>
Marcus pressed his lips softly against hers
Desire built inside Christine, like a wave slamming again and again. She could feel how much Marcus wanted her, too, could sense his struggle, and she was so aroused she felt like she’d levitated.
He put his arms around her and pulled her against his chest, inundating her with the delicious smell of cologne mixed with sundried cotton. His fingers pressed into her back, kneading her muscles, starting up a trembling in them both.
He broke off the kiss. “Christine,” he whispered near her ear as if he’d been dying for this moment. He pressed her face against his. He kissed the side of her neck, tucking his hand beneath her hair to cradle her head.
Oh, she wanted this. Needed it. His arms around her, his desire obvious, his struggle for restraint obvious in the tension and quiver of his every muscle.
A white-hot ribbon of desire twisted through her body. She wanted more, much more of him burying his mouth in her neck. “I want us to try.”
Dear Reader,
What makes a home a home, a family a family and love love? The question fascinates me. In this story, Christine Waters gets surprising answers to each. This book has special significance to me. I’ve worked on it off and on for several years, so I’m thrilled to finally see it on the shelves.
The journey home to Harmony turned Christine’s expectations and beliefs about her mother, her father, her son, her lover, even her ex-husband upside down and backward before she’d finished sorting it all out. Her struggle with her teen son David was particularly difficult for me to write. What mother hasn’t lain awake at night wondering if she’s raised her child right?
Marcus was such a gift to Christine, helping her see clearly who she was and could be. Christine saved Marcus from the numb isolation he’d sunk into due to past tragedies. These two needed each other. I mean needed. As to physical chemistry, Marcus was lighter-fluid and cool water to Christine’s crackling bonfire, intensifying and soothing in exactly the right way. I was so happy when they earned their happily-ever-after.
I hope you enjoy Christine and Marcus’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please visit me online at www.dawnatkins.com.
Best,
Dawn Atkins
Home to Harmony
Dawn Atkins
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Award-winning author Dawn Atkins has written more than twenty novels for Harlequin Books. Known for her funny, poignant romance stories, she’s won a Golden Quill Award and has been a several-times RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award finalist. Dawn lives in Arizona with her husband and son.
To Wanda Ottewell,
who believed in this story from the beginning and understood it better than I
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A world of thanks to Laurie Schnebly Campbell and Laura Emileanne for sharing their therapy expertise.
Any errors, distortions or inaccuracies are completely my own.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
CHRISTINE WATERS PARKED her sturdy Volvo in front of the main building of Harmony House, the commune where she’d grown up, her heart pinched as tight as her hands on the steering wheel, a spurt of panic overriding her determination.
What the hell was she doing back here? When she’d left this place at seventeen, it had been for good.
She knew why she’d come, of course. She had two good reasons: to give her fifteen-year-old son a fresh start and to help her mother recover from heart surgery.
Simple. Easy.
Except nothing about David, her mother or Harmony House itself was simple or easy. Ever.
David shoved off his ever-present headphones, which shut out the world—especially her—and jumped out of the car, enthusiastic for the first time since Christine had announced they would be here for the summer.
“It’s like an old-time hotel,” David said, surveying the two-story building surrounded by gardens, the clay works barn and the animal stable.
“It was a boarding house back in the thirties, I think,” she said, joining him. In the years she’d been gone—eighteen of them—the place had become stooped with age, the yellow paint gone as faint as cream and the different-colored doors were milky pale. The wraparound terraces looked as though they’d give way in a breeze.
This shocked and saddened her, like seeing a lively friend wan and weak in a hospital bed. She’d never liked the place, but it had always seemed bright and vibrant.
“Cool,” David said, nodding.
Cool? Christine hid her smile of relief. The one thing in her favor was that David’s girlfriend, who shaped his every opinion, approved of communes. Well, la-di-dah.
“Check out the school bus,” David said, indicating the ancient vehicle painted with hippie rainbows and peace signs.
“I can’t believe Bogie still has that monster. Wonder if it even runs.” She used to hate when it broke down on the winding road to town. Being late for school had been mortifying, not to mention all the stares at her homemade clothes. Christine was seven when Bogie had talked her mother into moving out of the cozy apartment in Phoenix to the commune in the middle of nowhere. To Christine’s young eyes, beyond the bright paint, the place was all mud, stink and chaos.
Now, weary after the four-hour drive from Phoenix, Christine peeled her sweat-drenched tank top off her back. The cooler air in the hills was a relief, at least, though there would be many hot hours in the clay works, as well as tending the gardens, the animals and the kitchen, helping out until her mother and Bogie were back on their feet. Bogie, her mother’s old friend and partner in the commune, was recovering from prostate cancer.
Absently, Christine scratched the back of one arm, then examined the itchy red bump. Mosquitoes already? The flying pests bred in stagnant irrigation water or at the nearby river’s edge and they’d eaten her alive as a kid.
As if on cue, both her legs began to itch, too. She bent down to scratch them. “Remind me to get bug spray in town.”
“No way. Too toxic. Just cover yourself up,” David said. He would say that, dressed in his usual flannel shirt over a ratty T-shirt and shapeless cords, all too hot for early May in Arizona.
“We’ll see. Grab a suitcase, okay?”
He went for the backseat, crammed with luggage, his too-long straw-colored hair hanging over his face, hiding his gorgeous eyes. Dragging out one of the bigger bags, he stumbled a little. The two inches he’d grown in the past year had made him as gangly as Pinocchio, not quite able to work the long limbs he’d suddenly gotten.
How she missed the old David. They used to