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  Cover Copy

  Trust is the biggest deal of all...

  Journalist Sophie Shaw is days away from fulfilling her dream of owning a vineyard, and holding on to a beloved piece of her past. Then developer Duncan Jamieson makes a counter offer she can’t possibly beat—until she makes a discovery that could ruin him. Yet the deeper she digs, the more Sophie finds herself torn between her integrity, her own desire for the land—and growing feelings for a man she wants to hate.

  Duncan has his own personal reasons for wanting the vineyard. But he also remembers Sophie from boyhood trips to the lake—and his fruitless crush on her. Sophie didn’t notice him back then, but she does now, for better or worse. He’s hoping to keep it for better—until the woman he’s falling for blindsides him with damaging accusations. With more at stake than either expected, surprises are in store—for both of them…

  “Share the Moon will make you laugh, but has a lot of tissue moments when Ms. Struth makes you feel the pain so badly that you ache for both Sophie and Duncan.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  “Sharon Struth has woven a tale of suspicion, mystery and the complete emotional breakdown of two people searching for love and restoration of their past lives. The plot is refreshing and will definitely keep the reader turning page after page. SHARE THE MOON is a book that restores faith in human nature and the ability to again find love.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Struth has a gift for layering stories within stories while keeping them all connected.”

  —Library Journal

  Visit us at www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Books by Sharon Struth

  Blue Moon Lake Series

  Share the Moon

  Harvest Moon

  Bella Luna

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Share the Moon Moon

  A Blue Moon Lake Romance

  Sharon Struth

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2014 by Sharon Struth

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: August 204

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-563-9

  eISBN-10: 1-61650-563-X

  First Print Edition: August 2014

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61650-588-2

  ISBN-10: 1-61650-588-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  Dedicated to my mother, Joyce Shafer, for your support, enthusiasm, and love.

  Acknowledgements

  I once read a quote that stated, “gratitude is the best attitude,” and my writer’s journey is filled with appreciation to so many people. First, thank you to my agent, Dawn Dowdle of the Blue Ridge Literary Agency, who has made my writing dreams come true. These dreams didn’t even exist until Linda Chiara started me on a writer’s journey with her encouragement and teachings. For that, and Linda’s input to Share the Moon, I offer my eternal thanks. None of this would be possible without the support and love of my sweet husband, Bill, who I thank for everything…including his insights about fly-fishing to aid in research for this book.

  Special thanks to Lyrical Press (Kensington) and Renee Rocco for believing in my book, and my fabulous editor, Paige Christian, who put the finishing shine on my work. A special shout of appreciation to my friend Lisa Buccino for test reading early drafts of this story and to Matthew Knickerbocker, Bethel, CT’s First Selectman for helping me understand the public hearing process used in this story.

  Last—but definitely not least—I want to thank the members of my local RWA Chapter (CoLoNY) for their support and friendship. Writing is a lonely job, but with them I never feel alone.

  Chapter 1

  New Moon: When the moon, positioned between the earth and sun,

  nearly disappears, leaving only darkness.

  November

  The sabotaged kayaks beckoned. Sophie Shaw trod a thin layer of ice pellets on the lawn as she headed to the lake’s edge, where eight boats waited to be returned to the storage rack. The fickle New England weather had offered sleet-dropping clouds an hour earlier. Now, a wink from the sun reflected against Blue Moon Lake.

  She dragged the first boat up a small incline, annoyed some bored teenagers had considered destruction of property entertainment. Growing up she and her friends had respected the local businesses.

  A UPS truck screeched to a stop in front of a row of shops on Main Street. The driver hopped out and ran into Annabelle’s Antiques with a box tucked under his arm. Sophie glanced both ways along the road for signs of Matt, whose new driver’s license and clunker car played to every mother’s fears. Fifteen minutes earlier, she’d texted him for help with the boat mess. He’d replied “k.”

  Sophie’s flats glided along the slick lawn. She gripped the cord of a bright orange sea kayak and, using two hands, struggled backward up the slope. Her foot skidded. The heel of her shoe wobbled for security but instead, her toes lifted off the ground and flashed toward the clear sky. The burning skid of the cord ripped across her palms just as her other foot lifted and launched her airborne. Thud!

  Air whooshed from her lungs. Pain coursed through her shoulder blades, neck, and spine. The ground’s chilly dampness seeped into her cotton khaki pants, raising goose bumps on her skin. Seconds passed without breath before she managed to swallow a gulp.

  Lying flat on her back, she stared at the cornflower blue sky and spotted a chalky slice of the moon. The night Henry died, a similar crescent had hung from the heavens, barely visible nestled among the glittering stars. She prepared for the scrape that threatened to tear the gouge of her scarred heart. Seven years. Seven painful years. She closed her eyes and after a few seconds, the weight of sadness lifted off her chest.

  Tears gathered along her lower lashes. She pushed a strand of unruly long hair from her face. Footsteps crunched on the ice pellets and headed her way.

  “Matthew Shaw…” Fury pooled in her jaw as she resisted the urge to yell at her son. “You’d better have a good excuse for taking so long.”

  A man with cinnamon hair, short on the sides with gentle waves on top, knelt at her side. She studied the strong outline of his cheeks and the slight bump on the bridge of his angular nose that gave him a rugged touch, but he wasn’t familiar.

  “Are you okay?” He searched her face.

  The stranger hovered above. Tall treetops, clinging to the last of their earth-toned foliage, served as a backdrop to her view. A
vertical crease separated his sandy brows. She couldn’t pry herself from his vivid blue eyes, in part stunned from the fall, but also by her first responder.

  For several long seconds she stared, and then mumbled, “I think so. Just a little shocked.”

  A whiff of his musk cologne revived her with the subtle charm of a southern preacher casting his congregation under his spell.

  He frowned. “Does it hurt to move anything?”

  “Sometimes it did before I fell.”

  The stranger’s face softened and his lips curved upward. “A sense of humor, huh? That’s a good sign.”

  “I suppose.” His deep voice relaxed her like a cup of chamomile tea, the balanced and certain tone of his words easing her wounded spirit. Maybe this guy was a sign her rotten luck might change. “So, where’s your white horse?”

  “In the stable. Today I came in the white Camry.” He motioned with a wave of his hand to a corner of the parking lot.

  She pushed up on her elbow to look and a sharp pain jabbed her neck. “Ow!”

  “Careful.” His smile disappeared. “I was on my way over to help when you fell. You hit pretty hard.”

  The heat of embarrassment skittered up her cheeks. Not only had he witnessed her spastic aerobics, but she never played the distressed-damsel-on-the-dirty-ground card. A woman proficient at fly-fishing, who learned how to drive in a pickup truck and who, in her job as a journalist, had uncovered a corrupt politician, should be up and running by now.

  “Go slow.” His request suggested doling out orders came easy. “May I help?”

  She nodded. He slipped a gentle hand into hers. The chill coating her skin melted against his warm touch. His well-groomed nails and thick fingers suggested he didn’t work outdoors, rather the clean hands of a man who spent his days in an office. No wedding band either. He helped her sit and studied her as if a question perched on the edge of his thoughts.

  “Can I call someone?” He blinked. “Your husband?”

  “Oh, I’m not married.” She caught the slight twitch of his mouth. “My son’s supposed to be on his way to restack the boats.”

  Since her divorce from Mike, she’d concluded the available men in Northbridge were as predictable as the assortment at the dollar rental video store, filled with decade-old hits she’d seen so many times they held little interest. This man was a refreshing change.

  “Ready to try to stand?” He took her by the elbow and she nodded.

  Once on her feet, their hands remained together.

  He glanced at them and let his drop. “You’ll probably think this is crazy but—”

  “Sophie?” The owner of Griswold’s Café stood across the street and wiped his hands on a stained white apron. He’d placed the call to her father to alert them about the vandalism at Dad’s boat shed. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She waved. “Thanks.”

  She returned to the newcomer’s gaze, as blue as the deep Caribbean Sea and as shiny as a starburst.

  He raised his dirt-stained hands. “You might want to check yours.”

  Sure enough, her palms carried the same smudges from the impact of her fall. “Hold on. I have something to clean us off.”

  She trotted to her car, hoping the backside of her blazer covered any mess on the back of her pants.

  After finding a package of wipes in the center console, she cleaned herself spotless and peeked in the rearview mirror. Her dark chocolate curls scattered with the freewill of a reckless perm. She neatened them with her fingertips then grabbed her cell and tried to call Matt but landed in his voice mail. The second she hung up, the phone rang. Bernadette’s name showed on the display.

  “Hey.”

  “Is your speech ready for tonight? You’re our star speaker.”

  Bernadette always latched onto a crusade. The first was in third grade, a petition over the slaughter of baby seals for their skins. For tonight’s public hearing, Bernadette had promised everyone the fight of her life. Her special interest group’s concern about the large-scale development on Blue Moon Lake proposed by Resort Group International was a sore topic for many local residents, especially Sophie.

  “Better find a new star speaker. There’s a change of plans.” Sophie readied herself for a negative reaction. “I’m covering the story for the paper now.”

  “You? Has Cliff lost his mind?”

  “No. The other reporter can’t do the assignment. Her father had a stroke earlier today. Cliff wanted to take the story himself, but I insisted he stick to his job as editor and let me do mine. I even made a five dollar bet I’d get a headline-worthy, bias-free quote from the company president.”

  “Do you think you can? I mean, RGI stole that land right out from under your nose. What was it…three days before signing the contract?”

  Those were almost Cliff’s exact words, along with some mumbling about how the paper’s cheap new owner had cut his staff and he saw no other choice. “Two days.”

  “Honey, why would you want this story?”

  “I have my reasons. This won’t be the first time one of us needed to report on something close to us.”

  “Yeah, but wouldn’t some public chastising against the corporate giant be good for your soul?”

  “In a way.” Sophie hesitated then decided to tell her best friend the truth. “Look, this is a chance to redeem myself. Prove to Cliff I really can stick to my journalist’s creed after…well, you know, what happened with Ryan Malarkey.”

  “Mmm, forgot about him. He makes all us lawyers look bad.” A long pause filled the air. “Guess that’s a valid reason.”

  Sophie still harbored guilt from the last time a story got personal and she’d been fooled into violating her hallowed reporter vows. “Hey, on a lighter note, it’s raining men over here at the lake.”

  Bernadette laughed. “What?”

  “Some kids vandalized Dad’s kayak shed. He asked for my help and this handsome guy appeared out of nowhere to help me. Fill you in later. He’s waiting.”

  On her way back to the stranger, she studied his profile. Men this desirable didn’t drop out of the sky around here. Why was he in town? Visitors to Northbridge weren’t unusual in the summer, but not late fall. He faced the water, looking in the direction of the rolling hillside of Tate Farm, the property under discussion at tonight’s controversial public hearing.

  She neared the visitor and he turned around.

  “Are you the owner of this place?” He pointed to the wood-sided shed with a sign reading “Bullhead Boat Rentals.”

  “No. My father runs it with my brother. Dad’s too old to be walking around in this icy mess and my brother is gone for the day.” She handed him a wipe. “They also operate the local tackle shop and Two Rivers Guided Tours, guided fly-fishing trips.”

  “I remember the tackle shop.” He cleaned his hands and tucked the dirty wipe in his jacket pocket. “My family came here for a couple of summers. Close to thirty years ago.”

  Sophie studied him again. Summer vacationers passed through here with the blur of a relay race.

  He brushed a dead leaf off the knee of his faded, well-pressed jeans. “Such a great little town.” He scanned the main street, unhurried and relaxed, then took a deep breath, as if to savor a nostalgic moment. “Quintessential New England.”

  Although she’d lived all her forty-four years in Northbridge, she looked around with him. A few cars parked on the road near a long row of pre-WWI buildings, now housing retailers who had serviced the town’s residents for countless decades, such as Handyman Hardware and Walker’s Drugs. The retail stretch was sandwiched between her favorite place to eat, Sunny Side Up, a metal-sided, trolley car-shaped diner and the weathered façade of Griswold’s Café. The popular hangout for waterfront meals had a karaoke night the locals rarely missed.

  She examined his profile again. Surely she hadn’t forgotten someone with such a sexy full lower lip and strong chin?

 
“I can’t imagine anybody being unhappy here,” he said, his tone quiet.

  She held in the urge to retort with a cynical remark. Every time she stuck a foot out of town, circumstances jerked her back. “Too bad you picked today to return. Most of our visitors enjoy the warmer weather.”

  “I’m house hunting.”

  “Oh. Well, we have a lot of summer residents.”

  “I want a year-round place.”

  The absent wedding ring held renewed interest. “Where are you from?”

  “Manhattan.”

  She adjusted her crooked scarf. “Living here will be a big change.”

  “I know. I’ve always loved this place, though.” He reached out and tenderly brushed a leaf off Sophie’s shoulder. His gaze flowed down her body like a slow trickle of water.

  An unexpected burn raced up her cheeks.

  He lifted his brows. “Hey, I never knew the lake went by another name. The town website said the original name came from an old Native American word.”

  She nodded. “Puttacawmaumschuckmaug Lake.” The long name rolled off her tongue with ease, the pronunciation a rite of passage for anyone born and raised around the body of water. “It either means ‘at the large fishing place near the rock’ or ‘huge rock on the border.’”

  “What?” He chuckled. “Puttamaum…”

  She shook her head and repeated the difficult word.

  “Puttacawsch—”

  “Nope. It’s a toughie. That’s why a reporter who visited here at the turn of the century suggested in his column we change the name. He said the water’s beauty was as rare as a blue moon, and the phrase stuck.”