And Then He Kissed Me

Book 2: A White Pine Novel

by Kim Amos

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

PLAYING WITH FIRE . . . Five years ago, Audrey Tanner flung caution to the wind and herself into the arms of an emerald-eyed bad boy biker she met at the White Pine Asparagus Festival. Two blissful weeks together convinced her that Kieran Callaghan was The One-until The One blew town without a word, leaving her brokenhearted. Now, starting a new job at the new Harley Davidson showroom, Audrey is floored to meet her new boss: Kieran. He's still hot as hell, but she won't fall for his sexy smile again. This time, she's calling the shots. . . . OR PLAYING FOR KEEPS? Kieran never thought he'd return to White Pine, Minnesota, much less see Audrey again. Gorgeous and smart as ever, she's just as irresistible as he remembered. She still doesn't know why he had to leave-or that he's missed her every day since. But he can't deny he wants more than the no-strings fling Audrey proposes. As things between them heat up, Kieran must choose between the secret he's sworn to keep and the woman he never stopped loving . . .

Release date: July 28, 2015

Publisher: Forever

Print pages: 369

Sample

PROLOGUE


Audrey Tanner suddenly understood why people hated Mondays. Sure, she’d dreaded them sometimes, maybe even been frustrated by them. But now she fully grasped the sheer loathing of them.


She stretched, savoring the warmth of the covers, and thought to heck with the day job. Eyes closed, ignoring the daylight streaming against her lids, she debated calling in. Faking sick. Telling the high school that she was under the weather and they should call a substitute. They could feed the kids in her gym classes chips and soda and chocolate for all she cared.

She never used her sick days, but then again she never used her body like she had last night, twisting it around Kieran Callaghan in such a way that their cries of pleasure rattled the windowpanes. She smiled to herself, hoping the neighbors hadn’t heard. Then thinking she didn’t care if they had.

Reaching out, she felt across the bed for Kieran. For the body she’d only just discovered but felt like she’d known for years. Her fingers spread, anticipating the hard planes of his muscled flesh, every valley and contour both new and achingly familiar at the same time. How was it that they’d only just met two weeks ago? Kieran was a jumble of contrasts that should have left her reeling and confused, but instead everything about him only made perfect sense. Being with him created an incomprehensible rightness that her affordable house and her steady job and her sensible grocery list had never come close to.

She smiled sleepily, anticipating his touch all over again, even though they’d been up long enough the night before to see the stars fade. Even though she had to go to work. Even though she was supposed to be helping with the Good Shepherd Walk later that afternoon.

Oh, but she’d throw it all into the Birch River for him. She’d shed every part of her practical life to feel this much excitement—this much love, if she was honest—every day.

But when her hand reached his side of the bed, all she came up with were cold sheets.

The fog of sleep dissipated instantly. Audrey opened her eyes and squinted against the bright May sunshine streaming through her curtains. There was a dent in the pillow where Kieran’s head had been resting next to hers. The thought of his dark red hair flaming in color against her plain sheets made her smile. She strained, listening for the sound of him making coffee. Brushing his teeth. Cooking them eggs.

But the house was quiet.

Throwing back the sheets, she padded quietly to the bathroom and peeked out the window, figuring she’d find him outside tinkering with his Harley. Maybe they’d even go for a ride. She smiled, thinking about the wind in her hair, the sun on her skin, and how wild and alive she felt pressed up against Kieran on the open road.

Then again, maybe she’d just beckon him back to bed instead. She’d pull his workman’s hand away from the engine and lace her fingers with his. “Ride me instead,” she might whisper.

An unthinkable phrase from her lips two weeks ago. Now, double entendres seemed a natural part of her vocabulary.

Her naked skin prickled in the morning air; her muscles ached in the most delicious way possible. You didn’t get this feeling after a typical workout, she thought.

Of course, last night had been anything but typical.

She belted the cotton robe she’d left hanging behind the bathroom door and wondered about getting something silky. Something naughty. She pictured lace and leather and the way Kieran would undress her with his eyes when she wore it. She shivered, savoring the thrill of emotions he churned up inside of her. He ignited an electric current, as if a part of her that had been shut off was suddenly thrown on, casting white-hot light on everything.

Like the narrow table in her hallway, for example. She could picture him lifting her on top of it, slamming it into the cream-colored walls with the force of their bodies coming together.

Or the white stools around the small island in her kitchen. She studied them as she entered the room. He could sit her on top of one and spread her wide, doing unspeakable things that pulled her apart and put her together again so she felt like a Picasso painting. Altered and magical and beautiful.

Or the kitchen counter, where—

She stopped. A small yellow Post-it was stuck next to the coffeemaker. She smiled, wondering at his thoughtfulness. How was it possible that a man clad in so much leather, who rode the biggest motorcycle she’d ever seen, could know the words that would open up her heart? He’d been leaving scraps of poetry around the house all week.

Bright star! Would I were as steadfast as thou art!


She’d had to google the line. John Keats, as it turned out.

The fullness of your bliss, I feel—I feel it all.


She’d googled that one, too. William Wordsworth.

She pulled the Post-it off the counter, musing whether he’d left her Shakespeare or John Donne. Instead, her vision rippled as she took in the two words he’d penned.

I’m sorry.


She blinked, then blinked again.

Sorry for what?

She looked around. Kieran was of course here and would explain all this momentarily. She called his name in the quiet house, but there was no answer.

Her heart pounded. Adrenaline surged.

Sorry for what?


Walking quickly to the front door, she threw it open just as Kieran’s motorcycle rumbled to life. The noise was deafening on the quiet street. A distant, practical part of her wondered if the neighbors would be angry.

The most present part of her wondered what in the world Kieran was doing. He was astride his bike and had it pointed down the street, away from the house. His saddlebags were zipped and buckled, his chin thrust forward.

“Kieran!” she called. His head turned sharply toward her. He revved the throttle like he was going to speed away, and her stomach lurched. No, she thought. What are you doing?


She wanted to kick herself for the crazy way she was acting, running down the sidewalk in her robe like some madwoman. Except that her fear wouldn’t relent. Not when Kieran’s pale green eyes stayed so far away as he looked at her, and not when his body went stiff under all that leather.

Dirty jeans. Scuffed boots. Rugged and wild. She thought she’d harnessed his attentions, the same way he’d brought out some of the wild girl in her, itching to break free. They’d balanced each other perfectly.

Hadn’t they?

“Where—where are you going?” she managed, raising her voice slightly above the engine’s purr.

“I have to go.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Their staccato words were too short, too sharp. Underneath them was a mountain of dialogue that terrified her. What was he saying? Where was he going?


“What is this?” she asked, raising the Post-it into his line of vision. He winced as if she’d flicked scalding water at him.

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Try me,” she said, thinking of how they’d bared their souls to each other these past two weeks. How underneath his Harley leather and her P.E. teacher track pants they’d both been so much alike. She’d let him into her home, into her heart, into her bed. What was there left to hide? Surely nothing they couldn’t tackle together. They were a team. A unit. She knew this as surely as she knew he was sitting in front of her at this very moment, about to make a terrible mistake.

“I have to go. I’m not coming back.”

Her body seemed suddenly too heavy. As if it couldn’t support her.

“No. Whatever you think you need to do right now, you don’t. Just slow down. Let’s talk.”


“It’s—I can’t—” Kieran swallowed several times. And then, to her horror and dismay, he kicked the Harley into gear and sped down the road.

His name was a cry on her lips as she raced after him. Her legs pounded the blacktop. She would catch him at the next stop sign. Or at the light in town. She was fast. Athletic. Fit. She could do this. Because there was no alternative. If he left, he took a part of her with him that she’d never get back. He would leave a fathomless black hole where for two weeks there had been nothing but stars.

She sprinted, muscles burning, lungs heaving. If neighbors stared at her, eyes wide, she didn’t notice. If commuters rolled past her, eyebrows raised, she paid them no mind. Kieran was her goal. Her destination. Both the starting and the ending point.

It was a sliver of glass that had finally stopped her. A piece so jagged and dirty that she couldn’t quite tell where the glass ended and the blood and dirt started. She glanced from her heel to the point on the horizon where the road disappeared into sky.

The pain came then. It wasn’t just one wave, it was two—first physical, then emotional, both of them so black and thick that she almost lost her breath. She was half naked, barefoot, at least a mile from home. People were staring at her.

She wanted to duck in shame. Instead, she forced herself to feel everything. She let the pain focus her rattled mind and sharpen her senses.

She’d chased him like a dog running after the family station wagon, and he’d never let up on the throttle. Not once.

Oh, God. Had she really been so stupid? So foolish?

So wrong about everything?

Surely not. What they had was real. Which meant he’d be back. He just needed time. Give it a day or so. He would come rumbling back and she’d be furious, but she’d forgive him.


That was what people in love did. They made mistakes, and then gave each other the grace to make things right again.

She turned back toward home, limping until a neighbor asked if she was okay. His glasses were square. She thought his name might be Andy. Maybe-Andy offered to give her a lift. She started to wave him off, then thought better of it. She should get home. Clean up. Get ready for Kieran.

Because he’d be back. He would.


Minutes later, she wobbled unsteadily up the front walk, pushed open the door that she’d left ajar.

She called in to work after all. Told them she was sick. It wasn’t a lie, the way it had been fifteen minutes ago.

And then she stayed home and waited, ears straining for the sound of Kieran’s motorcycle as each passing hour melted into the next.

CHAPTER ONE


Five years later


Kieran Callaghan wasn’t used to being questioned. Considering that the source of the interrogation was his boss, he knew he needed to allow it. But he didn’t need to like it.


“You’re pissing your panties about this opportunity…why, again?” Lorne asked, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. Across the wide conference room table, it was clear he was agitated, and rightfully so. Kieran wouldn’t understand the situation himself unless he was smack in the middle of it.

“White Pine is tiny. Full of farmers. Why should I waste my time there at a Harley dealership that’s doomed to fail?”

The lie burned inside him. He’d loved White Pine. More particularly, he’d loved one very specific thing about White Pine. He shoved aside the memory.

“The local economy can sustain this dealership,” Lorne fired back. “We’ve done the due diligence. They just need some help getting it rolling. Same as every other Harley you’ve ever helped jump-start because it’s your job. You telling me you don’t want your job anymore?”


“Of course I want my job. I’m telling you I don’t want this assignment.”


Lorne sat back in his leather chair. He studied Kieran with a practiced eye. He’d known Kieran for too long to allow this bullshit. Kieran could see it in the arch of his brow, the curl of his lip.

“You got some skeletons hiding in Minnesota you want to tell me about?”

A graveyard full of them, Kieran thought. But he wasn’t about to say that. As much as Lorne knew about him, he didn’t know everything. Certainly not the darkest parts.


Which was how Kieran liked it. He’d rebuilt himself. Transformed. And he wasn’t about to go looking back over his shoulder if he didn’t have to. He caught a glimpse of himself in the shiny surface of the conference room table. Clean shaven. Collared shirt. A businessman with a staff of employees and a title to match: Advancement Director.


Fine. So what if he had to go back to White Pine? He could handle it. The town was small but not that small. It wasn’t like he’d be face-to-face with his past every day. He could avoid…certain people if he needed to.

“There’s an ownership opportunity there, too,” Lorne said, folding his hands. “If you’re interested.”

“No, not there,” Kieran said, angry that he sounded so defensive. Good Christ, how had he ever stayed cool around a betting table long enough to win? He lost his composure too easily these days.

Worse than all that was the fact that he was nervous. He could feel the sweat collecting at the base of his neck. It was a thread of emotion he wasn’t accustomed to winding through him—not for a long time, anyway.

“Suit yourself.” Lorne shrugged. “But I need you there in a week. This dealership just opened and if they don’t get their shit together now, the odds against them are stacked.”

Odds. Betting. There was language he understood. And if he were still a gambling man, he’d go all in on the fact that this was a terrible idea. He should stay as far away from White Pine, Minnesota, as possible. Instead, he found himself nodding yes.

“Whatever you need, Lorne.”

“There’s the Kieran Callaghan I know. He’ll get there eventually, but he’s gotta be a pain in your ass in the process.”

“Hey. This pain in your ass has made sure Harley dealerships all over the country are running as smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

“Yeah. And White Pine better not be any different.”

Kieran’s temper flared. He suddenly wanted to tell his boss to fuck off. To say that he’d had enough successes to earn a pass. To say that either he bowed out of this assignment, or he bowed out of the job as a whole and Lorne could go find someone else to fill the position.

But Kieran held his tongue. He hadn’t come this far just to throw it all away now.

He tamped down the sharp jab of emotion that pierced his gut. If he was going to White Pine again, he’d better keep his damn head down. He was going to be a cool, calm professional like always, and he was going to launch a successful Harley-Davidson dealership, same as ever. And then he was going to return to Milwaukee and forget about it all. Just like he’d forgotten about White Pine five years ago.

It was simple, really.

“I’ll be there by next Thursday,” he told Lorne. He had his secretary on speed dial, and had mentally packed half his things already.

But deep inside, his emotions churned. A whole sea of them, and it felt like the only thing holding them back was a wall of brittle glass that might shatter at any moment.

*  *  *

Fletch Knudson’s eyes were roaming up and down Audrey in a way few men’s pupils ever did. For a moment, she felt like the sales manager was appraising her, a little like a farmer looking over a cow before taking it home to his barn. She shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m just here to drop off my résumé,” she said, shoving the thick paper at him. “For the showroom spokesperson?”

Both Fletch’s daughters had come through Audrey’s P.E. classes years ago. So it was strange to think of this dad of two as being an ogler. But he was definitely staring.

“You’ll have to do,” he said finally. “Follow me.”

“Excuse me?” she asked, but he was off, striding into the offices behind the showroom where the new-paint smell of the freshly built building still lingered.

Had she really just gotten the job? If so, she had laundry in the dryer at home that she needed to get back to. They’d have to make the paperwork quick. In spite of this, she felt a flutter of excitement. Her career wasn’t dead after all. She could do this.


As long as Fletch wasn’t some kind of staring pervert, that is.

She expected him to lead her to the conference room, maybe even to their HR person, but instead he stopped at a closet behind one of the new steel desks.

“Look, we filled this job days ago,” he explained, rifling through the hangers, “but the girl we had lined up quit. Literally just walked out the door.”

“Literally?” Audrey asked. “Because a lot of people misuse that wor—”

“She’s gone,” Fletch interrupted, his dark brows pinched together with frustration, “and you’re about her size. With some help, you might do. The makeup artist is here now—she’ll teach you what you need to know. After today, you’re on your own, so listen to her. The gig is Monday through Friday, ten to four. Stand there, look pretty, make the hogs look even better.”

It took her a moment to grasp what he was asking. “This isn’t a…sales position?”

“Sure. In a manner of speaking.” He shook the clothing in his hand. It was a leather bustier and some chaps. It wasn’t just immodest. It was downright scandalous.

Her face heated. She looked down at her long-sleeved T-shirt and track pants. Her typical uniform. If she was going to wear anything for this job, she’d thought it would be a pin-striped suit. “You want me to wear that?”


“It’s not hard and it pays thirty bucks an hour. You want it or not?”

Audrey blanched. That was close to what she’d made as a teacher. With a master’s degree.

She thought about her dwindling bank account. Her piles of unpaid bills. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, it was true, but at that rate she wouldn’t be a beggar for long. No matter how humiliating it would be to march out there dressed like Mad Max crossed with Victoria’s Secret.

She studied the skimpy clothing. “Okay?” she said, hating the doubt in her own voice, hating the alarms that were firing, saying Leave now.


This didn’t have to be so bad, she reasoned. After all, there had been a wilder version of herself that had loved being on the back of a Harley. That Audrey would have grabbed these clothes and worn them with pride.

But that Audrey had existed a long time ago. And she’d been very short-lived.

Even so, Audrey took the garments Fletch handed her. “Get changed in the employee bathroom down the hall. The makeup artist is two doors down from there.”

The leather squeaked in her grip, as if protesting as much as she wanted to.

*  *  *

“Isn’t this a little much?” she asked ten minutes later as Deborah, the makeup artist, volumized her eyelashes to about seventy times their normal length.

“Nope,” Deborah said. “It looks good.” Audrey wondered if she should trust the source, considering that Deborah’s bloodred lips were hammered through with thick posts.

“You can just leave my hair,” Audrey said as Deborah undid her ponytail. “It’s hard to do much with.”

“I have secret weapons,” Deborah replied, grabbing a nearby can of hairspray. “Close your eyes.”

“But I—” She tasted hairspray and shut her mouth.

When Audrey tried to take notes about when to use the eye-shadow primer and where to apply the bronzer, Deborah pulled the pen and paper out of her hands. “Watch, don’t write,” she said.

Audrey didn’t know how to tell Deborah she didn’t want to watch any of this. She didn’t want to witness the humiliating aftermath of losing her job and having to dress for a part that felt downright embarrassing. But here she was. She locked eyes with the reflection in the mirror and tried not to blink.


“Look,” Deborah said, softening after a minute, “this might not be your jam, but you need to look as dramatic and styled as those motorcycles out there. Your drugstore lip gloss isn’t going to cut it.”

Audrey didn’t have the heart to tell Deborah it wasn’t even gloss—it was ChapStick.

But as Deborah continued to work, Audrey found her words of protest drying up.

The dusting of blush made her soap-clean face look sun-kissed. Her brown eyes, suddenly outlined in black, were both enormous and mysterious. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders in a way that reminded her of a waterfall—fierce and a little reckless. Audrey studied the changes silently. If she were honest with herself, she had to admit she looked good.

No, scratch that. She looked hot.


“How do you like it?” Deborah asked.

It was a wild, breathtaking look she’d only ever considered once before. And then locked away permanently.

“I take it your silence is good?” Deborah asked.

“Very good,” Audrey replied finally, almost smiling.

“All right, tiger. Go get ’em.”

She tottered out to the showroom floor in her new heels, part of her wondering if she was going to make it—and if everything was going to be okay after all.

*  *  *

Three hours later, Audrey could feel her underwear riding up her backside. Sweat was trickling down her thighs in rivulets. Skin-tight jeans were nearly cutting off her circulation, and leather chaps on top of the denim were raising her core body temperature enough to make her light-headed. A girl could be uncomfortable or embarrassed, she thought, but to be both at the same time was a special kind of torture.

She cringed at how alien she felt. What part of her had thought this was a good idea? Sure, she needed a job, but this wasn’t employment, it was torture.

Bright light sliced through the showroom’s enormous floor-to-ceiling windows and Audrey squinted, allowing that maybe this had been a mistake. She was a fish out of water in these clothes and with this hair—or maybe it was more like a monkey in a costume.

But it was either perform or walk. And Audrey had no other options.

She placed her hands on her hips, determined to look alluring just like Fletch had asked. Leather fringe on her cuff links fluttered like strips of ribbon in the wind. Standing next to one of the Harley-Davidson motorcycles in the showroom, she wondered what, exactly, alluring was. Track coaches didn’t get much practice with things like that.

Former track coaches, that is.


A sharp pain pierced the tender place just behind her breastbone. She gritted her teeth. Smile more, think less.


The murmurs of the customers filled her ears. People swarmed amid the shiny chrome and sleek black lines of the motorcycles lining the floor all around her. For the past few hours, drivers had been thundering up and down the road just beyond the towering showroom windows, like cowboys riding handlebarred horses.

The noise from the engines was nearly loud enough to drown out her thoughts. Which was a good thing, considering that the only thing her brain wanted to focus on was the question of what in the heck she was doing here. And whether or not she should ever come back.

“Audrey?”

She turned. It must have been the sixth or seventh time she’d heard the question since she started her shift, the vowels and consonants of her name laced with disbelief.

This time, it was Red Updike. He’d sold her grass-fed beef from his farm for years. He stared at her, flannel shirt tucked into his well-worn Levi’s, his mouth pulled slightly downward.

Her spine stiffened with embarrassment and something more. Frustration, maybe. It was one thing if Audrey wanted to feel out of place in these clothes and with all this makeup, but why did the people. . .