View With Your Heart: a small town romance (Heart Collection Book 5) Read online

  www.lbdunbar.com

  Originally published as Touch Screen © 2015 Laura Dunbar

  View With Your Heart © 2020 Laura Dunbar

  L.B. Dunbar Writes, Ltd.

  https://www.lbdunbar.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.

  Cover Design: Shannon Passmore/Shanoff Designs

  Editor: Melissa Shank

  Editor: Jenny Sims/Editing4Indies

  Proofread: Karen Fischer

  Table of Contents

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  More by L.B. Dunbar

  Keep in touch with L.B. Dunbar

  Excerpt of A Heart Remembers

  (L)ittle (B)its of Gratitude

  About the Author

  Other Books by L.B. Dunbar

  Silver Fox Former Rock Stars

  After Care

  Midlife Crisis

  Restored Dreams

  Second Chance

  Wine&Dine

  The Silver Foxes of Blue Ridge

  Silver Brewer

  Silver Player

  Silver Mayor

  Silver Biker

  Collision novellas

  Collide

  Caught – a short story

  Smartypants Romance (an imprint of Penny Reid)

  Love in Due Time

  Love in Deed

  Love in a Pickle (2021)

  Rom-com for the over 40

  The Sex Education of M.E.

  The Heart Collection

  Speak from the Heart

  Read with your Heart

  Look with your Heart

  Fight from the Heart

  View with your Heart

  A Heart Collection Spin-off

  The Heart Remembers

  The Legendary Rock Star Series

  The Legend of Arturo King

  The Story of Lansing Lotte

  The Quest of Perkins Vale

  The Truth of Tristan Lyons

  The Trials of Guinevere DeGrance

  Paradise Stories

  Abel

  Cain

  The Island Duet

  Redemption Island

  Return to the Island

  Modern Descendants – writing as elda lore

  Hades

  Solis

  Heph

  Dedication

  Originally dedicated to my alpha and the fab four –

  Mr. Dunbar, and MD, MK, JR, and A

  2020 update

  To readers who loved the original Sensations Collection

  And gave them a second chance as the Heart Collection.

  Take 1

  Scene: The Lake

  [Gavin]

  The surrounding view brings a wave of memory.

  Blond hair as bright as the sunshine streaming across the water. Blue eyes the color of the deepest portion of the lake.

  The soft lull of the lake water lapping at the shore suggests summer, a time reminiscent of light breezes, hurried kisses, and Britton McKay.

  Neither she nor I have been in this area in thirteen years, and it feels surreal to be here at all.

  Home.

  I didn’t exactly grow up on the shores of Elk Lake, but in the surrounding countryside filled with cherry orchards, chirping crickets, and chattering cicadas. My parents still live on the century-old farm, and I haven’t seen them in over a decade.

  As I sit on the third-floor balcony of a condominium rental that wasn’t built when I left twenty years ago, I stare out at the glimmer of sunlight rippling across the lake before me. I’m a long way from the place I now call home—California. I’ve rented this condo for the next two weeks, encompassing my business at the Traverse City Film Festival, an event thirty minutes from my current location, and the upcoming nuptials of my childhood best friend, Jess Carter.

  I’m honored to stand up for him. Jess was practically another brother. I’ve been thinking a lot about friendships and family this summer. How I’ve been a shitty brother to my real one and even shittier as a son. I pulled away for my own sanity, but now, I feel like I’m missing out on something. Something I can’t quite put my finger on. The last time I was in the area I holed up for the weekend with a beautiful girl. The weekend turned into something wild and unpredicted, and I smile once more with memories of Britton.

  My eyes remain on the dancing waves. They don’t crash here like the angry Pacific against the sandy beaches of the West Coast. They softly glide and skitter back. The movement is graceful and reminds me again of Britton. I was eighteen when we met and on my way to the Baseball Hall of Fame, if my father had anything to say about it. In the end, he had no say in the course of my life. I’d been eager to bust from here. Baseball was my future. However, when your world centers on sports, the axis feels unbalanced when you quit.

  And I quit, according to my father.

  I lean forward in the balcony chair, continuing to gaze out at the slice of lake before me. The liquid expanse runs for miles to my left. The homes circling this lake have certainly changed in the course of my thirty-eight years. Most are huge and valued at close to a million dollars. Who’d have thought?

  I wonder if Leo still has a place here.

  It’d be a long shot that Britton’s uncle still owned a home on these shores. Swiping a hand through my thick hair, I realize he’d be almost a hundred by now. Slowly, my smile fades when I consider the alternative for an old man.

  I’d been thinking of death too much lately. Or perhaps, I was contemplating life. What have I accomplished in nearly forty years? What will I do next?

  I sigh, knowing part of the answer. I’m here for the festival to showcase an independently produced film. It’s a passion project, and I’m proud of it.

  Swiping fingers through my thick hair once more, I lean back in the rickety outdoor seat. My long legs slide forward, and I stretch. My eyes catch on a woman walking on the beach with her blond hair blowing in the early evening breeze. Her summer dress billows around her thighs. It’s one of those scenes that looks unreal, almost staged, and I’d love to capture her with my camera.


  Instead, I freeze-frame her in my mind.

  The waves lick at her bare feet as she carries a pair of sandals in her hand. On occasion, she whips her head to clear her face of the loose hairs floating about her. She appears effervescent as if she doesn’t actually exist on this beach. She’s elegant despite the awkwardness of walking on the uneven sand. She has the grace of a dancer.

  The thought makes me sit taller and narrow my eyes at her.

  Once upon a time, Britton wanted to be a dancer, and I curse myself for thinking of her again. She was a summer girl when we met, which meant she didn’t live in the area. She was only visiting for three months. The timing was after my high school graduation and before I left for college. That was the best June, July, and August of my life. I was reckless, thoughtless even, but not with her. She was all I thought about that summer. We had temporary written all over us, but perhaps that was the appeal. Summer loves are like that—unparalleled because of the limitation on them.

  As I have a good view of the woman, I continue to watch her from my seat on the third floor. She stills a second, spinning in a half-circle to again settle that hair dancing around her face. The breeze blows it back as she faces west. With her back to me, I imagine her eyes closing as she feels the sun heat her cheeks. I’m enthralled by her movements, which are nothing out of the ordinary. Any woman might move in this manner to clear her face on a breezy, late afternoon.

  It's when she turns back around, dips her head, and brushes only one side of her hair behind her ear that I stiffen. I do a double take and squint harder at her.

  It can’t be.

  Britton was just as hell-bent on being somebody as I was. New York called her name, she said. We were headed to opposite coasts.

  Yet the movement of her hand, the way she holds it on the side of her neck a second after brushing back her hair, feels too coincidental. She begins walking again, coming almost parallel to my view, and stops before the condo building. Putting her back to me again, she looks at the water once more, and more memories rush over me.

  A tiny boat, a dark night, and fireworks exploding over the water.

  Shaking my head, I realize I’m imprinting, merging my history with reality. I blame it on my emotions, a roller-coaster ride of peaks and valleys at being so close to home and soon to see my family.

  Still, I can’t take my eyes off the woman who spins and faces the building a second time. A hand at her brow shields her eyes, and it’s as if she looks up at me. For some reason, I wave. Her hand drops, and I chuckle to myself. I’m an idiot, and I’m relieved she didn’t see me.

  Then her hand lifts, and a hesitant, short wave returns mine. My breath catches.

  Again, it can’t be, can it?

  Because if I could do any imprinting, it would be Britton McKay standing on that beach.

  What would be the odds?

  Considering this thought, a young boy runs across the sand to her, and she extends an arm to him. He looks older than a youth but not quite a teen. However, I’m not a good judge of ages. I’ll probably never have children. Zoey hadn’t wanted them, and I guess I hadn’t either.

  Still, I’ve been thinking so much about family.

  My sight follows the woman, wrapping her arm around the kid’s neck. He’s carrying a wakeboard in his hands, a favorite pastime of kids in the area. Surfing isn’t really a thing in these parts. He’s nearly as tall as the woman, and she presses a kiss to the side of his head. Quickly, he slips out from under her arm. Her head tips back as though she’s laughing as he runs off before her, drops the board, and skims a few feet in the inches-deep wave. He stumbles, and she bends forward, laughing harder.

  I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that. Belly shaking. Eyes tearing. Full body immersed in the depths of something funny.

  Again, I remember someone laughing just like that, and as much as I don’t think it’s a possibility, it seems undeniable.

  Britton McKay is here.

  Take 2

  Scene: The Lake

  [Britton]

  Some afternoons, it’s nice to take a stroll through town after a busy day. Elk Lake City is wedged between the larger lake of Lake Michigan and a series of inner lakes, the closest of which is Elk Lake. The two are joined by a short, rapid river, and I cross the bridge over it to walk along the flowing water for a casual jaunt.

  As I saunter, I reflect on my crazy day. My tea shop—TeasMe!—is doing well for a two-year-old business. Summer sales are better than I anticipated, and the additional help of Henry and Jenna has made all the difference. It’s my personal business that’s been a Ferris wheel of lifts and drops today. For one, Rebecca Sterling is at it again, wanting me to name a price on my uncle’s property.

  “It isn’t for sale,” I told her for the five hundred-millionth time.

  “Everything is for sale.”

  She’s absolutely wrong. Some things you just can’t place a value on.

  With this in mind, I’m grateful again for Henry. He suggested I leave early to take this momentary breather before picking up Gee. The pressure from the Sterling Realty company can be relentless, especially considering the weight of the unpaid tax bill on Leo’s property. Some days, I can handle Rebecca. Today was not one of those days.

  Because the second issue of the day was recalling the film festival begins in the next town over, and I’ve seen the program announcing featured films. In big, bold, black, and white was the image of a man from my past who haunts me every day.

  Gavin Scott.

  I didn’t know he made movies as I hadn’t seen or heard from him in thirteen years. He’s also the last person I’d like to see. Of course, the chances of that happening is like the angsty moment in a movie, where you hope you’ll see all the hot passion play out between a couple only to have the film fade to black.

  Ghosted.

  That’s what happened when Gavin left me in a hotel room thirteen years ago.

  Then again, I could be living that scene in a horror film where you’re screaming at the screen, telling the silly female not to open the door because a mass murderer is ready to stab her in the heart on the other side of the barrier.

  It’d be the same sensation as Gavin’s absence.

  Heartbreaking.

  Taking a deep breath, I walk along the boardwalk, leading under the highway overpass and connecting to the inner lake’s boundary.

  As soon as I hit a small beach area on the other side of the Rogue River bar, I kick off my shoes and wade along the lake’s edge. My toes wiggle through the water licking at them. Kicking up a spray of droplets, it’s refreshing, and instantly, I calm.

  Late July can get surprisingly warm in this small town. Being the Midwest, it won’t last. This summer especially, fall feels like it looms around every corner, like a dark cloud ahead, bringing with it more than a change of season. A change I can’t explain but feel within me. I don’t like the omniscient sensation. The last time I had this feeling, my world turned upside down.

  Gavin Scott. A hotel room. The hottest weekend of my life.

  By hot, I don’t mean the weather.

  Since then, the past dozen years have been a tumbleweed of life changes.

  To continue to calm my thoughts, I take a few minutes to comb my toes through the wet sand, feet flopping in the shallow water. My sandals dangle from my fingers, and I whip my head to the side as my long, blond hair wraps over my face. I should have brought a hair tie with me. However, the warm breeze feels wonderful, and I spin in a half-circle, allowing the wind to blow back more of my loose locks. Closing my eyes for a second, I sometimes pretend the sunshine on my face is a message.

  I’m doing okay. I’m in a better place.

  Raindrops on my cheeks have a similar effect. I consider them kisses from heaven.

  Unfortunately, other kisses come to mind—eager, hungry kisses, full of promises for one wild weekend. Gavin’s lips on mine were memory and mistake rolled into a delicious combination of hard to resist, and
I didn’t resist him—not one request, not one position. It was a moment burned into my brain like a favorite movie. Some days are like a release trailer—snippets and blips—of reminders, and other days, it was a full-blown film, haunting me in times of too much quiet. A reel only I can view again when I’m alone.

  However, I’m hardly alone.

  With that thought, I return to my initial quest. I need to pick up my son. Next to Rogue River is a newish condo building with a water adventure shack on the opposite side. Spencer Sports is a place to rent kayaks, canoes, Jet Skis, and paddleboards for the day. My nephew works there, and he lets my energetic twelve-year-old hang out with him some days. Theo is a good cousin to Gee and a godsend to me this summer.

  I pause before the condominiums and look up at the three-story structure. The locals were not pleased when this building passed village codes, allowing for a multi-story, multi-housing complex to be built on these shores. Most residents of the building, and I use the term loosely, use the spaces for rental profit as it’s the only place of its kind on this lake. The only other spot with short-term, small space rentals is the local motel up the highway.

  A different hotel in the opposite direction comes to mind.

  A balcony railing. A hotel desk. A king-sized bed.

  Quickly, I rid the thought. It was a lifetime ago—unlucky thirteen years.

  Have they really all been unlucky years?

  I’d split the difference fifty-fifty.

  Life. Death.

  Change. Choice.

  A lot has happened in the past thirteen years, luck or not.

  Still looking at the building, I notice a man sitting on a third-floor balcony. Shielding my eyes, I stare up at him. He has dark hair with a light covering of facial hair in a similar shade. My breath catches a moment, and then I chuckle to myself.

  It isn’t Gavin.

  A silly game I play with myself is seeing Gavin in every man with dark waves and a trimmed beard.