Free Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) by Gina Ardito

that hot, hot voice stopped me cold.
    “Where you going, Terri? Would you like a little company?”
    I turned, stunned. “Huh?”
    He strode toward me, all charm and cool confidence. When he was close enough to breathe the same air I did, he murmured, “I’m not good with these things yet. The ‘after’ part makes me uncomfortable.”
    Yeah, I imagined it would. “I can understand that,” I said, though, honestly, what would I possibly know about being a mega-celebrity?
    “Maybe you and I can go someplace quiet, private . Maybe grab a quick bite and something besides coffee to drink? Non-alcoholic, of course.”
    “I own a tea shop,” I heard myself say. “It’s closed to the public right now, but I’ve got the keys.”
    “That’d be perfect.” His smile, blinding white in that gorgeous face, knocked my heart to its knees. “Would you mind very much?”
    “Not at all.”
     
    ♥♥♥♥
    Jayne
     
    I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the news van parked outside my house the next morning. Oddly, though, I was surprised. I barely stepped onto the porch in the early morning light before a well-dressed, well-coiffed woman with a microphone in her fist and a less put-together man in a hoodie and jeans, holding a television camera on one shoulder, blocked my path. They must’ve hidden in the hedgerow near my side yard, waiting for my appearance. Awesome.
    “Dr. Herrera,” the woman said, “do you have anything to say regarding Mr. Pittman’s death?”
    I didn’t answer, forging forward with my head down, like a football player determined to reach the goal line while the opposing team tried to stop him.
    “Any comment regarding his final allegations against you?”
    More allegations? What lies were left for him to spew about me? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to entertain whatever fantasy he’d dreamed up this time around. I head-faked left, then dodged right to bypass the news couple. “No comment.”
    I raced down the steps and to my noble steed, a tan, non-descript Jeep Grand Cherokee, which waited patiently in the driveway. The cameraman and dogged reporter remained on my heels until I climbed inside, started the engine and rode out of the driveway. From my rearview mirror, I watched them change direction, cutting across my lawn to reach their van. I knew, within minutes, they’d be on my tail. I took the left on Schooner Drive, leaving my neighborhood behind. All the while I drove, my heart pounded and, even with the window open to welcome the brisk November breeze, sweat trickled down my back. When a red light stopped me on Main Street, I grabbed my cell out of my purse and, with shaky hands, hit the office number. This morning, Becky answered.
    “Tell Dr. Bautista the storm’s on its way,” I said and disconnected as the light turned green. He’d know what I meant. We’d made contingency plans when I first arrived.
    While I took the long way to work to give him extra time, he’d gather the staff together and explain the situation. I’d granted him leeway to tell them the whole truth, if he thought they needed to hear it. I dreaded having to rehash the entire tragedy, but with luck, Dom’s explanation would suffice.
    I checked my rearview mirror, saw the news van a few car lengths back. Okay, kids, let’s have some fun. I would’ve loved to run some dull errands while I drove around—pick up the dry cleaning, return my overdue library books—but I didn’t dare get out of the car until I got to work. Not without backup, and certainly not in a public place. Bad enough the next few weeks would cast a pall over Dom’s business, even if he had insisted he could weather the storm. I certainly hoped so. For my new news crew friends, I opted to become a local tour guide. I drove around the parking lot near the lake where, according to a historical tablet on the spot, George Washington once assembled troops to fight the British. From there, I headed to the Oliver Homestead, the