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“We’ll start fresh, Bridget,” he said softly. But she could hear the determination in his voice.
“No.” She shook her head, trying to sound as determined as he did.
“Why not? You want to—I can feel it.” There was no mistaking the confidence in his tone.
“No, I don’t, Jonas,” she said tightly. “If—If I’ve given you that impression, then it’s only because I’m susceptible to memories, too, remembering the way it used to be.”
“It doesn’t have to be just memories. I still want you, you know.”
“No,” she breathed, “you only want a weekend fling with an old flame.”
His mouth moved against her hair, sending tremors quaking through her all too willing body.
“Honey, I want more than that. Much more.”
“You … you can’t come waltzing back into my life and expect to take up where you left off,” Bridget protested.
“Can’t I?” Jonas asked, his head bending lower as he searched for the sensitive area along the curve of her neck.
His self-assurance bordered on arrogance. Hearing him talk to her like that was what Bridget needed to remember more than her love. It reminded her of why he had left so long ago. She had been a different person then—a girl, really. Her hands strained against his chest, wedging a space between them.
“No, Jonas.” Her voice was cold and self-assured. That, more than her physical resistance, stopped him. “Ten years ago you said good-bye to me. Now it’s my turn. I don’t care if I ever see you again. So when you leave for New York, don’t bother to come back to Vermont because of me.”
His rough features grew hard and there was an icy look in his eyes. But his voice was soft, so soft the words weren’t altogether clear. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Bridget, but I’m not going back to New York.”
“What?” She stiffened, uncertain if she’d heard him right.
“The reason I was late getting ready for tonight’s party is because I’d spent the afternoon in town.” A look of amusement she didn’t understand glittered in his eyes. “I had to meet with the realtor to sign all the papers for my new home.”
“Where? Bridget drew back and he released her, letting her stand freely in front of him.
“I bought the old Hanson farm. We’re neighbors now. Isn’t that a pleasant surprise?”
Too startled to reply, she just gaped at him. No matter what, she didn’t want him to know that he’d done something guaranteed to turn her life upside down and inside out.
“I’m glad,” she lied bravely. “Mr. Hanson had been trying to sell that place for years. Now he’ll be able to move into town. It’s a beautiful piece of property, Jonas, I’m sure you’ll like it. Congratulations.”
He was puzzled by her calm response, maybe even angry. Bridget could see it in the muscle leaping along his jaw. Abruptly he turned away to stride into the kitchen. The victory, temporarily, was Bridget’s. But she didn’t feel like a winner. The sensation was more like that of a survivor.
No one appeared to have noticed that Jonas had left her standing in the middle of a song. Bridget joined the nearest group, letting their voices and laughter hide her shaky composure. Soon Jim was at her side, handing her the glass of beer he had left to get.
After nearly an hour, what Bridget thought was a decent interval, she suggested to Jim that they leave, pleading a headache. He agreed without hesitation, although his gaze swung to Jonas at the far side of the room, guessing the cause of her headache. Not once did he ask any awkward questions that she would have been reluctant to answer.
Twice in the two weeks after the party, Bridget saw Jonas in town, always at a distance. He didn’t enter the shop or try to talk to her. She wasn’t certain that he had given up, though, but then she had never pretended to totally understand him. At the age of nineteen she had sometimes believed she could, until that long-ago day when he had told her he was leaving, ignoring her declarations of love.
Her mother was incensed when she learned Jonas was moving back to Vermont, and positively livid when she discovered he had bought the Hanson farm that abutted their rear property line. Bridget hadn’t told her, but Margaret found out. The local grapevine was pretty efficient.
“Bridget, he’s up to no good,” Margaret Harrison had warned her daughter, having raced over to the chalet the minute she had heard. “And don’t you go getting involved with him again. I don’t care if he is a doctor—”
“He is? Who told you that?”
“Suzy Briggs looked him up online for me. She’s quite thorough. It’s amazing what you can find out.”
So Jonas had done that well for himself. That must really stick in her mother’s craw. Bridget didn’t know what to think and she didn’t quite know why she hadn’t ever looked him up online herself. She wondered why he hadn’t told her anything specific about himself—and why he wasn’t married. A tall, good-looking doctor with a New York City practice? Women must be throwing themselves at his feet. She snapped out of it when her mother’s voice rose to an unpleasantly high pitch.
“You learned your lesson as far as Jonas Concannon is concerned, and you learned it the hard way. You have to accept that he hasn’t changed. I know once you realized what kind of a man he was—”
“Don’t worry, Mother,” Bridget had interrupted her but her tone was patient, almost weary. “It isn’t a lesson I’m likely to forget.”
