Chapter Twelve
RACHEL’S UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE at the Calvary family’s doorstep had caught Noah off guard. Good. Why should she be the only one tripping, heart first, into awkward feelings at every Noah encounter? A wicked glee filled her at the thought of foiling his diabolical plan to soften her up.
The sky above was a soft blue, with fluffy white clouds hanging high like ribbons floating on the wind.
The air was cool, with just a hint of dampness from the moisture the waterfall’s spray carried in.
And Rachel Johnson had managed a home field advantage.
She had goals to attain. Last night’s slow burn in the barn with the man who embodied every thirst-quenching book boyfriend she’d read since high school didn’t factor into the equation.
Memory lane ended in a dead-end street. Despite her knowing the risk, the two of them alone in the place where they’d explored each other as teenagers had weakened her resolve.
One phone call reinforced her foundation.
Gillian Begatta’s clipped voice at nine p.m. West Coast time had Rachel bolting up in bed, with her two thumbs tapping out her future for the next ten years or her failure in the next eleven days.
The woman exercised on a Peloton bike—in her office.
Drank clean green smoothies she blended herself—in her office.
Scheduled mobile massages for guess where?
Her office. Basically, Gillian was an office fixture made flesh.
At times, the speed of light moved too slowly for Gillian.
Sleep, family, and friendships—all optional.
Her somewhat of a mentor informed Rachel that her comment on Benji’s reel had conveyed her professional recommendation, though she didn’t make a habit of announcing business decisions via social media.
Gillian had navigated the gender-imbalanced ranks common in the architecture field, passing the Architect Registration Examination to serve as a principal licensed architect on various design projects.
In a profession that resisted women advancing into leadership, Gillian had clawed her way to partner.
If ever a unicorn existed in the business, its make and model would read “Begatta.”
She’d praised Rachel for stepping outside the box of residential and hospitality design.
The assessment had shocked Rachel. Her portfolio was impeccable, yet her boss thought her too narrow in her scope.
The word flexibility had been tossed out twice in a three-minute conversation.
Before ending the call, Gillian had insisted Rachel keep her abreast of her progress before posting, and to be sure to tag the company’s PR and marketing contacts with every post.
Take-charge Rachel had donned a vintage Service County Otters football jersey, cut-off jeans, and her boots, and sprinted across the yard to Benji’s hangout.
He’d made her knock twice and then promptly shooed her off his doorstep, saying he had his own makeover ideas for Service and needed space to create.
Whatever. Rachel knew her business when it came to reinvention.
In fact, she’d mastered it. Inspired, she’d gotten to work on her redevelopment plan.
“Why so grumpy?” Rachel pointed to the frown Noah sported through a quick breakfast of one of Mrs. Leah’s award-winning biscuits and a second cup of coffee before they were on the road to Mountain View Lumber.
He looked from the two-lane road to her, his gorgeous glare narrowed in accusation. “You could’ve given me a heads-up before you made plans.”
“Thought you liked spontaneity. Especially when the shoe is on your foot,” she snapped.
When he flinched, Rachel added a bonus point.
They had mapped out their lives after high school—college nearby for her, the fire academy for Noah.
Their wedding would’ve been the biggest in Service’s history, memorable enough for Mrs. Rosa Mae’s historical society.
Together, they would’ve displayed their degrees and marriage decree over the fireplace mantel in the house by the water.
“You’re frowning. What’s wrong?” Noah demanded, turning onto a gravel drive.
Even with the caveman rumble, his voice did flirty things with all her lady parts.
In a navy Henley and well-worn jeans, he looked ready for a magazine layout.
His hair, combed back from his forehead, drifted in soft waves at his nape.
Rachel fought the need to trace her fingers through the shiny locks.
“Nothing,” she chirped. And just in case he saw through the lie, she covered her restless legs with her sketch pad. Last night had changed their dynamic. No denying the obvious. Instead of running, she would make a stand unequivocally.
“Then tell your cute little face, Six.”
“Cute?” she asked. With her hair in a messy ponytail, an old long-sleeved T-shirt, and cargo pants with more years than buttons? The windows were down, the wind tangling her curls into abstract art.
“Yep,” he said, then pushed a button on his steering wheel.
Alan Jackson’s “Country Boy” blasted through the speakers.
“You’re kidding me,” she shouted over the music, smirking as Noah drummed the steering wheel with both hands. “This song is still on your playlist?”
He turned to grin at her, his eyes crinkling in that way that made her stomach flutter. “It’s a classic. This truck won’t run without it.”
“I remember when you tried to kiss me during that guitar solo.”
“I did kiss you.”
“Noah. You missed my mouth. You got my cheek and then apologized for three miles.”
“Only because you started doodling on a napkin to avoid looking at me.”
“I had a serious case of the nerves, okay?” she said, laughing, her cheeks warming.
“Same,” he admitted.
Noah possessed a cocky competence that quieted when no one was around. She’d loved how he was when it was just the two of them. Every love song on the radio seemed to apply to Noah, as if the artist had him as his inspiration. She glanced at the man behind the wheel, smiling. Those were good times.
Maybe it was the sunshine, the thrum of smooth tunes, or the fact that she hadn’t had sex in months, and Noah was her fantasy pick of partners, but Rachel leaned back in the passenger seat, one boot propped on the dash like she used to when she was sixteen and relaxed.
Back then, she’d thought she was cooler than she was because she was Noah’s girl.
The truck was newer now, but it still smelled like cedar and the crisp rushing water scent of Noah’s soap. It was annoyingly comforting.
“I used to love the drive out here,” she said softly. “Imagine this drive at sunrise if the new fire station were out here?”
Noah shook his head. “Wouldn’t work. Road connectivity matters in an emergency.
Before a fire department is built, historical data is used to identify ‘hot spots,’ where most fire-related incidents have happened within the county.
And I can tell ya’, for Service, it ain’t out here.
The new facility will have rapid access up and down the mountain. ”
“Wow. You’ve done your research.”
“Have to. Fire and EMS are evolving. There’ll come a time when most of our services—fire rescue, transport, medical care, with or without transport—will come with a fee. Fire departments of the future will have to generate revenue and stay in budget or risk being downsized.”
Rachel chuffed. “I reviewed your binder, Noah. If the previous year’s allocations are accurate, you’ll be fine. It’s the other services that are starved.”
Without looking in her direction, Noah hit his turn signal. “Are you suggesting fire and EMS are overfunded?”
Beside her, Noah looked relaxed, but the tick in his jaw said she’d lit a match.
Sparks could fly if she projected the town leadership’s poor management onto him.
“What I’m saying is housing, healthcare, and education are equally important.
We should consider where the grant monies can do the most good for the most people.
Not repeat the same mistakes out of habit. ”
“Well, folks are in the habit of dialing 9-1-1 and having an immediate response. The most good starts with them not losing their homes, belongings, medications, or prescriptions to a senseless fire, Rachel.”
“Tacking my name at the end did nothing to improve your tone. Before you get upset, and mess around and find out that I will eat you for lunch”—she cut her eyes in his direction—“just drive. I’d rather enjoy the romantic country road for myself than fight with you.
” She added a belated. “Even though I’m right. ”
“Brat,” Noah chuckled. “Don’t think you can take me.”
She coughed back a laugh, or tried, too. “Riiight, Lion King. Try it and I’ll pin you like Nala whipped up on Simba.”
He slowed as they reached a clearing, the lumberyard’s rust-stained sign just visible beyond the trees.
“Love to have you try.” His eyes flicked toward her before turning back to the road. “So, no dates on long country roads happening in San Diego?”
“Are you low-key changing the subject and asking if I’m involved with someone?”
“I’m losing my touch if you have to ask. Besides, any man who lets you go, even with a watchful plus one, is a fool.” He looked at her. This time, he pierced her with those eyes that once held her future. “I should know.”
Rachel swallowed at his confession, wondering if she could trust him with one of her own. A lifetime of fighting made it difficult to end the warring over betrayal and broken dreams.
“You’d love driving along the Pacific Coast Highway. Nothing but open road, the cliffs, and the California waters.”
“Seems my invite got lost in the mail.” His tone hardened, but Rachel wouldn’t take the bait. She’d been stubborn, but she had company. Back then, Noah had been Team Service one hundred percent.
“Would you have left Service for me?”
The truck lurched to a halt. “We’re here.”