And that was all this was about.
“There’s no reason for you to go to Mexico,” Riley finally said. He hitched up one wide shoulder and bent back over the paperwork on his desk. For all that he’d spent the past few years of his life away from the football field, the man still looked like he ought to be out doing something other than sitting behind the desk.
Riley had been considered one of the most promising athletes in the state of Kentucky when his parents had been killed in a car wreck back when Charli and Con were still in high school. If Shame had been any older, he would have offered to handle everything, but he’d still been in high school himself, and in another state. He’d had to run away from school—a pain in the ass that had resulted in detention, extra duties around the school grounds and being confined to his rooms once he’d returned—just to attend the funeral. Of course, the discipline hadn’t meant much to him. It wasn’t like he’d attended the military school out of desire. It had been a welcome respite from his life at home, but he hadn’t been there because he wanted to be.
He had never really wanted to be anywhere.
Except maybe here.
He liked being in the bar with the Steeles.
And he liked being around Charli. Although he shouldn’t.
“Look, maybe you want to give her some room, but I know you’re worried—”
Riley shot him a narrow look. “If I thought I needed to haul ass down to Cancun and drag her home, I would have done that. But Bree and Shawntelle have been staying in contact with her. She needed some time to herself. Guess it’s a woman thing. But she’s actually in the air now.” He shot a quick glance at his watch. “She’ll be home sometime today.”
Shame felt like he’d been punched in the gut.
“She’s...” Why did he feel so short of breath all of a sudden? “Oh. Well. Yeah. That’s good. Guess she’s going to get back to work and all. Be back to hanging around the bar and being a pain in the ass.”
Riley didn’t look up.
Riley didn’t say a damn thing.
“Ry?”
After a few more seconds, the other man shrugged. “Sure, Shame. Whatever. Look, I gotta get this shit done, okay? Appreciate you trying to look out for her, but she’s fine.”
The words, though, rang utterly false.
SHAME COULDN’T REMEMBER the last time he’d been by the house where the Steeles had lived growing up.
He avoided it like the plague, because some of his earliest memories had been of this place...of Charli, then her mom, murmuring to him in low voices as they tended to his back.
He’d blocked out a lot of the ugliest shit in his past, and he was content to keep it that way. But some memories didn’t want to be buried. Those memories always worked free when he was here.
He’d gone to visit the graves on the five-year anniversary of the day Mr. and Mrs. Steele had died and as he sat there, another memory had worked free—how Charli’s mom had once held him while he cried and told him if he wanted to come live with them, she’d cut a hole in hell to make it happen. And he’d almost done it.
But he’d seen what his dad could do to people who pissed him off.
Late that night, after he’d spent an hour packing away his things, he’d crept out of bed, unpacked them and put them away.
He wouldn’t ruin their lives, just so he could be happy. If he did that, he really was as worthless as his father said he was.
Coming back here always stirred up memories.
So, he didn’t come back.
But as he sat in front of the house where Charli had lived by herself for the past few years, the engine of the McLaren 570S rumbling like a caged beast, he wanted to kick his ass up the quiet sidewalk of Browning Street and then back.
If he’d come by here at any time in the past few days—hell, the past week or two—maybe he would have been aware of what was going on.
As it was, he had been caught by complete and utter surprise.
Shame didn’t get surprised.
The bottom line was, getting surprised required being invested in the outcome of something. With a few exceptions, Shame just didn’t care enough about anything to get surprised.
But the For Sale sign in front of the rambling old farmhouse hadn’t just caught him by surprise. It had floored him, and he was still trying to pick his jaw up off the floor.
Charli was selling the house.
That house, where she’d once promised she’d take care of him if he was ever hurt.
That house he’d broken into a hundred times to leave food so he’d know that she and Con had enough to eat.
That house, where her mother had once held him when he cried.
She was selling the only house that he’d ever considered a home.
Jaw bunched tightly, he gripped the steering wheel and told himself it didn’t matter.
Even as he slammed his foot down on the gas and whipped the steering wheel around, he told himself it didn’t matter.
He parked behind the house, a headache pulsating in his temple as he climbed out of the car and slammed the door. Staring up at the worn old three-story farmhouse, he tried to figure out just where this rage had come from, and why in the hell it mattered to him if she wanted to sell a piece of her life.
“And mine,” he said.
The sound of his own voice startled him.
But he couldn’t take the words back. How in the hell could he lie to himself?
Every happy memory he had from childhood could be tied to this place. There weren’t a lot of them and they’d all stopped by seventh grade when it was determined by his sainted mother that he should be shipped off to a proper school.
A proper school.
Word had gotten around what her husband was doing to his son and instead of filing for divorce, instead of fighting for her one-and-only son, she’d shipped Shame off to a military school several states away.
It had, in a way, been the best thing that had ever happened to him, save for when he met up with Con in elementary school.
The years he’d been away hadn’t lessened the friendship. Nothing had done that.
But the happy moments had gotten fewer and farther between, and Shame had been away at school when the news came in about the accident that had killed Mr. and Mrs. Steele.
His last happy memory here had been from Charli’s birthday, his last summer home before high school. After that, he’d stopped coming home, save for holidays when his mother had insisted.
The sound of an engine revving snapped him out of his daze and he moved to the side of the house, watching as a car approached, slowing down as it neared the drive.
He didn’t recognize the car, but the woman in the passenger seat? He’d know her blindfolded, lost in a room among hundreds.
Charli Steele was looking toward the house as they pulled in and for a moment, he could see nothing but the sad smile on her face as her eyes moved to the For Sale sign.
Then something alerted her to his presence and she looked up.
Just as the car came to a stop, their eyes met through the open window.
A shield fell across her face and the smile disappeared.
Charli looked away, effectively shutting him out.
She hadn’t done to that to him before.
Not once.
It was a blow he felt down to the pit of his worthless soul.
Chapter Seven
Charli
“MAN...” SHAWNTELLE put the car into park and looked over at Charli. “If your brothers ever find out what’s going on between you two, they just might kill that man, Charli.”
“As if.” Charli managed a snort that almost resembled a laugh. “For one, while my brothers almost terrify me, I think Shame could eat them alive. And don’t tell them. Also...” She shrugged. “There’s nothing between us.”
“You sure about that?”
Charli studied the man who leaned against the car in the driveway. The car was as insanely sexy as the man—
a McLaren 570S, according to Con, and he’d told Riley that driving it was almost as good as sex. Riley had told Con to quit lying—Max wouldn’t let anybody drive that car.
But, of course, Max had let Con drive it. When Riley had pushed him, Max had shrugged about it. “He asked.”
Riley was too proud of a bastard to ask.
Now, as Max watched her and Shawntelle slow to a stop, she thought about how many times she’d imagined sliding into the seat next to him—and yes, behind the wheel—driving down the road with him, music blasting. Another dream she had to kill. So many of them.
Her heart fluttered at the sight of him, but it ached, too. She’d loved him for so long and she was tired of hurting because he wouldn’t let her in.
She was tired of hurting because he didn’t think he was good enough to let her in.
She was tired of hurting because the one man she’d ever wanted, had ever loved, would prefer to pretend that she only mattered to him because she was his best friend’s little sister.
He’d been using that line on her since she was seventeen. He’d use it until the day he died.
And she had finally accepted that.
“Here’s what I’m sure of,” Charli said softly, watching as Max pushed away from the car, hands hanging loose at his sides, like a brawler getting ready for battle. “I’ve loved that man since before I even understood what love was. And I know he loves me. I can feel it. Sometimes, when he lets his guard down, I can even see it. But he’ll never let himself admit it. And I’m tired of him pushing me away. I can’t carry a relationship on my own, and I can’t build one on my own. So...” Charli turned and looked at Shawntelle, nodding slowly. “I’m sure of it.”
“Then why is he here?”
“Because Max Schaeffer has himself convinced that the only way he can let me matter to him is if he’s taking care of me for Con’s sake. He’s here—he’s letting himself be here because I’m the little sister of his best friend. Best friends,” she amended. “I matter to him, but he lies to himself and says it’s because of Con and Ry. It’s all he ever let himself have.”
“That’s...shitty.” Shawntelle touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Charli undid her seat belt and opened the door. “I should have forced myself to acknowledge this ages ago.”
Thirty seconds later, she was facing Max.
His ice-blue eyes raked her over from head to toe and she had to fight not to react, not to shiver.
She couldn’t afford to show him any weakness at all, especially not now when she had so many of them.
“Have fun in Mexico?” he asked, voice silky.
“Loads. I drank up the sun and the margaritas,” she quipped, shutting the door.
“Hmmm...” Shawntelle sauntered around the front of the car, pointedly walking between them. “You know, as fun as this is probably going to be, I think I’ll carry your bag inside and maybe use the bathroom. Is that okay with you, Charli?”
“Knock yourself out,” Charli replied. She’d asked Shawntelle to come over and collect her mail a few times while she was gone and the other woman knew how to handle the alarm system, so Charli passed her keys and key fob over, never once looking away from Max.
Max didn’t even acknowledge Shawntelle’s presence.
He could be a rude bastard like that—tunnel-vision, caught up and focused on nothing but what he’d set his sights on.
Too bad he’d focused on her for all the wrong reasons.
“Just why did you decide to take a vacation in the middle of your residency?” He crossed his arms over his chest. The ink there danced and flexed with the movement, as did the tattoo that took up most of his neck. Silken hair fell nearly to his shoulders.
A tactile memory assailed her, that hair brushing over her skin, sliding through her fingers.
His hands twining with hers, dragging her arms high overhead.
Tell me to stop, Charli. Do it now...
She should have.
Now she had the rest of her life to regret never having anything more than those few nights.
“Had a few rough nights on the job,” she said, shrugging. It wasn’t even entirely a lie. “Hurt my back, had to take a few days to recover. Figured why not take them in Mexico?”
His lids flickered and once more, he looked her over. This time, it was more scrutinizing, as if he were able to see through her clothes and detect injury, broken bone, muscle tears.
Broken hearts?
Tattered dreams?
Shoving that ache aside, she hitched her purse higher on her shoulder and started up the sidewalk. His body—long, lean and powerful—blocked most of it. He wasn’t polite enough of step out of the way, either.
Instead of engaging in a staring contest with him, she cut around him, stepping into the yard and continuing on her path to the porch.
“Why are you selling the house, Charli?”
This time, that deep intonation of her name, the personal question—it hit deep. Slowly, she turned and faced him. “Because I’m tired of holding on to dreams and memories. It’s time to let them go.”
“Living here is holding on to dreams and memories?” Mouth twisted in a confused frown, he took another step toward her.
She backed away.
Something in his eyes changed, a shutter falling across his expression.
His mouth tightened.
“Nervous around me now, are you?” The ugly rasp in his words sent agony ripping through her.
“No.” Even though she’d told herself she was done trying to make him accept himself, she wasn’t going to ignore that. “I’ve never been nervous around you. No reason to be. No reason to doubt or fear you, either. Why should I? You do more than enough of that for any ten people, Shame.”
Another deep frown darkened his face. “You never call me that.”
“You don’t want to be anybody else for me, and I’m done fighting you.” She lifted a shoulder and looked over at the sign in the yard. She already had several people who wanted to come take a look at the place. Since she was pin-neat, it was probably ready for a showing, but she’d told the realtor they’d start doing those the following week.
Now she just wanted it to be done and over with so she could leave.
“I’m moving to Louisville. I’ve got an appointment to go look at some places there and if I like what I see, I’ll be moving within a couple of weeks.”
“You think you can sell this place that fast?”
“I won’t have to.” She shrugged and met his eyes once more. “My brothers aren’t the only ones who know how to make money, Shame. Now...if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired.”
Chapter Eight
Shame
“WHAT IN THE HELL IS that supposed to mean?”
Pressing the gas almost to the floor, Shame whipped his car around the curves of the lonely, deserted road that hugged the property his grandmother had left to him. The body of the car shook and rattled under him, letting him know that he’d probably have to put the damn thing in the shop again, but he didn’t care.
There were only so many things that could help burn out the raw energy inside him and he hadn’t had any interest in fucking his brains out—or fucking a woman’s brains out—since he’d climbed off the floor and seen Charli under him, shaking and shuddering, her pale skin bruised from where he’d touched her.
You don’t want to be anybody else for me and I’m done fighting you.
He’d told her that he wasn’t the kind of man for her.
She needed one of her doctor types. Or an accountant. A cop, for fuck’s sake. A kindergarten teacher. Somebody, anybody, other than him.
She’d told him when she was seventeen that she wanted him, that she’d wait...for him.
And she had.
She’d been a fucking virgin when he put his hands on her.
But even once he’d figured that out, he hadn’t gone slow and easy with her.
Slow and easy should have
been simple for a man who’d spent so much of his time losing himself—or trying to—in the arms of whatever woman promised oblivion.
But not with Charli, the woman who was a drug in his system, the one he’d promised he’d never give in to.
And had he ever broken that promise.
Now she was leaving.
She loved this little town, loved the house. She loved walking into town on hot summer nights and buying ice cream, sitting down and watching the world go by. Not that she’d ever told him that—that would require him spending more time around her than he’d allow himself.
But he watched her.
He knew things about her she’d never told him.
He saw it when things made her happy.
And she was walking away from it—from the town, from the house. She’d told her brothers that she’d thought about opening up a practice or joining in with somebody in Bardstown.
What happened to that?
But he knew.
Shame had happened.
Throat tight, he hit the brakes and did a three-point turn, heading back toward the main road.
He needed to talk to Con and the reception out here sucked.
She couldn’t just walk away from her life because of him. He’d move...or whatever. But he had to figure out just what she was doing before he started doing shit.
He didn’t want to do the wrong thing.
Or more of the wrong things.
“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face as he drove. The sun was blindingly bright as it edged down closer to the horizon. He’d left his sunglasses back at the house and the light was only adding to his vicious headache.
By the time he got even close to civilization, his car was edging up on empty and he eyed the gas gauge, debating if he could make the drive to Bardstown or if he should stop at the one gas station coming up. Since he wasn’t too keen on the idea of walking miles to get gas if he ran out, he made the stop.
The cluster of cars and trucks in the parking lot was a large part of the reason he hadn’t wanted to stop at this particular station. He’d had to hit this spot before and each time, he’d wished he’d used his head and filled up so he could avoid this occurrence. But Shame only headed for Grandma’s old place when he was in the blackest of moods and those weren’t the times when he was thinking about gas and filling up and avoiding assholes.
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