Cross Creek: Crossing Hearts Part 9

"I'm happy to," Mich.e.l.le said. "You want the works, right, Emerson?"

Although she wasn't sold on the idea of potato salad, which had to be the new addition Hunter had mentioned, since Emerson was already happily familiar with both Harley's pulled pork and his secret-recipe honey-mustard coleslaw, she didn't want to be rude. "Sure. That sounds great."

Mich.e.l.le paused to slide her glance to the side. "I take it you want the whole shebang, too, Hunter? With drinks for both of you?"

"Yes, ma'am." He caught Emerson's eye, his raised brow reading a seven out of ten on the I Told You So scale, but at least he didn't gloat out loud. Yet.

"You got it. Two loaded sandwiches with potato salad and sweet tea, coming right up."

Mich.e.l.le's hands moved in a blur over the food service containers in front of her, filling two red-and-white cardboard meal baskets with a pair of coleslaw-topped pulled-pork sandwiches and hefty scoops of red-skinned potato salad. Emerson's stomach let out a growl just shy of embarra.s.sing as her mouth watered and excitement swelled in her chest, and she barely made it all the way through the checkout line before her smile got the best of her.

"Okay, so that wasn't too awkward. Also, this sandwich smells as incredible as ever," she admitted, sipping her tea and following Hunter to a wooden picnic table shaded by a nearby red oak. Still, she wasn't about to go down easy. "But one person doesn't count."

The edges of his mouth kicked up in mischief, and it looked like Hunter wasn't about to tap out, either. "Oh, I beg to differ. I think the right person counts an awful lot."

Emerson stilled, a bolt of sweet, hot need arrowing all the way through her. But as quickly as it had arrived, Hunter's smirk disappeared without a trace, leaving her to wonder if she'd conjured the gesture from nothing more than thin summer air and the desire still pumping in her veins.

"Anyway," he continued, placing a small stack of napkins between them on the silvery, weatherworn table boards. "Mich.e.l.le and Harley are two people, and they were both happy to see you back in town."

"You cheated. They're two of the nicest people in Millhaven." She picked up the plastic fork Mich.e.l.le had tucked into her meal basket, pointing the tines at him for added emphasis. "And quite possibly the entire state of Virginia, besides. Of course they'd make me feel welcome."

Hunter laughed, toasting her with his sweet tea. "Nice try. Still counts."

"Hmph." Emerson speared a forkful of potato salad from the st.u.r.dy cardboard container nestled next to her sandwich, forgoing a smart answer in favor of taking a small, obligatory bite. But then anything she'd meant to say-h.e.l.l, anything she'd meant to even think or do or be-fell prey to the flavors having an all-out riot in her mouth.

"Mmm, holy G.o.d, this is . . ." She let the rest of her sentence go, closing her lips along with her eyes to savor every nuance. Rather than loading his potato salad up with tons of heavy mayonnaise and standard-procedure celery, Harley had opted for taste over tradition. The tangy-sweet flavors of smoke and honey danced over Emerson's palate in a burst of surprise, smoothed out by the mellow taste of olive oil and the bite of fresh black pepper. Something slightly crunchy-wait, were those fresh corn kernels? Ah, genius!-hit her senses as she continued to chew, and two more forkfuls went into her mouth and down the hatch before she finally came up for air.

"This isn't potato salad. It's a metaphysical event." Emerson moved her fork through the mixture, taking a closer look at the small wedges of red-skinned potatoes, the pretty pop of bi-color sweet corn, and the fresh bright-green parsley in her cup. "When did Harley come up with this recipe?"

"Five, maybe six years ago." Hunter picked up his fork, digging into his own potato salad with a grin. "He started with fries, but then he decided he wanted the real down-home experience. Mayo doesn't keep too well in hot weather, so he got a little creative. And opportunistic, I guess, because that's his homemade honey barbecue sauce in there, along with a bunch of other ingredients he guards like a national secret."

Emerson took another bite, the smooth, smoky goodness exploding on her tongue. "As long as he doesn't stop making it, and I do mean ever, I won't complain."

"I thought you might like it."

"Because there's no mayonnaise?" Her instinct to keep her guard up took yet another direct hit in the face of Hunter's easy smile.

"Because it's off the chain." He paused, his dimple flas.h.i.+ng even deeper, and yep, her guard was toast. "Okay, and also maybe because there's no mayonnaise." He lifted his sandwich, waiting until they'd each taken a few bites before continuing. "I know you're not a fan of breakfast, but seriously. Don't you eat?"

"Not really." The answer flew out before Emerson had any idea she'd let it, and her cheeks flushed at the admission. "I mean, obviously, I eat enough to survive. But I guess it's been awhile since I really enjoyed a meal."

"That's a shame," he said with nothing but kindness in his tone. She prayed he wouldn't follow up by asking her why not-there really was no subtle way to say that between the upheaval of the career she loved and the heavy c.o.c.ktail of meds she was still getting used to, her appet.i.te had pretty much gone on an extended sabbatical.

Thankfully, he didn't. They ate in comfortable quiet, punctuated by Emerson's inevitable food appreciation noises (she tried to restrain herself, she really did, but the honey-mustard coleslaw was as ridiculous as the juicy, b.u.t.ter-soft pulled pork it was piled upon, and she was only human, after all.) The thick umbrella of leaves overhead offered just enough cover to keep the heat at bay, and Emerson turned her face up toward the dappled sunlight as she popped the last bite of potato salad into her mouth.

"You might not want to wait so long next time before you indulge," Hunter said, folding his burnished forearms over the table with a crooked, s.e.xy smile. "It looks pretty good on you."

A soft laugh bubbled up from her chest, and G.o.d, he'd always known exactly how to put her at ease. "Thanks."

"I'm just speaking the truth, the same way I was when I said you still belong here."

Warmth that had nothing to do with the weather flooded Emerson's body, and all at once, she realized how close he was. The way their knees barely brushed beneath the tabletop, the light sprinkling of stubble covering the angle of his jaw, the slight smudge of barbecue sauce at the corner of his wickedly full lips.

The way she wanted to open up to him without thought.

"Thank you. I mean, not just for lunch." Ugh, so maybe a little bit of thought would've been a decent idea. "But, you know. For letting me help you with your shoulder. And making me feel at home."

But rather than put her on the spot with some stilted or Hallmark-worthy response, Hunter just grinned. "Is this the part where I get to say I told you so? Because, truly, I've been waiting awful patiently, and-"

"Oh my G.o.d, fine!" Emerson caved, letting her laughter have its way with her. "You were right. I may have been gone for a while, but I'm not a total stranger."

"In that case, welcome home, Emerson."

Hunter s.h.i.+fted forward, one hand braced on the table in front of him, the other brus.h.i.+ng over her forearm. Heart pounding, she leaned in to meet him out of pure instinct, knowing that he was going to kiss her and, as crazy and impulsive and dangerous as it was, she was going to let him.

But then the familiar sound of a throat clearing from over her shoulder sent ice water through Emerson's veins, chilling her in spite of the record-breaking temperature and freezing her in place.

No. No, no, no. It couldn't be . . . it wasn't . . .

"Well. Isn't this quite the surprise? h.e.l.lo, sweetheart. It's been awhile."

Her pulse fluttered dangerously fast, and she struggled to swallow her spiraling panic in slow, hard gulps. She wasn't ready. She hadn't expected this.

She had to strong-arm her emotions. Right. Now.

Emerson straightened, and every last ounce of her free-flowing ease disappeared like a flame in a rainstorm as she turned around to face the man standing behind her.

"h.e.l.lo, Dad."

CHAPTER TEN.

Hunter couldn't tell what was more gut-punching, that he'd gone from all systems go to all systems no in five seconds flat, or that every trace of the wide-open happiness that had brightened Emerson's pretty face those same five seconds ago had done a complete vanis.h.i.+ng act at the sight of her father.

Holy s.h.i.+t, had Hunter seriously been about to kiss her? In the middle of the Watermelon Festival? With her old man right there behind her?

Yes on all counts. Christ, he hadn't even thought twice.

Or maybe he hadn't thought at all.

"Dr. Montgomery." Hunter scrambled to stand up. The manners he'd been ingrained with pretty much since birth had him reflexively extending his hand, realizing only after Emerson's father pinned him with a chilly blue stare that his fingers were smudged with barbecue sauce.

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t. Hunter fumbled for a napkin to take care of the offending mess, but the moment was gone.

"Hunter," Dr. Montgomery said, clipped and crisp. His shoulders were rigid beneath his light-blue b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt, as if someone had aligned them with a level and a T-square, and not even a hint of moisture appeared on his forehead despite the unrepentant heat. "Are you having a nice time at the festival?"

The formality landed in Hunter's ears with the same oddness as when Emerson had asked him that very question this morning. Then again, her parents had always given staid and serious a run for its hard-earned cash. "Actually, I am. Emerson and I were just catching up."

"So I see."

Tension thick enough to clog the already-humid air threaded around all three of them for a breath, then two, until finally, Emerson broke it.

"I didn't know you were coming to the festival today. I thought you'd be at the hospital, working on the gala with Mom," she said, finding her feet to stand stiffly in front of her father. Funny, Hunter had never thought they looked very much alike, but h.e.l.l if they weren't nailing the exact same stance right now.

Her father raised a brow ever so slightly toward his impeccably neat hairline. "With all your time away from Millhaven, you must not remember. The Watermelon Festival is an important town event. Of course I'm here. One of us needed to make an appearance."

"Right. Appearances," Emerson said, the front of her T-s.h.i.+rt lifting with a controlled inhale. "How could I have forgotten?"

"Speaking of which, we haven't seen you at the house. I'd been under the impression you were still busy getting settled, but it seems you've got time on your hands after all."

The pointed glance he split between the two of them tempted Hunter's pulse to pump faster in his veins, but Emerson's expression remained perfectly cool, so he kept his in check, too.

She nodded, just one quick lift and lowering of her chin. "A little."

"Perhaps you'd consider a visit then, if you're at loose ends," her father said. "There are a few things your mother and I think it's important to discuss with you now that you'll be in town permanently."

Emerson began to fidget, just like she always used to when she was nervous or upset, and okay, this had officially gotten weird. True, she'd never been really affectionate or close with her parents in the past-at least not in the way he and his brothers were tight with their father-but the tension running between Emerson and her old man right now was seriously off the charts.

"Mom mentioned that the other day," she said. "I think she and I covered things pretty well."

"I'm sure you do."

Before Hunter could decipher whether his tone was meant to be cordial or condescending, Emerson's father took a step back, gesturing to the shaded picnic area around them. "Well, I won't keep you any longer. I'm certain we'll see you at the house for that discussion soon, Emerson. Do enjoy your afternoon."

He turned on the heel of one polished loafer, the gra.s.s swallowing the sounds of his brisk footsteps as he walked a straight line away from them, and Hunter could barely wait until Dr. Montgomery was out of earshot before his confusion got the best of his mouth.

"Is something wrong between you and your father?"

"Not at all. Everything's perfectly fine," Emerson said, but her smile was tacked on and too tight for the words to be anything other than a lie. "Thanks for lunch, but you know, I really should get back to helping Daisy out. She asked me for some research on the uses of aromatherapy in alternative healing practices, and-"

"Emerson, stop," Hunter said, surprise pinging through his belly when she actually did. But that same vulnerability that had flashed in her eyes yesterday was back full throttle, and this time he'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd play it safe.

"Everything isn't fine, and as helpful as I'm sure Daisy will find that research, she can't do much with it in the middle of the Watermelon Festival. So do you want to do me a favor and tell me what the h.e.l.l just happened here?"

Emerson opened her mouth to dodge the topic by default. She shouldn't even be flirting with Hunter, let alone consider blabbing to him about the out-and-out panic attack she'd just dodged at being unexpectedly thrown back under the microscope of parental disdain. But even though she'd gone out of her way to hide the crus.h.i.+ng pressure her parents had put her under in high school, he was no stranger to Emerson's stilted and stuffy family dynamic. Plus, standing there in the face of his surprisingly bold, no-bulls.h.i.+t question, she couldn't deny the truth.

Her answer wasn't no.

"Do you remember yesterday during your PT session, when you said it looked like you weren't the only one hauling around mental stress?"

Hunter's chin lifted first in surprise, then in a nod. "Yeah."

"Well, you weren't wrong," she said, and funny, the words didn't burn on exit like she'd expected them to. "It's just that you called me Dr. Montgomery, and whenever I hear the formal address, I think of my father."

A pause opened up between them, but only for a second. "You say that like the comparison is a bad thing."

"And you say that like there actually is a comparison."

Hunter's brows lowered into a V over his steely blue gaze. "Isn't there?"

"That's"-Emerson stopped, her stomach going low and tight with tangled energy as her eyes traveled over the moderately crowded picnic area-"where things get a little complicated."

"Okay," he said. But instead of elaborating or giving her the full-court press with a bunch of annoying questions, he simply rounded the picnic table to cup a hand beneath her elbow.

The move was so easy, so not what she expected, that her nerves smoothed right out in favor of her surprise. "Where are we going?"

"It's no secret that I love this town." Hunter squeezed her arm, just the slightest warm pressure of his callused fingers on her skin. "But right now, I think we could stand to see a quieter part of it. Come on."

Turning toward Town Street, Hunter guided her to the main drag. But instead of retracing their steps to go back in the heavily populated direction they'd come, he cut a path down one of the small side streets next to the firehouse, leading away from the crowd. The movement-coupled with the breathing room it created-knocked Emerson's unease down another notch, and she gave in to the steady thump-thump-thump of both her heartbeat and her footsteps.

"So where were we . . . ah right. Complicated," Hunter said, as if the topic were anything but. "I know you two haven't ever been particularly close, but you really don't think there's a comparison between you and your father?"

Although her veins pumped with enough irony to fill a cast-iron bathtub, she answered with a matter-of-fact, "Not quite."

"But you both went into medicine." He lifted a hand, staving off the argument brewing on her lips. "I know you've got different training, and you obviously have different specialties. Still, you both help people when they're hurt. How is there no correlation there?"

Her chest tightened and twisted, begging her to buckle down on the conversation. But then she caught Hunter's expression, so wide open and una.s.suming, and the words just slid out.

"Technically, we have the same t.i.tle. But when your father is the chief of surgery at the biggest hospital in four counties and you decide more than halfway through college that you want to get a PhD in physical therapy instead of following in his MD-shaped footsteps? Let's just say not all 'doctors' are created equal. Especially as far as my parents are concerned."

"Okay," Hunter said, his boots shus.h.i.+ng over the gra.s.s as they traded the sunny side street for one of the shaded footpaths winding around the perimeter of nearby Willow Park. "So you didn't become a surgeon. You're still clearly a d.a.m.ned good physical therapist. No way your mom and dad aren't proud of the work you do."

The look on his face was so genuine, Emerson felt a little guilty for the tart laugh that barged past her lips in response. G.o.d, she'd forgotten how much she'd kept hidden from him in high school, and how different their family dynamics really were. Hunter's father had always been equal-opportunity proud of him, from football to the farm. Her parents, on the other hand, had been a lot more choosy with their expectations, and they'd made them Waterford Crystal clear.

Nothing but the best, no exceptions.

Anything less was unacceptable.

And oh, how her chosen profession had fallen just as short as the rest of her.

"My parents started grooming me for medical school when I was still in middle school, remember? The possibility that I wouldn't want to become a surgeon like my father never even occurred to them. h.e.l.l, it didn't occur to me, either, until I was up to my waist in the pre-med program in college." As stifled as she'd felt by her parents' constant pressure to succeed, Emerson had never hated the idea of making a career in medicine. Putting a pecking order on which fields were more worthy of respect? Now that, she'd hated in spades.

"I was a little surprised to hear you'd decided against being a surgeon," Hunter admitted. "What made you change your mind?"

Emerson smiled. Finally, an easy question. "I took a sports medicine cla.s.s in my junior year at Swarington. It was part of the premed track, geared mostly toward students with an interest in orthopedic surgery. I signed up because the cla.s.s was mandatory, but after three weeks, I was hooked. I knew I didn't want to just do the surgery to repair a patient's injury. I wanted to be part of the process, from start to finish. I wanted to help people really heal."

"And your father was less than thrilled with your choice to go into physical therapy instead of becoming a surgeon like him." There was no question in Hunter's words, which worked out great since he was dead freaking accurate.

"That's one way of putting it," Emerson said. Her father had been a lot of things when she'd told him she wanted to switch her major from premed to sports medicine. Proud hadn't even made the top one hundred.

Furious? Frustrated? Highly disappointed? Now those were headliners.

Taking a handful more steps down the semi-secluded footpath, Hunter gestured to a park bench, sliding in next to her as she nodded and sat down. "I guess it was pretty obvious they wanted you to go to medical school. But being disappointed with your choice not to become a surgeon is still a far cry from being disappointed with you."