The Millionaire's Homecoming. Cara ColterЧитать онлайн книгу.
image target="_blank" rel="nofollow" href="#fb3_img_img_dbebd56e-cbc6-5774-a253-a86977ce9b53.jpg" alt="cover"/>
“Do you miss it here? Ever?”
His silence was long. “No, Kayla. I don’t have time to miss it.”
“If you did have time, would you?”
Again the silence was long. And then, almost reluctantly, he said, “Yeah, I guess I would. Blossom Valley was the place of perfect summer, wasn’t it?”
The longing was poignant between them.
“I can’t remember the last time I looked at the stars like this,” she murmured. But she thought it was probably in those carefree days, those days before everything had changed.
“Me, either.”
It was one of those absolutely spontaneous perfect moments. With the pure scent of the dew on the grass and the night air and those flowers drooping under their own weight that had made the night so deliciously fragrant.
“Is that Orion above us?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, “the Hunter.”
“I remember how you impressed me once by naming all the stars in that constellation.”
She laughed softly. “Zeta, Epsilon, Delta. That’s his belt.”
“Go on.”
So she did, naming the stars of the constellation one by one, and then they lay in silence, contemplating the night sky above them.
He didn’t answer. He just reached out and slid a hand through her hair, and looked at her with such longing it stole the breath from her lungs.
The air felt ripe with possibilities. Kayla, again, felt seen, somehow, in a way no one had seen her for years.
The Millionaire’s
Homecoming
Cara Colter
CARA COLTER lives in British Columbia with her partner, Rob, and eleven horses. She has three grown children and a grandson. She is a recent recipient of an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award in the Love and Laughter category. Cara loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her or learn more about her on her Facebook page.
This story is for my sister, Anna, for my brother-in-law, Dale, and especially for Courtenay. You are my greatest teachers.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
BLOSSOM VALLEY. IN A fast-paced world, David Blaze thought, a trifle sardonically, his hometown was a place unchanging.
Built on the edges of a large bay that meandered inland from Lake Ontario, it had always been a resort town, a summer escape from the oppressive July humidity and heat for the well-heeled, mostly from Canada’s largest city, Toronto.
The drive, two hours—with the top down on David’s mint 1957 two-seater pearl-gray ragtop convertible—followed a route that traveled pleasantly through rolling, lush hills dotted with contented cattle, faded red barns, weathered fruit stands and sleepy service stations that still sold ice-cold soda pop in thick, glass bottles.
Upon arrival, Blossom Valley’s main street welcomed. The buildings were Victorian, the oldest one, now an antiques store, had a tasteful bronze plaque that said it had been built in 1832.
Each business front sparkled, lovingly restored and preserved, the paned windows polished, the hanging planters and window boxes spilling rainbow hues of petunias in cheerful abundance.
Unfortunately, the main street had been constructed—no doubt by one of David’s ancestors—to accommodate horses and buggies and the occasional Model T. It was too narrow at the best of times; now it was clogged with summer traffic.
David, though he had been here only on visits since leaving after high school, found himself uncharmed by the quaintness of the main street, pretty as it was. He still had a local’s impatience with the congestion.
Plus, once there had been two carefree boys who raced their bicycles in and out of the summer traffic, laughing at the tourists honking their horns at them....
David shook it off. This was the problem with being stuck in traffic in his hometown. In Toronto, being stuck in traffic was nothing. He had a car and driver at his disposal twenty-four hours a day, and it was a time to catch up on phone calls and sort through emails.
He was accustomed to running Blaze Enterprises, his Toronto-based investment firm, and he had only one speed—flat out. His position did not lend itself, thank God, to ruminating about a past that could not be changed, that was rife with losses.
Then, up ahead of him, as if mocking his attempts to leave the memories of those kids on bicycles behind, he saw a girl on a bike, threading her way through traffic with a local’s panache.
The bicycle was an outlandish shade of purple, and the old-fashioned kind, with a downward sloping center bar, high handlebars and a basket. Pedaling away from him, the girl was in a calf-length, white, cotton skirt. The midday sun shone through the thinness of the summer fabric outlining the coltish length of her legs.
She was wearing a tank top, and it was as if she’d chosen it to match the bike.