Carolina Moon by Nora Roberts

the curb, would be her change.
    She climbed out of the car and stepped into the thick midday heat. The outside of the building was exactly as she remembered. The old clinker bricks cobbled together with the mortar gray as smoke between. The window was high and wide and just now coated with dust and street grime. But she would fix that.
    The door was glass as well, and cracked. The landlord, she determined, taking out her notebook, would fix that.
    She’d put a bench outside, the narrow one with the black wrought-iron back she was having shipped. And beside it pots filled with purple and white petunias. Friendly flowers.
    High on the window above the bench, she’d have the store name printed.
    SOUTHERN COMFORT
    That would be what she offered her clientele. Comfortable surroundings where the stock was stylishly displayed and discreetly tagged.
    In her mind she was already inside, filling shelves, arranging tables and lamps. She didn’t hear her name called until she was scooped off her feet.
    The blood rushed to her head, ringing there while her pulse went into panic trip.
    “Tory! I thought that was you. I’ve been keeping an eye out for you the last couple days.”
    “Wade.” His name came out in a whoosh.
    “I scared you.” Immediately contrite, he set her back on her feet. “Sorry. I’m just so glad to see you.”
    “Let me catch my breath.”
    “You catch it while I look at you. Damn, has it really been two years? You look wonderful.”
    “Do I?” It was nice to hear, even if she didn’t believe it for a minute. She pushed back her hair while her pulse leveled.
    Though he was a couple of inches shy of six feet, she had to tip her head back to study his face. He’d always been pretty, she remembered, but she imagined he was relieved that the angelic face of his youth had weathered a bit. His eyes were a deep, slumberous chocolate. His face had fined down from childhood, but he still boasted dimples. His hair, shades lighter than her own, was well cut to tame the tendency to curl.
    He was dressed in jeans and a plain cotton shirt of faded blue. As she took his measure his lips quirked.
    He looked, she decided, young, handsome, and quietly prosperous.
    “If I look wonderful, I don’t have words for how you look. You got all the handsome in the family, Cousin Wade.”
    He flashed a grin at that, quick and boyish, but resisted hugging her again. Tory, he knew, had always been skittish about hugs and strokes. He settled for giving her hair a little tug.
    “I’m glad you’re back.”
    “I couldn’t have picked a better welcoming committee.” She gestured widely. “The town looks good. The same in a lot of ways, but better. Tidier, I suppose.”
    “Progress in Progress,” he said. “We owe a lot of it to the Lavelles, the town council, and particularly the mayor of the last five years. You remember Dwight? Dwight Frazier?”
    “Dwight the Dweeb, one of the Mighty Three formed by you, him, and Cade Lavelle.”
    “The Dweeb hit his stride in high school, became a track star, married the homecoming queen, went into his daddy’s construction business, and helped turn Progress around. We’re all goddamn solid citizens these days.”
    Standing there with the light traffic cruising the streetbehind him, hearing the familiar rhythm of his voice, she remembered why he’d always held her affection. “Miss hell-raising, do you, Wade?”
    “Some. Listen, I’m between appointments. I have to get back and convince a Great Dane named Igor he needs his rabies shot.”
    “Better you than me, Dr. Mooney.”
    “My office is across the street, end of the block. Walk up with me, and I’ll buy you an iced tea.”
    “I’d like that, but I need to go by the realtor, see what they’ve got lined up for me.” She caught the flicker in his eyes, tilted her head. “What?”
    “I don’t know how you’ll feel about it, but your old place? It’s vacant.”
    “The house?” Instinctively she crossed her arms,