Love Me Tender

  LOVE ME TENDER

  by Alison Kent

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  ***

  PUBLISHED BY

  Alison Kent on Smashwords

  LOVE ME TENDER

  Copyright © 2010 by Alison Kent

  All rights reserved. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Originally published by Zebra Books, Kensington Publishing

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  ***

  Again, a big thank you to Diana C for catching what I couldn't see!

  Praise for LOVE ME TENDER

  "Let’s leave no doubt: I adored this book. (Alison Kent) tells one fine story (in LOVE ME TENDER). Characters that act on the stage of their drama ring true and honest, making it easy to identify with their needs and goals."

  ~ReaderToReader

  "(...) those who've come to expect humor, tenderness, and wonderful attention to detail in (Alison Kent's) writing, will not be disappointed by LOVE ME TENDER."

  ~BookbugOnTheWeb

  ***

  For all my readers who make writing such a joy

  ***

  Chapter One

  The chime above The Fig Leaf's front door rattled, clanked, clattered, and moaned. The welcome to shoppers had all the appeal of tomcats on the prowl. Cell phones in a movie theater. Disco music. Labor pains.

  Eden Karr pushed aside the section of scarf she was sewing, shoved up her glasses, and rubbed the pinched bridge of her nose. The few items of her own design sold in the shop depended on attention to detail. Her attention. Undivided and constant.

  The chime had to go. But not today. Right now she was doing good to thread a needle. She wasn't about to try and climb a ladder, toolbox in hand—not when she'd barely managed to roll her very tired and pregnant body out of bed this morning.

  So much for the joys of self-employment and home ownership, she mused wryly, weighing the benefits of small town Texas life against the one she'd left behind in New York.

  Lifting her foot from the serger's pedal, she adjusted the unevenly gathered Indian cotton bunched beneath the needle. A spasm shot down her right leg. Inhaling sharply, she knotted her fist and pushed against the small of her back.

  Four months pregnant and carrying these two babies was already exhausting—especially since judging by her rapidly burgeoning belly, the twins seemed destined to be born the size of Sumo wrestlers. Not that anyone else seemed to notice any of this …

  "Yoo-hoo, E-e-e-den."

  Dear, sweet Molly Hansen. Smiling, Eden laid her glasses aside and flicked off the machine. Molly's timing couldn't have been more perfect. Eden was past ready for a break.

  "Back here, Molly." She pushed to her feet just as the older woman bustled into the sewing room Eden had painted white and decorated with curtains, cushions, lampshades, and watercolors in her favorite shades of purple and green. "Mmm. What's that I smell?"

  The wicker basket caught in the crook of Molly's elbow bounced against her slim hip. She lifted the red-checkered dish towel tucked around the contents. "I've brought honey bran muffins and a jar of my homemade peach jam. I figured you busied yourself with your sewing so early that you forgot to eat."

  Eden patted her rounded belly, covered in a chic maternity tunic of canary yellow. She'd determined early in this pregnancy that chic and maternity were not going to be mutually exclusive. "Now, Molly. I look like I've swallowed a mini-basketball. Do you truly think I forgot to eat?"

  "If you've swallowed anything, it's a tummy full of self-pity. Now come." And that was Molly: no nonsense, no fluff, and absolutely no fat jokes.

  Wearing one of Eden's newest creations, the older woman breezed down the hallway to the kitchen. Eden followed, critically eyeing the jumper loosely fitted to Molly's frame.

  Not bad if Eden did say so herself, studying the apples appliquéd around the hem of the blue and white ticking. Especially since the pattern was such a huge departure from anything she'd designed since college.

  Her ideas had leaned more toward Dolce and Gabbana than mom and pop. But this was what Molly had wanted. And the fit, the material, the pattern ... everything was perfect.

  Maybe Eden's worries were all for nothing. Maybe change was going to be a good thing. After all, it hadn't taken but a day to fall in love with this house, she admitted, glancing toward the front door, through which her guest had arrived.

  The hundred-year-old frame building fit her needs nicely, with her living quarters on the second story, and her kitchen and sewing room at the rear of the first. What had once been a foyer, a parlor, a living room, and a dining area had been remodeled into a storefront that was amazingly ideal.

  And speaking of storefront ... Eden checked her watch. The Fig Leaf was due to open in an hour. Where had the morning gone? Following Molly into the airy white kitchen at the back of the house, Eden lifted a blue enamel teakettle from the stove.

  "Here. You sit. Let me do that." Molly left the basket on the table and hurried to finish the task. "No need to put yourself out for me."

  While Molly set the kettle to boil, Eden wrapped one arm around her friend's shoulder and hugged her. "I'm not putting myself out for anyone but myself—and the behemoths that have taken over my body." She caressed the right side of her belly and received the tiniest of flutters in return. "Yes, oh impatient Benjamin. I'll have two muffins if it will make you happy."

  "And how do you know that wasn't Bethany?" Molly raised a brow.

  Eden patted a minor bulge to the left of center. "If it was, she was only practicing her arabesque."

  Molly snorted. "Just you wait. She'll be wearing football gear and tackling her brother before the year is out."

  "Please, not that soon. Let them be sweet and tiny for a month or two at least," Eden prayed, then chuckled as her stomach growled. "Okay, okay. I'll make it three muffins, but then I have to get back to work."

  Molly clicked her tongue. "It'll be sooner than you think. Which is why you need to be taking care to save your strength instead of working so hard."

  "Dr. Tremont says I'm doing great. I'm not working too hard at all. Just hard enough." No doubt self-employment came with many perks the fashion industry did not. A steady paycheck wasn't one of them, however. "Don't forget, I have a future to see to."

  Piling muffins onto a fruit-patterned platter, Molly slanted Eden a pointed glance. "You ought to have a man taking care of the future."

  "Come on, Molly. Don't tell me you think I can't provide for my family without help from a man."

  The slow shake of Molly's head covered volumes of old-world opinion on modern family values. "These babies' father has a lot to answer for."

  Eden couldn't argue with that because Molly was right. Nate did have a lot to answer for—lying by omission being at the top of the list. Being a scumbag summed up the rest. Cups rattled against saucers as Eden gathered both for tea.

  Molly hovered nearby. "I wish you'd let me do that."

  "Thanks, but I'm fine," Eden said, and meant it. The scumbag was history. Like Custer. Or Waterloo. The Great Depression. Black Monday.

  The teakettle whistled, and she applied herself to the task at hand, pouring water over bags of spiced tea before setting the table
with plates, knives, and sweet cream butter.

  Insisting that Molly join her for the last quiet minutes before the shop opened, Eden split open a steaming muffin. Eyes closed, she inhaled the scent of warm honey.

  "Promise me one thing, Molly."

  "What's that?" Molly asked, reaching for a muffin and a spoon of peach jam.

  "If you and Tucker ever close Hansen's Heaven, promise me you'll give me this recipe. I'm officially addicted." Eden reached across the table to brush a crumb from Molly's collar.

  "Close the bakery?" Molly asked, glancing down to make sure no crumbs remained on the front of her jumper. "Why would we close the bakery?"

  "You don't have any plans to retire?"

  "Retire?" Molly huffed. "And do what?"

  Eden shrugged. "Nothing?"

  This time Molly's response was a sharp frown.

  "Okay. Then everything," Eden said and gestured expansively. "All the things you've wanted to do in your life but haven't managed to get to yet."

  "And those would be?"

  "Travel?"

  "Nowhere I want to go."

  "Truly?" Molly nodded, and Eden thought more. "Books you haven't yet read. A language you've wanted to learn. A class you've always been meaning to take."

  "Eden," Molly began, drawing a patient breath. "I read a dozen novels a month. Speaking English and a bit of Spanish suits me fine. I have seventy-two years' worth of learning stored up. If I take a class in anything, I won't be able to get a hat on my head."

  Molly patted her close-cropped silver hair and Eden laughed. This woman in front of her had, indeed, lived a full life. She was also a very good friend.

  "What's on your mind, Eden?"

  Hmm. A friend who was apparently psychic. Eden smiled and ran a fingertip around the scalloped edge of the muffin plate. "Do you ever wonder if you've missed out on anything? Or wish you'd done more with your life?"

  "No." Molly didn't even hesitate. "My life's been filled with a husband and sons and friends as dear to me as family. If I've missed anything, so be it. If I'd have done more, I don't know where I'd have put it."

  Plain-spoken words of wisdom. Exactly what Eden had known Molly would offer. Still, because she was in such a state of personal flux, she had to ask, "Then you're happy with the choices you've made? You don't have any regrets?"

  "Regrets? I suppose I could come up with one or two. But, yes, I'm happy. What good would it do me to be anything but?" Molly buttered and jammed her remaining muffin half. "Wondering and wishing don't change what's gone before. Now, why do you ask?"

  Eden shrugged. "No particular reason. Just wanted to make sure—"

  "Don't worry about making sure." Molly squeezed Eden's hand with her own strong fingers. "Worry about making a life."

  It was hard to wash down the last of her muffin with the lump that had risen in her throat. But Eden managed to do that, and to push away from the table without revealing any more of her turmoil than she could help.

  Change would be a good thing. She needed to keep that in mind. "You feed me well, Molly, my dear, but if Ben or Beth gain another ounce, I'll need a second maternity wardrobe before all is said and done."

  "You haven't gained an ounce to begin with. Nothing that isn't babies, anyway." Molly dragged out a chair and motioned for Eden to put up her feet. "Sit while I do up these dishes."

  Eden offered but a token protest. She was strangely tired. "You're going to spoil me."

  "It took two pregnancies, but Tucker convinced me that expectant mothers deserve to be spoiled. As I recall, he refused to take no for an answer." Molly sighed, the sound long and reminiscent. Then she shook off the daydream and scurried around until the kitchen shone spic-and-span.

  After drying her hands, she picked up her basket and linked her arm through Eden's for the walk to the front of the store. "Do you need anything before I go?"

  Still trying to picture the contradiction of tiny Tucker Hansen standing up to Molly, it took a minute for Eden's mind to switch gears. "As a matter of fact, yes. I've been toying with the idea of having shelves built. I don't have enough room to hang everything, but with shelves I could stack the excess stock rather than keeping it stored in my sewing room. And my bedroom. And the nursery."

  "Business booming?"

  "Better than I could've imagined." Eden crossed the fingers of both hands. "I'm hoping the Spring Fest will be the icing on the cake. In less than five months, I'll have two more mouths to feed. I need to make a name for The Fig Leaf now. And I could use a good carpenter."

  Molly stared long and hard, then bit back what was no doubt another admonishment and said instead, "Jace Morgan."

  "Excuse me?" Eden had been braced for an argument, not a name.

  "Jace Morgan. He did most of the renovations to this house." Molly's gaze circled the room. "Does the best work I've ever seen."

  "He's local, then?"

  Molly nodded. "Lives outside of town. Don't think I know anyone who's ever been out to his place."

  Another man with secrets. Great. "How do I get in touch with him?"

  Molly brushed aside the lace curtain covering the front door's etched window. "I saw his truck in front of The Emporium on my way over. I'll see if he's still there. If not, I'll find him." Letting the curtain fall back in place, Molly pulled open the door and sailed out with only a backward wave.

  Watching Molly go, Eden wondered about Jace Morgan. Then, as the door eased shut, wondered what caliber gun it would take to blast the door chime beyond recognition. Flipping the sign to OPEN, she returned to the sewing room.

  The whir of the serger's motor, the click of the foot feed, and the snip of the scissors filled the quiet house. Thirty minutes later, the chime sounded again. Eden shut down the machine, gathered up a sketch pad and pencil, and headed into the shop.

  She climbed onto the stool behind the L-shaped counter at the rear of the store and called, "Good morning," to the two ladies scanning the racks of baby clothes she'd ordered from a seamstress in Miami with a wicked needle and a love of the islands.

  Fifteen minutes later, three young women maneuvered through the door and jostled packages across the shop to a selection of one-of-a-kind drop-waisted sarongs and matching midriff-baring tops. Taking in the customers' collective excitement, Eden couldn't help but smile. Wouldn't Wynnella die to see this enthusiasm over her work.

  Eden knew her collection was unconventional by Texas Hill Country standards. Yet even before she'd begun her career, her fashion instincts had been right on. Women were women, no matter the place they called home and quality clothing, even when out of the ordinary and a tad offbeat, was always welcomed.

  The first two shoppers approached the counter. "This dress is lovely," remarked the taller of the women. She handed Eden a dainty christening gown. "Do you do the needlework yourself?"

  "Oh, no. This designer is Cuban and the mother of twelve. And she's been able to put at least three of those children through college on my purchases alone." The woman and her companion both laughed while Eden smoothed and folded the gown. "Let me guess. A new grandchild in the family?"

  "My very first." Pulling a picture from her wallet, she offered it to Eden.

  Babies. Eden couldn't think of anything in the world more precious. Anything that brought more joy, more fulfillment. More hope for the future. So, why did she feel such trepidation when she knew the changes she'd made in her life were in her children's best interest?

  Because you're not sure they're in yours?

  She pushed aside the thought and returned the photo. "An excellent choice. She'll look positively angelic in white."

  "My dear, she looks positively angelic in anything!" The woman laughed. "Your selection of baby things is absolutely to die for. I feel a spending frenzy coming on."

  "Any time you're struck with an uncontrollable urge, please stop by." Eden rang up the sale and handed the woman her business card.

  When the chime rang out again, she caught a glimpse of a man i
n black before turning back to her customers. "I'm sure I can find the perfect something for your granddaughter. Remember, Wynnella still has nine educations to finance."

  "I have a feeling the next three degrees will be on me," the woman said, taking the package from Eden. "I'll be seeing you again soon."

  "I'll look forward to it," Eden replied.

  The door closed behind them and Eden glanced toward the three women modeling the sarongs for one another. Knowing friendly competition often decided a sale, she declined offering unneeded help. Settling her glasses on the end of her nose, she picked up her pencil, then turned her attention to the man.

  He stood in front of the bay window, a dark silhouette on lace curtains of white. Jet black hair brushed his forehead and nape; the windblown locks framed a strong, square jaw. His shoulders were dangerously wide, his waist trim, his wide-legged stance suggestive, Eden mused, noticing too well the fit of his jeans.

  He needed a shave. Or would have, had the dark shadow been worn for style. As it was, the stubble fit the image of a man comfortable in his own skin. No, more than comfortable. Confident. Certain. Maybe a little bit arrogant.

  An interesting evaluation, because Eden knew without a doubt that he had no idea of the impression he made. His cocky air fit him as naturally as the rest of his muscled body. In fact, he seemed totally unaware of the interested glances the young female shoppers tossed his way.

  His interest, instead, lay in a wisp of a baby blanket woven with threads of delicate white and shot with strands of silver and gold. He rubbed one palm over the fabric, then stroked the cloth between his forefinger and thumb. Eden caught her breath at the incongruous picture: the ethereal blanket held in the hands of a very earthy man.