the fire, but now she paused long enough to give him a quizzical look over her shoulder, probably because she’d never seen him irritated before. He was a regular genius at keeping his real feelings under wraps. Yes, sir, someone really should give him an award for his stellar acting skills.

  “The Saturn and I have been through worse than this together.”

  “You’ll never make it up the hill, Miranda.”

  She stared at him, her expression maddeningly unreadable.

  “I’ll manage.”

  Was she for real right now, or was this the punishment he’d earned by pushing her away after their date? If so, he’d rather take a good whipping and be done with it. It’d be less painful.

  “Why are you so determined to handle every damn thing by yourself?” he barked.

  Finished with the fire now, she turned her cool gaze on him, which was like being hit between the eyes with a staple gun, and hiked up her chin.

  “Why are you acting like you care?”

  He hesitated, his useless mouth opening and closing, trapped behind his emotional paralysis even as his brain screamed at him.

  You do care! Tell her you do care, you moron! This is your chance!