Georgia Sweethearts

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

The third time Lillianne Barnes dropped the knitting needle—along with two stitches—should have been a clue. But she kept clacking the needles and wrapping the yarn like Great-Aunt Talitha had taught her, trying to make the soft blue yarn into something...anything. She glanced at the supposedly simple, “no-fail” directions. No fail for everyone else, maybe. But not for her.

Lilly chewed her lip as she tried one more time to carefully slip the loop of yarn to complete the transfer of the stitch from one needle to the other. It went where it was supposed to go, but the last two uneven loops followed prematurely and began to unravel.

She’d left her perfectly good job as manager of women’s clothing at a high-end department store—secure, enjoyable, with benefits—for this...mess?

With a growl, she tossed the whole bundle aside. “I give up. I cannot knit.”

“Must be a problem if you work in a yarn shop.”

She yelped, then jumped up, the metal folding chair scraping the floor behind her. A man built like a professional athlete stood in the doorway watching her with a bemused expression. His dark blond hair, playful blue eyes and crooked smile made her suck in a breath and hold it. Still, gorgeous or not, Mr. Six-Foot-Plus and his big, broad shoulders had barged in, ignoring the sign out front.

She exhaled long and loud, as if she found his presence annoying, though in reality, she was more frustrated by her clash with the knitting needles than by the handsome intruder. “I’m sorry, we’re closed for the day.”

He held up his hands palms forward. “I apologize for scaring you. I’m not here to buy anything.” He stepped farther into the room, his rugged jacket and muscular build out of place next to the softest of baby yarns. “My name is Daniel Foreman. I’m Ann Sealy’s grandson.”

Ann, Aunt Talitha’s good friend. The ache of loss once again settled in Lilly’s chest, squeezing like a fist.

Lilly left the circle of folding chairs in the corner and walked behind the counter, trying to remember if she’d seen this man at the funeral. But that whole week was still a blur.

She busied her hands straightening receipts, anything to keep from giving in to the tears stinging her eyes. “Your grandmother was very kind to help my great-aunt in her last days.”

“I’ve met Jenna. So you must be Lilly, the other niece who inherited this place.” His friendly expression gentled as he moved to the counter. “I’m sorry for your loss. Miss Talitha was a kind, generous woman.”

“Thank you.” A fresh wave of grief battered her already-tender heart. Talitha Barnes had been both kind and generous. But more than that, she’d been the only family Lilly and her sister, Jenna, could ever count on. Their aunt’s long-distance love had been the one constant throughout their unstable childhood.

“I heard you lived in Louisville before moving here to Georgia. Has coming to as small a town as Corinthia been a shock?”

“A bit. But everyone’s been really nice.”

“So how’s business?”

“A little slow today.” And the day before. And the day before that. At his look of sympathy, she escaped to the corner seating area and picked up her knitting, pulling out the remaining stitches and starting over.

She wouldn’t share the fact that The Yarn Barn was in terrible financial shape. That she’d only sold three measly skeins of yarn earlier that day—from the bargain bin.

Or that Aunt Talitha had requested Lilly and Jenna run the store one full year before selling the business.

Once again, her heart raced—this time in anxiety—making her face tingle and her hands go numb. Not helpful when working with pointy needles.

“So you don’t knit, huh?” The sparkle returned to his eyes, teasing her, pushing away his look of sympathy...and with it, a little of her grief and panic.

As she fought for slow, even breaths, she glanced at the bins full of colorful yarn, at the shiny new computer on the sales counter, at the rack of pattern books—anywhere but in his eyes. Then she forced herself to meet his smile with her own. “Can’t knit. Or crochet. I’m a total klutz when it comes to anything craft-oriented.”

A laugh burst out of him, deep and rumbling, warming her, tempting her to relax, to quit worrying so much.

This time, she couldn’t look away from those playful blue eyes. She joined in the laughter. “Ironic, huh? Please don’t advertise my ineptitude.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be good for business.”

As their gazes locked and held, something passed between them. A kind of connection, or attraction.

She shook off the ridiculous notion. A good-looking man comes in, and she acts like an idiot, imagining things.

She stuffed her ugly, uneven knitting into the canvas tote bag to practice that night at home—Jenna’s home—and concentrated on the positive. Another day passed. One day closer to fulfilling the stipulation of her aunt’s will.

He turned and stared toward the back wall where she’d displayed some of her photos. “Nice. Who took these?”

“They’re mine. I majored in photojournalism. Ended up in retail.” When she returned to Kentucky, she planned to remedy that. To finally risk trying the career she’d always wanted.

“Sounds like an interesting story.” He moved closer to inspect one—her favorite, of an elderly woman in Appalachia looking up from a quilt she was working on, laughing. A woman who’d reminded Lilly of Aunt Talitha.

He tilted his head a little to the left. Then he took a step back but kept examining the photo. “You really captured the spirit of the woman in this one.”

She swallowed, touched that he’d shown interest. “Thanks.”

For a few seconds, he glanced away as if embarrassed. But then, squaring his shoulders, he said, “So is this a place for knitters to hang out?” He sat in one of six rickety folding chairs, dwarfing it, as he checked out the room.

Expecting the chair to buckle at any moment, she watched his expression fall into a slight frown as he inspected the hinges on the chair. She agreed with the sad state of some of the equipment, but they didn’t have the money to do anything about it. “What can I help you with, Daniel?”

He quit his perusal and stood. “I’m sorry to bother you after hours. But I’ve come by to check on the agreement to rent the basement of your building.”

Rent downstairs? “What agreement?”