by Candis Terry
The only thing she could be assured of was there would be no bizarre-slogan T-shirts to sort through. The only T-shirt she owned was the long-sleeved SWEET HIGH SCHOOL SCORPIONS one Jackson had loaned her the day a bunch of kids had gone to the creek to swim in the man-made pool the Wilder brothers had constructed from rock. By nightfall, she’d gotten cold, and Jackson had handed over his shirt while he sat by the campfire—bare-chested—with his arm around busty Bridget Hunter.
Wonder whatever happened to her?
And why was she thinking of Jackson again?
With another woman.
Good grief.
All this organizing, decision making, and reminiscing had made her thirsty. Abby went into the kitchen and reached into the refrigerator. She pushed aside the flavored water and grabbed the liter-sized bottle of Dr Pepper—Jackson’s favorite soft drink. She didn’t know why she’d bought it. It wasn’t her favorite soft drink. And yet somehow it had ended up in her grocery cart.
And why did he keep popping up in her mind?
Deep in denial, she twisted off the cap, poured some into a glass, and took a long drink. The sugary liquid splashed into her empty stomach, and she realized she’d been too busy to eat all day. Maybe she should whip up something before she delved into the rest of her parents’ load-o-crap.
A knock on the front door diverted her attention. Too much to hope a pizza-delivery guy had read her mind, she supposed.
She opened the door. Surprise forced her to take a step backward. Jackson stood on her front porch, looking casual in a pair of cargo shorts and an unbuttoned plaid shirt over a black T-shirt snug enough to display the definition of his wide chest and rippled abs. Below his tanned muscular legs, his athletic shoes looked more on the side of well used than new. He looked amazing and was the last person she’d expected or wanted to see.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He held up two white paper bags. “Peace offering.”
“For what?”
He cocked his head. “You didn’t get a chance to eat pizza at my mom’s the other night.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” She curled her hand around the door and began to close it.
He stuck a gigantic foot in the way. “Not even Sweet Pickens.”
“Barbecue?” The spicy-sweet aroma drifted beneath her nose, and her empty stomach took that inopportune moment to growl. Loudly.
He nodded.
“I don’t know why you keep feeling the need to feed me,” she said, even as the tempting aroma wafted farther into the house.
“Two words—protein shake.” He gave a visible shudder that made her laugh even though she didn’t want to react.
“They’re not that bad.”
“This is not powdery protein. And it’s delicious.” He held the bags up again and gave them a little shake. “Just sayin’.”
“Fine.” Her growling stomach made her cave and step back. “Come on in.”
“Wow,” he said, scanning the piles of clothing and crap in the living room on his way into the kitchen.
“Yeah. I thought I should clear stuff out before I started painting, but I feel like I’m just making avalanches of junk.”
“Maybe you need to reconsider getting some help.”
She glanced around at the overwhelming amount of work to be done. “I should be okay if I don’t get too many projects going all at once.”
He stopped when he reached the kitchen table—yet another surface piled high with stuff—and shoved aside a tower of Nancy Drew books she intended to keep to make way for the take-out bags.
“You know,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind helping. All you have to do is say the word.”
She couldn’t stop her hands from sliding to her hips and popping off a smidge of attitude. “Why would you want to help when you’re still pissed off at me?”
He turned toward her. Even while the blue in his eyes darkened, a smile lifted those masculine lips. “So women are the only ones who get to be complicated?”
“We’re better at it.”
“Amen to that.” He laughed without actually giving her an answer, then set the bags down on the counter and reached inside. “I didn’t know what you’d want so I got a variety. We’ve got chicken, pulled pork, and brisket. Fries and coleslaw and . . .” He pulled out a white Styrofoam container and handed it to her.
She flipped up the lid. “Fried pickles! Oh my God, I haven’t had those in forever.” That he remembered how much she loved the Southern delicacy stirred something crazy inside her heart. Before she even knew what she was doing, she curled her fingers into the front of his T-shirt and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”
He stood stone still.
Oops. She stepped back, prepared to issue an apology.
His heated gaze lowered to her mouth, lingered, then eased back up to her eyes. Without his even touching her, a punch of something hot and electric zapped her from the roots of her hair down to all the interesting places along the way to her toes.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m really sorry about that—”
“Yeah.” He dropped the container of coleslaw to the table, and his arms went around her. He pulled her in and kissed her.
There was no tongue involved, but the kiss was far from sweet. It was possessive, hot, and needy, and it packed a wallop.
Though it had only happened a couple of times in her life, everything inside her remembered how it felt to be in his arms. In that moment, she knew she was in deep. Because there was no place on earth she’d rather be. She lifted her arms around his neck, pressed her body close, and clung to him to keep her knees from buckling.
His big hands slid down her spine, cupped her bottom, and pulled her against him. The long, hard erection beneath those cargo pants proved he was definitely intrigued with what was going on above their shoulders.
A car horn honked reality onto their heads.
He backed away, eyes locked onto hers in disbelief.
Uh-oh. “Do not blame me for that!” she said while at the same time her lips were begging for more.
“Nope.” He shook his head. “That was all me.”
“Look. If you’re sexually frustrated I’m sure there are a million—”
“I am not sexually frustrated.”
Although his expression disagreed, she had to hope he wasn’t just man-whoring himself around town. She hoped that while he might not understand why he kept kissing her, she wasn’t just another one of the many he did kiss who meant nothing. She hoped she was special.
“Then what was that all about?” she asked, wondering just how far down the River of Denial he’d floated.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “I have no damn clue.”
Well, if he didn’t know, how the heck was she supposed to know?
As a momentary diversion, she grabbed the Styrofoam container of fried pickles and sank her teeth into one. He might not be frustrated, but she certainly was. Sexually or otherwise. “That’s the second time you’ve done that and had no damn clue.”
“I know.”
When he sank down into a chair and looked up at her with complete and utter bewilderment, she noticed he again didn’t apologize.
And like a fool, she wondered what that meant.
You are a moron.
Jackson wanted to bash the message into his head. Because obviously his brain wasn’t going to be of any help in the matter. And God knew his friend that lived behind the zipper of his jeans was clueless.
For Christ’s sake, she’d given him an innocent little kiss.
An expression of gratitude. A simple demonstration of excitement over being given one of her favored snacks, which she hadn’t had in a long time. The same kind of kiss she might have given her mom or dad or even her great aunt Tessie who had a huge mole on her cheek that sprouted all kinds of weird shit.
But when Abby had come close, her sexy fl
oral scent had wrapped around him with promises of soft skin, and warm, wet, slick places.
And sighs.
And moans.
And greedy hands all over his body.
When that warm mouth touched his, he’d lost it.
Completely. Fucking. Lost it.
Again.
What must she think?
Judging by the frown pulling those delicately arched brows together, she thought he was a complete nut job. Hell, he thought he was a complete nut job.
He hadn’t come over here to try to jump her body-although it was a damned fine body. He’d come over to try to figure out if there was a way to salvage their friendship. A way to get rid of the grudge that still lingered in his soul. A way to just figure out some things about the two of them.
For most of his life, she’d always been a safe place for him to land. But all these other feelings that kept cropping up on him? Holy shit. Now he was more confused than when he’d walked in. Luckily, she didn’t push for an explanation.
“So . . .” He stuck a wrapped sandwich in her hand. “Chicken?”
She blinked, like the abrupt change of focus spun her head. “Sure.”
“Want to eat out back?”
“It’s kind of a mess out there.” She blinked again, and her eyes refocused. “Then again maybe you could give me some pointers on how to improve the backyard without sinking a couple grand.”
Ah. He smiled. That was more like it. A mundane conversation that wouldn’t make him wonder what color panties she wore beneath those pink running shorts. Something he had no business wondering. He snatched up the remaining sandwiches off the table and left the coleslaw and pickles for her to grab. “Jake’s the one with all the landscaping knowledge, but I’ll be glad to give it a go.”
She picked up the containers, and he let her lead the way.
Big mistake.
Those running shorts were short, and her long legs were toned and tan and . . . His gaze lifted just slightly, and he immediately became happy his hands were full of barbecue. Otherwise, he’d be smacking himself on the forehead for watching her firm ass instead of watching where he was going.
Jesus. What was wrong with him?
Like so many Texas yards these days, Abby’s was comprised mostly of rock and concrete—easy maintenance and drought resistant. When they reached the patio set, he opened the canvas umbrella before they sat down.
“I imagine you’ll be happy to see Jake when he comes home,” she said.
“Really glad. It’s been a while since he’s made it back to the U.S. Pretty sure he’s a lifer.”
“A lifer?”
“Career military.”
“And you and Reno and . . . Jesse weren’t?”
He noticed her hesitation and quick step around any mention of Jared. “Nope. We did what we felt we needed to do. And when Jared was killed, everything changed. Plus it gets too political. Charli’s dad is a general, and she said she barely got to see him while she was growing up.”
“That wouldn’t be good for Izzy.”
He shook his head, took a bite of brisket sandwich, and let the tangy barbecue sauce roll over his tongue before he answered. “The long shifts at the fire station are hard enough. I’ll be glad for Jake to see Izzy again. She’s growing up so fast.”
“She’s a beautiful little girl.”
“Thanks. All the credit goes to Fiona.”
“What happened between the two of you, if you don’t mind my asking?”
He shrugged. “We were never in love. I mean, we love each other. But there’s a difference.”
She nodded, and something in the darkening of her eyes said she understood.
“We had a nice, easy thing going. Nothing serious. Then she got pregnant.”
“And you were raised to do the right thing.”
“I wanted it to work. We both did. It just . . . didn’t.” He still lost sleep over the failure of their relationship.
“We never really fought or argued. There was just something . . . missing. Eventually, we realized we were just meant to be friends.”
Abby picked up a napkin and wiped the barbecue sauce from her fingers. “Maybe like us?”
No. Nothing like them. He couldn’t define them. He couldn’t stop thinking about her—not even when he’d been so pissed off he couldn’t see straight. But here they were chatting like old times. Like all the hours they’d spent tucked up in the tree house he and his brothers had built, solving the world’s problems—or at least their own.
Maybe he felt he needed her friendship again because of all the loss he’d faced. He shrugged. “Maybe.”
She glanced away. Pretended to watch the hawk circling overhead. But he knew her well enough to know something deeper was going on inside her mind.
“That all you’re going to eat?”
She glanced down at her half-eaten sandwich and pushed the paper toward him. “You can have it if you want it.”
They’d shared food more than once, but that wasn’t what he meant. “I’m asking because you’ve barely touched it.”
Her slim shoulders lifted. “Guess I wasn’t as hungry as I thought.”
“Want to talk about it?”
Her gaze came up, and in the bright sunshine, her eyes faded to an icy blue. “Not much to talk about.”
“Isn’t there?”
“Not really.”
“I told you what happened between Fiona and me. Your turn.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin, tossed it on the table, and asked the question he wasn’t sure he really wanted to know. “So what happened between you and Rich? All bullshit aside.”
After several seconds of awkward silence, she planted her hands on the arms of the chair and got up. He sat there while she went to stand beneath the old live oak. Her hands went to the hips of her pink running shorts, and the shoulders beneath her fitted white T-shirt visibly slumped. She tilted her head and looked up into the leaves.
“I saw a robin building a nest out here yesterday,” she said. “I kept thinking it was too late in the year for laying eggs and hatching babies.”
Random? He wondered. Or trying to make a point?
“Guess when the instinct hits home, you have to follow your heart’s desire,” she said. “Even if you’re a bird.”
He got up and joined her beneath the shade of the tree. He cupped his hands over her shoulders and turned her until he could look down into her eyes. He ducked his head. Looked closer and . . . yep. She’d been trying to make a point. “What happened?”
She snagged her bottom lip between her teeth while she weighed the consequences of admitting her failure. Just the same as he had when he’d had to look at himself in the mirror after Izzy was born and admit he could never be the kind of husband Fiona needed. Or wanted. Or when he’d failed to keep his brother from dying. Or Abby from expelling him from her life. With Abby, he’d had every opportunity to keep her close. In those days, his fears and probably immaturity had deceived him into thinking she’d always be there.
He’d taken that for granted.
Above their heads, the hawk screamed as if to say “Get on with it.” Apparently, Abby took the message to heart.
“My marriage was a complete mockery from day one.”
“How so?”
“You want all the ugly details?” She looked up at him, a feeble smile trembling at the corners of her lips. “Or just the CliffsNotes?”
All of it. “Whatever you’re willing to share.”
Still, she hesitated.
“Or maybe you’d feel more comfortable talking to my mom. She’s always had a soft shoulder.”
“Nooo.” She shook her head. “Your mom is on my list right now for being sneaky and conniving.”
“Yeah. She is that. But you know she means well.”
“So did the captain of the Titanic, and look where that got him.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, closing herself off. “Mark Rich married me because he thought I was easy.”
/> She looked up and laughed at the obvious surprise on his face. “Not that kind of easy. He thought I was naïve and submissive—someone he could train and control. He’d just been handed the team from his father, and he needed to prove himself to his new peers. So he had to give up his wild bachelorhood and find someone to settle down with. He needed someone respectable to wear on his arm. To oversee his charity connections. To throw spectacular parties that made him look like a god in front of his business associates.”
“I’m sorry, Abby. I really am.” He smoothed his hands down her arms. “I’m sure when you love someone like that—”
“Love had nothing to do with that marriage.” She choked out a strangled laugh. “He never loved me. Not even for one second. For him, our union had been nothing but a business deal.”
Maybe he and Fiona hadn’t been in love, but at least there had always been genuine affection. Sounded like that had been missing for Abby.
“I didn’t mind handling the parties or the charity events,” she said. “I actually really liked that part. What I did mind was feeling like a stranger to the person who bullshitted me into thinking he cared about me. I did mind that I was assigned to a bedroom on a different floor from the one he slept in. I did mind that he only came into my room when he obviously couldn’t find anyone else to sleep with him. Obviously, I was too mild for his tastes in women which—from what I overheard—often stepped outside the boundaries.”
Mild? That’s not what he remembered about her.
The more she spoke, the tighter her jaw clenched, and the more the anger rolled off her in waves. Abby had always been passionate. About everything she did. And he couldn’t believe someone like Mark Rich could be so blind as not to see it.
“And I did mind that when I got so lonely, and I finally got up the nerve to ask him if we could have a child so I’d have something—someone—to love, he laughed at me.”
“What?” His head whipped around so hard his neck cracked.
“The next day, he locked me out. I found a box on the doorstep with a note saying he’d filed for divorce.”
