Page 7

Lacey smiled and inhaled deeply. “Love this truck. I’m glad you didn’t sell it,” she whispered, caressing the leather seat.

I knew she loved it. She used to bug us in the barn when I taught my little brother the basics of mechanics, trying to take Dad’s place once he wasn’t around. Every single time, she’d tell us how much the truck meant to her and how cool it was that Carson fixed it up.

Carson. It was always about him.

“This old town hasn’t changed one bit,” she said, watching the shops go by as we turned onto her street.

“Actually, the town population’s grown twenty-five percent, according toPoppy Daily.Might not sound like much, but down at the firehouse, we feel it. Cap grumbles about it, and Doc complains his clinic’s busier than ever. Even Branson says the officers are spread thin. More people means more emergency services needed. We should hire more folks, and the mayor’s trying, but the budget can’t keep up,” I explained.

Talk of budgets—boring but safe. Definitely nothing that screamed,I’d like to show you around the firehouse, especially give you a look at my big hose.Best I kept that to myself.

“Here we are,” I mumbled.

At the end of the cul-de-sac sat her family home. A small Victorian that had once been pretty. But after the fire that claimed her father’s life—and my dad’s as well, both in the line of duty—it became harder for her and her mom to keep it up.

“That tree over there in the side yard is the one Mom and I planted in memory of Dad. Look how tall it is now.” She didn’t move at first, her eyes sweeping over the lot, as if longing for days gone by. “Carson’s done a great job keeping up this place. I’ll have to remember to thank him.”

I snorted and got out. Carson. Carson. Carson.

I ran around to her side and opened the door. She ignored my hand, her eyes still far away.

I lugged her stuff up to the porch. She unlocked the door and walked in, tracing her fingers over objects as if they were memories come to life.

I heard her whisper, “Oh, Mom,” under her breath as I adjusted the thermostat.

“It doesn’t even look dusty,” Lacey said, glancing over her shoulder like she half-expected Carson to be standing behind me. “He could hardly keep his room clean growing up. I didn’t expect this level of detail when I asked him to watch the place while I was gone. I’m impressed.”

Her eyes were bright, and damn it if something in me didn’t twist at the sight.

“Yeah. Must’ve been some real hard labor for him,” I replied, my tone as dry as the Texas heat outside. And dammit all to hell if her perfume hinting of lilacs didn’t already fill the house.

I stood back while she took it all in. The attraction between us was like a one-way street from my body to hers. She didn’t have a clue. Whatever. I wanted her happy—even if it wasn’t with me.

“This place is sacred to me. Why was I gone so long?” she whispered, fingers brushing the framed photos lining the walls.

She lingered over one of her and Carson, about twelve, sitting on a fence, all limbs and grins and cowboy boots. She probably didn’t notice I was in the picture too, blurry in the background.

Suddenly, her shoulders shook again. A sob reached me and grabbed hold, forcing me toward her. My hands reached out, wanting—yearning—to hold her and promise her everything would be okay.

“Hey, Lace…” I struggled for words.

“No. I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute,” she cried, running down the hall to the bathroom.

With a heavy sigh at the door slamming closed, I pushed a hand through my hair. I should leave, like I always had—always watching her from afar. But I needed to make sure she’d be okay tonight.

I wasn’t the guy who’d run out on a woman who’d drunk three beers and then bawled her eyes out in the bathroom. But I was still the coward who wouldn’t say a damn word about my attraction to her, so I let my actions speak instead.

Moving through the kitchen with ease, I filled a kettle and set it on the stove. Found her favorite chamomile tea in the cupboard. I remembered Carson making it for her during the last visit after her mother had passed. I set two mugs on the counter and waited.

“Think I need something stronger than tea,” she snorted behind me, back sooner than I’d expected.

I turned to find her leaning in the doorway, red-eyed from tears but dry—for now. Wouldn’t surprise me if she cried herself to sleep once I left.

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” I said, cocking my head.

“No. You’re right. Tea it is.”

The kettle whistled. I fixed us both a mug with a splash of honey, no milk.