Page 55

The shards hit the trash with a hollow clatter. She scattered parmesan across the top of the lasagna and slid the pan into the oven. Despite her mess of a past, she recognized Caleb’s goodness. And Ben’s. And Zach’s.
Whatever had torn this family apart could be mended.
She could help. One last gift before she had to leave—a thank you for all they’d done for her. For how welcoming they’d been.
If the medical clinic offered her a permanent position once her contract was up, she’d gladly stay and make this her home. Despite the hardships, this was a true community—people who looked out for one another. A part of her envied that. Wanted to belong.
But it would never happen. Because Vincente would never let her go.
Her nerves jangled. Not for the first time, she wished for a glass of wine. Or two. But she followed the rules of the rez and kept no alcohol in the house. She’d had to find healthier ways to cope—ways that didn’t involve drowning fear and guilt in a bottle.
Wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, she glanced at the clock and hustled to the bathroom to freshen up. The makeup she’d applied before work had long since vanished. She cleaned her face. Added foundation. Blush. Smoky eye shadow that accentuated the blue of her irises. Kohl liner and two coats of mascara.
Armor.
She had a feeling she’d need it tonight.
A swipe of fiery red lipstick.
Done.
Her Miami face stared back from the mirror.
She shuddered, her stomach cramping.
Without another thought, she smeared on cleansing balm and scrubbed. Each stinging swipe of the washcloth, punishment. When she finished, she applied a sheer layer of tinted moisturizer to mute the redness.
A swipe of lip gloss. That was enough.
With a final mirror check, she brushed out her hair until it gleamed, changed into jeans and a blue knit top, then went to check on the lasagna.
Her doorbell rang. Six-thirty on the dot.
She wiped sweaty palms on the kitchen towel and opened the door.
Caleb stood on the steps. He’d swapped out his black trousers for jeans. His white button down opened at the collar beneath the black suit coat he’d worn to his mother’s funeral. Gia mapped the firm line of his clean-shaven jaw, the strong tanned column of his throat, his broad chest—and the bouquet of yellow, orange, and purple flowers in his hand.
“These are for you.” He thrust them at her, then dropped his gaze to his boots, hands shoved into his pockets.
She barely hid a grin.How sweet.
“Thank you. They’re lovely.” She stepped aside to let him in.
Vincente used to flood her with flowers—orchids, lilies, and roses delivered daily. Their sweet, overpowering scent still haunted her dreams.
These flowers were different. Desert blooms. She didn’t know their names, but had seen them growing wild in the area.
Caleb smelled like clean skin and sandalwood and spice. More intoxicating than the wine she’d been longing for.
Her body flooded with warmth. She buried her nose in the flowers, to hide the flush heating her cheeks. They carried a faint perfume oforange blossom and—she sniffed the spike of vibrant purple blossoms with yellow and white markings—grape soda?
“I’ll put these in water.” Rooting through her cabinet, she found a tall plastic lemonade cup from the Navajo Nation Fair, filled it with water, and placed the flowers on the table.
He bent to peer through the oven glass door. “Looks and smells incredible.”
She caught herself admiring the taut muscles of his backside. “My mother said it was her lasagna that had men lining up to marry her.”
Too bad her choice of men sucked.