Free The Welcome Home Garden Club by Lori Wilde

felt simultaneously aroused, self-conscious, and . . . staggered.
    The old magic was still there. Still there? Hell, it was stronger than ever. How was that possible?
    Her hands were clenched and he saw the column of her throat move as she swallowed. Gulped? What was she feeling?
    He had an overwhelming urge to touch her. Gideon stripped off his helmet and stared into the face of the woman he’d loved since he was nineteen years old, and he felt the earth crumble beneath his feet.
    Even though he’d told himself a million times he was over her, he didn’t expect this. If he’d taken bets on his emotions under such circumstances, he would have expected a little anger, some resentment, maybe a pinch of sarcasm—irked, peeved, jaded, wronged. Yeah, any or all of those things.
    But what he hadn’t anticipated was the potent rush of homesickness, immediately followed by a strong wallop of stupid, irrational joy. One look in her startled blue-green eyes, and he was intoxicated as surely as if he’d downed an entire bottle of rich, red Cabernet.
    Caitlyn.
    The woman who haunted his desert dreams.
    He gazed at her sweet, strawberry-hued lips and wanted so badly to crush his rough mouth against hers that he could barely breathe. Even after eight years, he still remembered the flavor of her—fresh, innocent, loving. She’d once tasted like salvation, offered promises of redemption to a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Through three tours of duty in the Middle East, he’d hungered to sup from those lips again, but he’d never believed it could happen.
    Still couldn’t.
    “You . . . it’s not . . . possible . . .” Her face blanched pale of all color and she looked utterly terrified.
    Her abject terror was a knife to his gut. He must look as horrific as he suspected. Could she somehow tell about his arm, even though he wore the prosthesis, gloves, and a long-sleeved leather jacket? Torment wrung him out. He should have followed his instincts. He should not have come back.
    “You . . . you . . .” Caitlyn stammered.
    “Caitlyn,” he murmured.
    “No.” She raised her hands warding him off. “It can’t be true.” Then her knees gave way, her eyes rolled back, her body went limp, and she pitched forward.
    Just before she hit the ground, Gideon caught her with his good arm and held her tightly to his chest. He could feel the erratic beating of her heart, and he feared that when she’d looked him in the eyes, she’d seen that his soul was black as soot.
    C aitlyn heard the sound of murmured voices and realized she was lying on something cold and hard. The overwhelming smell of flowers washed through her nostrils—the soft, perfect scent of roses, mingled with the whisper of baby’s breath and the bold perfume of stargazer lilies. But underneath it all, she smelled white lilacs.
    White lilacs. The flowers Gideon had brought her for their first date.
    Her mind felt fuzzy, foggy. She frowned, tried to think, and then it all came rushing back.
    Gideon.
    She’d seen Gideon standing before her dressed in leather, motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. But it couldn’t be Gideon. Her eyes must have been playing tricks on her. Gideon had been dead for eight years.
    “Caitlyn?”
    The voice calling to her sounded so familiar even though she hadn’t heard it in a very long time. Was she dreaming? Hallucinating? What was happening to her?
    Slowly, she pried her eyes open, blinking against the brightness of the sun. Her head was cradled against someone, but her gaze wouldn’t focus.
    “Caitlyn, are you all right?”
    Noises. People talking excitedly in hushed whispers.
    She shook her head. Her vision cleared, and she saw him all over again, peering down into her face. Her head was in his lap.
    Gideon!
    Eight years fell away. Her heart caught fire. Her stomach churned. Head reeled. How was this possible? Gideon was alive and cradling her in his lap.
    Unless . . . unless . . . unless she’d just died of