by Skye Jordan
At the sight of the truck, she sandwiched his hand in hers and squealed.
Trace laughed, led her to the back of the truck, and pulled open the doors. He couldn’t have been happier for Avery if she’d won the lottery. Because this café and these appliances were her lottery.
They were all wrapped and taped, but Trace had loaded them so there was space to walk down the middle, and now he lifted Avery into the truck and watched her inspect each piece with the joy she deserved in her life every day.
He could honestly say he’d never felt more satisfied with any job he’d ever done. And while he’d seen this kind of equipment dozens of times, Avery oohed and aahed over every little detail—the handles on the fridge, the knobs on the range, the racks inside the ovens, the finishes, even the goddamned wheels.
She stood there a long moment in silence, utterly still, her back to Trace. “It’s all so . . .” She finally murmured, “So . . . real.” Turning, she faced him, fingers threaded at her chest, a wobbling smile and nerves jumping in her eyes. “Oh my God.”
She piled her hands over her heart and looked at the floor of the truck, her chest laboring as if struggling to breathe.
Alarm wiped Trace’s smile away. In one leap, he was in the back of the truck, tilting Avery’s face up to his, and he found her blue eyes swimming in tears. The pulse in her neck thumped fast. “Baby? What is it?”
“I . . . don’t know. It’s . . . so real. So . . . overwhelming.” The tears spilled over. “There’s twenty thousand dollars of equipment in here. What if . . . God, what if this place tanks? What if I can’t make this work? What if I can’t do this?” Panic cut into her expression. She pressed one hand to her forehead and one to her stomach, like she was going to be sick. “Holy shit,” she whispered, looking around again. “I . . . Oh my God.”
She covered her face with both hands, and when she swayed, Trace was glad he was standing right there to steady her.
“Hey, don’t let your fears run away with you.” He pulled her to him and wrapped her in his arms. “You can totally do this. You have your entire family behind you. I’m behind you. Even if the unforeseen happens, none of us are going to let you tank. But most importantly, you won’t let yourself tank, Avery, and you know it.”
Her warm sigh of relief drifted through the cotton of his T-shirt. But her muscles remained tense, and a tremor shivered through her body. Her arms were curled around his waist, fisted in the back of his shirt, holding him close. Her cheek rested against his chest.
“Shh,” he murmured, stroking her back. “You’re in the final stretch. This is where everything comes together. You’ve done all the heavy lifting—now let it carry you through. You just have to focus on the small details—stocking your fridge, finalizing your staff, and getting the word out about your grand opening. You need to direct this nervous energy into leveraging all the plans and people and marketing programs you already have in place, baby. It’s all going to come together. Have faith in yourself.” He kissed her head. “I have five hundred percent faith in you.”
She turned her face into his chest and rested there a minute. Trace closed his eyes and laid his lips against her hair, kissing her head, breathing deep the soft floral scent of her shampoo. She awed him in so many ways he couldn’t even describe half of them. And the guilt he felt over JT and the trouble he’d brought her at the most stressful time of her opening ate at him now.
Avery finally heaved another sigh, then turned her face up to his. And God, she looked exhausted. Beautiful and real and tough and young and so damn exhausted. He wished he could do more for her.
“Are you up for a hot shower?” she asked. “I couldn’t sleep right now even if I do need it. What I really want is the feel of your body against mine. That is about the only thing that’s going to distract me from the stress right now.”
He smiled and thumbed away the wet path on one cheek. “I am at your service.”
SEVENTEEN
Even with Trace lying close beside Avery in her bed, one heavily muscled leg over hers, his tanned arm across her hips, and his dark head on her white pillow, she couldn’t relax enough to fall asleep.
Her gaze blurred over the worksheets open on her laptop, and she pressed her eyes closed, rubbed at them, then refocused on the screen. She had to squint, partially because of her dim light drifting in from the bathroom, and partially because fatigue kept messing with her vision. When her anxiety started to spiral to a peak, Avery only needed to look over at him and watch his slow, deep, even breaths for a few moments before she magically settled.
She reached over, ran her fingers through his thick black hair, and murmured, “If only I could bottle you.”
He stirred, snuggled closer, tightened the arm at her hips, and settled again. Warmth suffused Avery’s heart, and those damned tears stung her eyes again. She’d gone years without crying. Years living more or less numb. She hadn’t realized how numb until she’d gotten here and old friends and estranged family refilled her life with warmth and love, acceptance and happiness.
But Trace . . . whatever had formed between her and Trace was even deeper. Something altogether different. Every moment they spent together seemed to intensify whatever this was between them. Tonight they’d showered and kissed and touched but hadn’t made love. Trace knew she was stressed and preoccupied; Avery knew he was sore from working on the roof. So they’d taken turns massaging away each other’s tangles and knots, with a lot of thoughtful silence and a few short discussions on her next steps as she jotted notes and framed up the next two weeks of her chaotic life.
It was one of the most enjoyable, most comforting evenings she’d had in years.
Now he was lost to sleep, and she was once again drowning in angst.
“You can totally do this. You have your entire family behind you. I’m behind you. Even if the unforeseen happens, none of us are going to let you tank. But most importantly, you won’t let yourself tank, Avery.”
His faith in her made Avery smile. Regardless of whether or not the faith was warranted, he was right about having her family behind her. And it felt pretty good to hear that he was behind her, too.
Avery drew in a slow breath and released it on a sigh. Scooting lower in bed, she set her lists and outlines aside, snuggled even closer to Trace, and closed her eyes. There in the dark, with Trace’s heartbeat against her side, Avery put together a list of action items in her head, “to-dos” for the next two weeks to support her grand opening.
As she sank deeper toward unconsciousness, something called Avery back to the surface. Woozy, she opened her eyes, focused on the ceiling, and took in her surroundings. Nothing had changed. Trace still slept soundly beside her. She hadn’t even kicked the papers to the floor. But something . . .
A sound pulled her gaze left, to the window overlooking the side of the building. A shuffle? A scrape? She wasn’t sure. Vague, uneasy sensations forced her mind to focus. She pushed herself up on her elbows and listened harder. An engine. A car engine. But her Jeep and Trace’s truck were parked out front.
No, Trace’s truck wasn’t here.
The moving van.
Alarm burst in her belly and radiated outward. “Trace. Wake up.” She pushed his arm off her along with the covers and rushed to the window. The truck was still dark, but it was moving, sliding slowly out of its parking spot, the gravel crunching under the tires. “Oh my God, Trace.”
He was already at her side, and he slammed his hand against the window. “No! Motherfucking sonofabitch!”
He spun and grabbed his jeans from the floor. Jerking them on, he ran for the door.
“Trace?”
He ran down the stairs, yelling, “Where are your keys?”
“What? Why?” Avery stood at the top of the stairs, confused, scared. “What are you going to—”
“You fucker,” he yelled toward the parking lot, then pivoted, and the glare he shot back up at her stabbed like an ice pick in her gut. “Where are your keys?”
“O-on the counter.”
She hurried toward him in nothing but his T-shirt in time to watch the truck speed down the driveway, still no lights on. Panic skittered through her body, tying icy knots in its wake.
“Trace, what? I’ll call the police.” She turned toward the stairs and her cell, where she’d left it on the bed, but kept watching him over her shoulder. “Don’t go, Trace. I’ll call nine-one-one. Let the police handle it.”
“Like they handled that bullshit this morning?” he yelled running for the door in bare feet and jeans. “Fuck that. Call Zane. Tell him which way I’m headed.”
He flung the door open and ran to the Jeep.
“No. Trace—” Avery started after him, but froze, caught between grabbing him or her phone.
He made that decision for her when he backed into the driveway, spitting gravel at the café in an angry spray.
Trace pounded his food on the gas pedal, slamming it to the floor. “Goddamned fucking idiot.”
Seriously? Did he really think he was going to get away with stealing kitchen appliances? Did the fucker think at all?
He caught up with JT within three seconds of hitting a straightaway on the quiet country road that led out of town. But then they’d hit another cluster of curves, and Trace had to wait for another straight section before he could get in front of the truck to try to force JT to slow down.
In the meantime, Trace laid on the horn, hoping to spark even one gray cell in that pea-size brain of JT’s that told him he was caught and all he could do now was pull over. But, no, JT did what JT did best—he played more games. He skidded around a turn and flung the truck into the oncoming lane to block Trace’s view. Rubber smoked on the asphalt, and the truck fishtailed before it straightened and sped into another turn.
“Jesus . . .” Trace imagined all that equipment flying around, his stomach dropped, and he immediately backed off. “Relax. Just keep him close—let the cops catch up.”
Or Zane. Hopefully Zane. Trace didn’t trust the cops to do anything right by him. Especially not with Austin prowling around and Zane off duty. And he couldn’t call and tell Zane where he was, because Trace had realized almost immediately that he’d run out of the café without his phone. Fucking brilliant. But hell, he’d barely gotten pants on.
After another few reckless curves, it was clear that either JT was drunk off his ass, purposely driving to damage the equipment, or both. And if this went on much longer, all Avery’s appliances would be rendered useless. Trace had no idea how that would play out down the line with insurance. All he knew was that Avery didn’t have the time or the money to recoup a loss like the one that JT threatened—all because of Trace.
He was following several feet back, when JT overcorrected for another curve. Trace’s foot jumped to the brake pedal as the truck tipped onto two wheels. He sucked a breath. “No-no-no-no-no . . .”
Please God no.
When the truck bounced back on all four wheels, Trace started breathing again.
Fuck this. He wasn’t waiting until Avery’s dream was dust and she was bankrupt to end this bullshit.
At the next straightaway, he gunned the gas. One glance at JT in the driver’s seat, and the smug grin on his face told Trace exactly what this was about—revenge.
Trace’s mission solidified. He would not be waiting for anyone to end what should never have started. Trace was ending it right here. Right now.
When he had a couple hundred feet on the truck, he stayed in the center lane, slowing JT without allowing him to pass. He realized he would probably owe Avery—or in this case, Delaney and Avery—a car when this was over. But he’d rather owe one of them a car than cost Avery twenty grand in appliances and a solid start to her business.
And just as Trace had come to grips with the whole car thing, JT rammed the back of the Jeep with the truck. Trace lunged in the driver’s seat like a crash test dummy. His teeth clacked together hard, pain shot through his jaw, and the bitter taste of blood filled his mouth. Metal crunched and groaned. The Jeep lurched, hiccupped, and stumbled. That one hit alone had totaled out the Jeep’s worth.
“Motherfucker . . .”
He put all thought of consequences out of his mind. And did what had to be done. Trace gunned the engine, gained a couple hundred feet on the truck, and skidded to a stop sideways, blocking the road before JT had time to build Jeep-crushing speed.
Trace covered his head with both arms, shielding himself from the glass. Time slowed. The horn blared. The headlights reflected off mirrors, flashing against his closed lids. The brakes locked. Skidded. Squealed.
He was breathing hard when the slam of a door made him realize he hadn’t been hit. Trace’s mind clicked on. He pushed out of the Jeep, standing just in time to meet JT’s fist with his jaw. Pain and shock mingled. Trace jerked back, hit the car, and automatically rolled to put his back to JT until he could get his head straight.
“You’re fuckin’ pussy-whipped,” JT yelled, his words slurring.
“And you’re drunk. Fuckin’ idiot. I think you’re trying to go back to prison.”
Trace sidestepped the front fender before facing JT, and when the other man took another swing, Trace had room to move aside. JT stumbled a little, collected himself, and turned on Trace again with a look he’d seen too often in prison. A silent you’re-going-down look.
“Did you think you were going to fence this shit?” Trace asked, trying to distract JT’s slow mind so he could get an opening to take him to the ground. “As if no one would wonder where a fresh ex-con got brand-new commercial kitchen equipment?”
“See, that’s your problem, right there, Hutton.” JT jabbed a finger at him. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart. Always thought you were better than the rest of us. But you’re not. You’re no fuckin’ different.”
JT lunged at Trace, hooked an arm around his neck, and punched him in the abdomen, right over his kidney. Pain exploded in Trace’s side and spread through his gut. The burn, the hold, the punch, the darkness, the cold—it all took him right back to Folsom.
Trace mirrored JT’s hold, locking his forearm around the other man’s neck, and with a guttural growl of fury, Trace jammed his knee into JT’s groin.
JT grunted; rasped, “Fucker”; and grappled for room to take another swing.
Before he got the chance, Trace grabbed the front of JT’s shirt, yanked him upright, and drove his fist into his face. That sickening, flesh-on-flesh sound only dragged Trace deeper into the darkness of his past. He shoved JT up against the car and glanced toward Wildwood, hoping for headlights. For salvation.
Before he could focus, JT shoved Trace back with both hands, and he used his body weight to take Trace to the ground. The bare skin of his back hit the asphalt and burned like fire. Trace yelled first; then the pain stole his breath and gave JT the opportunity to get in a couple of good shots to his face. But once Trace found his equilibrium, he pulled out all the stops.
He rolled JT to his back and punched him until the bastard didn’t have the strength to hit back. Then Trace held him down as lights approached and sirens sounded in the distance. A car screeched to a stop, and the door opened.
“Holy fuck, Trace.”
Zane.
“Took you long enough.” With his chest heaving for air, Trace sat back on his heels as Zane swung out his cuffs. With the headlights shining directly on them, Trace got his first good look at JT. His face was cut and bloody, lips split, eye already bruising. Sickness rolled through Trace’s gut. Had he really inflicted that much damage? To avoid the uncomfortable answer to that question, he asked Zane, “What the fuck were you doing?”
“Me? What the fuck are you doing? Jesus Christ, I can’t tell who’s hurt worse. Do you need an ambulance?”
“Yeah,” JT coughed, “he—”
“Shut up,” both Trace and Zane said at the same time. Then Trace added, “You’re getting nothing but a trip directly back to Folsom, fuckin’ prick.”
&nbs
p; Zane spoke into a handheld radio, telling the deputy on duty he had the suspect in custody and was bringing him back to the café, then looked at his brother. “You need a trip to the ER.”
“As soon as I get these”—he glared at JT, whom Zane had pulled to a sitting position—“stolen appliances worth twenty grand back to their rightful owner. That, you piece of shit, would be considered grand theft, which I’m pretty damn sure would amount to a felony—and your fuckin’ third strike. Take a big, deep breath of air. It’ll be the last you get outside prison.”
Zane jerked JT to his feet. The man leaned toward Trace. “You’d better hope I don’t get out, ’cause I’ll be coming back for you, Hutton. And next time I won’t be keeping my hands off that bitch that’s got a ring through your nose.”
Trace saw red. He lunged for JT and caught his neck just as Zane jerked the man back and out of Trace’s grip.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Zane said in that cop tone Trace had heard far too often during his life. “Or I’m gonna give you back to him.”
Avery was normally pretty good under pressure. She’d had many occasions as a military wife to support other members of military families in times of crisis. But she was, admittedly, not doing so well now.
As soon as the first deputy’s car showed up at the café, Wildwood residents seemed to appear out of nowhere. Some wandering over to ask if she was okay, like Mark, who still hovered nearby despite Avery’s suggestion he go home. Now there were three cruisers in front of the café, lights blinking in the 2:00 a.m. dark. The last to show up, just minutes before, was Austin. He’d climbed from the car and spent several minutes talking to the other two deputies before starting toward her.
And, God, her nerves were already shot. She didn’t have the patience for him. All she could think about was the look on Trace’s face when he’d left. His anger so sharp, so intense, she’d been pacing with all sorts of horrible thoughts and fears and insecurities filling her head.
