things up outdoors?”
Travis had already been a big help in planning the reunion. He’d suggested the basketball game Saturday morning and another tourney on Sunday, and gave assistance whenever she came to town.
“That would be great.” She looked at him. “Thank you for all your help with this.”
“No need to thank me,” he said. “Seems like I’ve been hanging out at Sanders family reunions all my life. I feel like I am a Sanders.” He kept his gaze on her. “And if this is the only way I can get you to be nice to me again, I’ll take it.”
She swatted his arm. “You’re saying I’m only being nice so I can get some tables set up?”
“And a basketball player.”
She tried to swat him again, but he grabbed her hand and held it.
“It’s nice,” he said, “being friends again.”
The touch of his hand stirred even more butterflies. “It is.”
Neither broke the stare, and Libby could almost feel his arms pulling her close. And that kiss that used to drive her crazy. But he dropped her hand and stepped back, reminding her—that was the old Travis. She and “Pastor Travis” could be no more than friends.
He slipped on his shoes.
“Where are you going?” Libby asked.
“With you. Those Wheaties wore off an hour ago.”
CHAPTER THREE
Charlotte Willoughby whisked her blond hair into a ponytail and slid her feet into her sneakers, making quick work of the laces . . . then rethought the ponytail, turning to the bedroom mirror. Sighing, she loosened her hair, grabbed a brush, tamed the wisps, and ponytailed it again. Then looked closer at her eyes.
Hmm . . . where was her makeup bag? She found it, laid out a few essentials, just for a light touch, then paused. Why was she doing this? Makeup, to coach a volleyball clinic at the high school? Except . . . she had a meeting before that, for which it wouldn’t hurt to look decent. Not that she typically got dolled up for meetings either. But this one was a little . . . different.
She went to the laptop on her desk to reread the e-mail she’d just gotten.
Coach Willoughby,
Do you have a few minutes to meet this morning before your volleyball clinic? If not, no problem. We can schedule a time later today or tomorrow. Thanks.
She stared at his signature—Marcus Maxwell, Assistant Principal, Hope Springs High School—and her insides got a little jumpy. Again.
She should’ve said later today or tomorrow would be better. After all, it was last-minute, and she’d been in the middle of researching a job listing for a ministry in Charlotte when Marcus’s e-mail diverted her.
She had an inkling what the meeting might be about; he’d already talked to her before about staying on as a P.E. teacher and assistant coach of girls volleyball. But any mystery surrounding the meeting wasn’t the issue. Since he’d joined Hope Springs High at the beginning of June, just being around him made her jumpy.
She stared vaguely at her laptop screen. Was this a crush? Is this what it felt like? It’d been so long since she had one, if she ever had. Her only relationship had been with Jake, and they’d known each other practically from the womb—their families talked up a relationship between them as far back as she could remember. And over time it seemed a given that they would marry and live out their lives in Hope Springs, like their parents and their parents’ parents. It was the easy thing to do, the expected thing. But when she learned this past spring that he’d cheated on her, ending it was surprisingly easy too. Almost a relief.
Now she was free to follow the stirring she’d been feeling to do life differently. College at UNC–Chapel Hill hadn’t been that far away, but it felt like a different world. New church, new friends, new passions, like serving at a women’s shelter and raising awareness for human trafficking. She’d been praying for a heart to embrace Hope Springs again, but with the breakup, she no longer had to. She resigned from her job at the high school, made plans to move in with college friends in Charlotte, and was praying God would show her what kind of out-of-the-box life she could lead.
But that was all before Marcus Maxwell came to town . . . Not that it mattered.
Charley logged off, shouldered her athletic bag, and descended the stairs. The front door opened as she hit the bottom step, and Grandpa Skip walked