The kids setting up the sound system desert their posts when they see the box in my hands. Rotheberg Bäckerei’s distinctive pink branding acts like a homing beacon to hungry teens. They drop the sound equipment they’re setting up and converge on me like a starving horde.
I hold the box over my head, where only the tallest can possibly reach it—and wouldn’t dare, since they know me too well. “One for each—and don’t get any frosting on the equipment.” I put the pastries on the table and step away as the kids descend.
A skinny, blond boy pauses long enough to flash his braces at me. “Thanks, Ms. Foster!”
“You’re welcome, Jayden.” I run a critical eye over the stage—the kids got here only a few minutes ago, but they’ve made a good start on the setup. I normally teach math, but in our tiny school district, all of us cover more than our core subjects, so I also have an acting class. As a result, I’ve helped the music teacher with stage productions for the last few years, which makes me the expert on the sound system.
“Are those for everyone or just the kids?” My friend Matt Hertzsprung strolls across the Rotheberg High School commons, weaving between the tables decked out for tonight’s Soups and Songs fundraiser. Matt builds world-class guitars for Lockheart Guitar and teaches two luthier classes at the high school. This gala started as a fundraiser for his program but has taken on a life of its own. Based on the donations, we’re set to earn well over fifty thousand dollars.
“Haven’t you had enough already?” Dylan Mead lightly punches the older man’s arm as he heads out the door to get another load of auction items. “You scarfed down three of the donuts I brought this morning. How do you stay so skinny?”
“My excellent metabolism and workout routine.” Matt reaches into the box.
I slap his fingers. “Tapeworm, more like. Hands off, Hertzsprung, until the kids get theirs.”
He looks around the room at the teens wolfing down pastries. “I think everyone who wants one got one.” His hand inches toward the box again.
I step back. “Fine. One.” He pulls a bear claw from the pile.
I take a slice of powdered-sugar-covered stollen. The sweet bread with dried fruit is a Christmas season specialty of our faux-German town.
“You sure you want that one?” Matt waves his hand down his chest.
“On the rare occasions I eat pastries, I always have the powdered sugar. Had to deny myself for all those years in the military where white powder on the uniform was frowned upon. Plus, this is my first stollen of the season.” I take a bite, and a clot of sugar falls from my lips to my chest. I chew and swallow. “Lucky I’m wearing this old thing.” As I brush the sugar from my ancient military T-shirt, I raise my voice. “Make sure you grab one of those wipes and clean your hands before you touch the sound equipment. We don’t want to leave a sticky mess for our country star.”
“That’s right kind of you, ma’am.” A deep voice I haven’t heard—in person—in twenty years sends a shiver up my spine. My chest tightens—do I want to see him? Too late to ask that question now.
I turn to see Blake Stein in all his glory. He’s missing his trademark cowboy hat, but his blue eyes twinkle just like they did in high school—and on the Tonight Show last month. A matching blue Rotheberg High School T-shirt stretches across his muscular chest, showing off pecs and abs he didn’t have twenty years ago. Faded blue jeans and a pair of black Converse make him look more like the kids once again swarming the stage than a 40-something country singer. The cast on his right arm is covered in signatures. His eyes flick to the sugar-frosted squadron decal on my chest and back to my eyes. “Nice shirt.”
I close my mouth, hoping I haven’t drooled. If I’d thought he’d show up this morning, I wouldn’t have eaten the stollen. Or at least I’d have been more careful with the sugar coating. I take a deep breath to summon the icy calm I used to wrap around myself before a mission. “Donut frosting on the mics is something you probably don’t have to worry about in Nashville.” I lean forward to kiss his cheek—a platonic, sisterly kiss—but he throws his good arm around me and lifts me off the ground. I gasp in surprise and grab his shoulders for balance. His bulging, rock-hard shoulders.
“Sure is good to see you, Rae.” He sets me down after an all too brief squeeze. “I can’t believe it’s been twenty years! How is that possible? I don’t feel a day over twenty-five.”
“Lucky you.” I rub the small of my back. “I feel old and creaky. You wanna meet your sound crew?”
He takes a step closer, ignoring my question. “You look fantastic.” His whisper rumbles through me, like velvet against my skin. He always had such a fantastic voice—as one would expect from a singer.
The sound—and the words—make me want to melt. But I’m a forty-two-year-old woman—I shouldn’t be swooning over a country star. In an effort to give myself some space, I put my fingers in my mouth and whistle.
Blake ducks away, sticking his fingers in his ears. “Yikes, woman, warn a guy before you pierce his eardrums. That’s my living you’re messing with.”
I smile sweetly. “Sorry, I thought you’d remember.” I used to whistle at him, whenever he was on stage. I wave at the kids—whose heads have all snapped toward me like cartoon meerkats—and raise my voice. “Come meet Blake.”
The teens descend on us in a flurry of dropped cables and slapping tennis shoes, followed by Andrew Washington, our music teacher. I introduce them to the singer, then back away while the kids crowd around. Maybe a little physical distance will let my heart rate drop back to normal.
Matt puts out a hand to stop my retreat. “I didn’t know he was going to come over this morning. I would have given you a heads-up.”
I shrug. “It’s okay.” It’s not okay, but it isn’t his fault. I knew I’d see Blake today, but I’d thought it would be later. I look down at my rumpled shirt and torn jeans. “Better to run into him now than tonight with two hundred witnesses.”
“Witnesses to what? I thought you were over him.”
I look away. I don’t want to have this conversation with Blake’s brother. “I am over him. We dated a billion years ago.”
“But he was your first love, and I’m sure his celebrity status doesn’t help.” Matt shoves his hands in his pockets. “You can’t get away—you see him on TV or hear him on the radio.”
I laugh. “Not really. I haven’t followed his career. First it was too painful. Now it’s just—he’s an old friend. I’m happy he’s been so successful. But I haven’t been pining over him for twenty years, if that’s what you’re implying. I’ve lived my life. I was married, for Pete’s sake.”
“Yeah, but there’s something about that first love.” He shakes his head, turning away from his brother and his throng of fans. “I still stalk Judy on Facebook sometimes.”
“You’ve only been divorced two years. And you were together for a long time. Blake and I split up in college. Not the same thing at all.”
“One thing I’ve learned in my forty-four years is the heart is a weird thing.”
I smirk. “Did you get that quote from a Hallmark movie?”
“Maybe. Probably.” Matt claps me on the shoulder. “I’m glad you and Blake can be friends. You’re both part of my life, and I’d hate to have to keep you separate.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you—you’re one of my oldest friends. And I do mean old.” I throw the last bit in just to keep things light—he’s only two years older than me—and turn to watch the kids who are now dragging Blake around the stage, showing him the sound setup. “How long is he staying? They need to get their work done.”
Matt laughs. “You’re okay with him dropping by but don’t let him stay too long?” He flings up both hands before I can protest. “I’m kidding. You’re right—the kids won’t finish as long as he’s here. I’ll send him away.” He turns, then spins back. “And for what it’s worth? Hallmark movies have plenty of wisdom to impart.” He waves at Rob Mead who’s helping arrange the silent auction items. “Can you take Blake to the athletic club? We need to get the kids back on track.”
Rob’s eyes light up. “Does he lift? He looks like he does. I haven’t had a decent partner since I came back to Rotheberg. Dylan’s not up to my weight.” He heads across the room toward the stage.
I raise my voice. “He’s not going to lift much with that cast.” Rob gives a thumbs-up over his shoulder as he approaches the stage.
“Bulging muscles are part of his job description.” Matt flexes his wiry arms. “It’s why Blake made it big, and I didn’t.”
I roll my eyes. “That and the fact that you decided you prefer making guitars to playing them.”
Matt winks. “Why do you think I decided that? Getting buff was way too much work.”
“Not all country stars are buff.”
Matt raises his eyebrows at me. “Would you care to offer some proof of that statement?”
I bite my lip, trying to think of a scrawny one. “Maybe I’m wrong.”
“Hah!” Matt flings up a fist, looking around for anyone to acknowledge his success. No one notices. “Just my luck—Rachel Foster admits she’s wrong, and there’s no one to hear it.”
“I’m happy to admit when I’m wrong—it just doesn’t happen very often.” I smirk. “Now that Rob is luring the celebrity away, I’m going to get those kids back to work.” I point at Matt as I back toward the stage, keeping Rob and Blake in view as they depart. “Don’t touch my donuts, Matt Hertzsprung.”
Blake stops at the door and turns, catching me watching. He tosses a jaunty salute in my direction before following the younger man through the door.
My breath catches in my throat as a wave of something—nostalgia, maybe? Certainly not desire—washes over me. Then I stiffen my spine and turn back to the stage.
