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“I’ll think about it,” I finally say. “And thank you.”

“Ah.” She rubs a palm on my back. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

For the rest of Archie’s cremation, she’s more relaxed and less strange, telling me stories of the two of them, some involving the A-frame on the lake, most not. She cries at some of the songs that play, leading to stories of them at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert before they had kids . . . where theymadeone of said kids.

Two hours later, when she’s gone, she leaves me with paperwork to sign for the deed and a few notes on the house. Though she hasn’t been there, a family friend checks on the place every couple of days. “He keeps the critters fed and makes sure the place hasn’t burned down,” she said with an amused shake of her head.

For the first time in years, I’m almost giddy.

Three

“Scotty!WhatcanIget for ya tonight?”

The familiar bartender smiles, round face and shaved head seemingly widening with his mouth.

“Hey, Ben,” I say lightly. He wipes the bar as I slip into my usual stool at Liberty Tap. “The usual.”

He winks, smile not fading. “You got it.”

I peruse the menu for as long as it takes for him to pour my drink—whiskey neat—closing it and handing it to him after he sets the glass down.

I take a sip, warmth coating my throat as it slides to my belly. “Good as ever.” I grin. “And I’ll have the trout.”

“You got it.” He doesn’t move to leave, eyes lingering over me. “It’s good to see you tonight. You look nice.” His cheeks redden just slightly as he looks at me for something he absolutely won’t find.

It’s awkward; I’m not sure what to say. I could flirt, but it would be cruel. Almost as cruel as what happened a few months ago after too many whiskeys. There’s no need for me to respond because he reads me for what I am—an emotional black hole—and taps the bottom corner of the menu on the bar before giving me a tight smile and leaving to enter the order into the computer.

I blow out a breath and take another sip.

The afternoon was busy, but Archie’s house sat like an intrusive triangular thought through it all, poking at me. Even though it’s only a quick five-mile drive from the crematorium, I couldn’t bring myself to go look at it. Like I needed to mentally prepare for what it means to walk into a house—on a lake—that is technically mine. A house that will set me free.

“This seat taken?” a man’s voice asks.

I answer without looking, rolling my eyes as I unroll my silverware from the napkin. “Don’t see a sign on it.”

He slides the stool out from under the bar and his smell overpowers me—a masculine scent I can’t name—before I glance his way.

I groan at the sight of Ford Callahan’s stupid face. “Explains the smell.”

He doesn’t react, merely drops into the seat like it’s no big deal looking way happier than I am.

Like I haven’t been avoiding him for the nine months he’s been back.

Like every time I see him patrolling in his cop car or cruising in his truck, I don’t consider ramming him off the road.

Like he didn’t make me believe in something better for myself before taking off with it like a thief in the night.

“Scotty,” he says, blue eyes twinkling before he directs his attention down the bar and lifts his chin toward Ben. “Hey, man.”

Ben smiles and pulls a rocks glass off a shelf.

“Ford, good to see ya. Where’s the boss?”

Boss?

Ford grins. “Mom’s.”

Without prompt, Ben fills the glass with ice, club soda, and . . . nothing else? He tosses a cocktail napkin down and sets the drink on it in front of Ford before busying himself with another order. Ford’s eyes latch on to mine like bloodthirsty leeches. He picks the glass up, swirls it around, and takes a slow sip before sucking a piece of ice into his mouth and then crunching it between his teeth.