Page 8 of Small Town Sizzle

I close my eyes before I turn around and see the redhead staring back at me again. She has a small smirk turning up the corners of her mouth. She looks more relaxed and playful than she did earlier, her eyes dancing with mischief. I suck in a breath slowly.

Wow. What a knockout.

“This is where I’m from,” I answer.

I move past her and grab a bottle of Excedrin Migraine.

“I don’t know you,” she replies, cocking her head to the side.

“And?”

“I know everyone from Hicks Creek.”

“Clearly not,” I reply. “I’m Garrett McCallister.”

I’m being rude, and I know it, but it’s too late to stop. My head hurts so badly that I can barely keep my eyes open, andthe noises in this building aren’t helping. The combination of everything is making me a miserable bastard, but I’m in too much pain to deal with it.

She gasps audibly, and I turn around to look at her.

“You’re Greta’s son?”

“Yup. Did you know her?”

My irritation with her lessens just a bit. My mother was never rude or unkind to anyone, and I’m not being a good representation of her. I inhale slowly, trying to calm the pounding in my head and drown at the noise.

She smiles and her eyes become wet with unshed tears. “I didn’t know she had another son, so maybe not as well as I once thought. I do know that she was an incredible woman and a mentor of mine. I…I’m sorry.” She takes a deep breath as she looks away. When she gazes back into my eyes her sadness is gone and replaced with irritation. “And, if that’s the case, your mother raised you a lot better than the way you’ve been acting.”

She looks me up and down quickly before flitting off.

The nerve of this woman.

“If you have a migraine, alternating cold and warm compresses on the back of the neck sometimes helps me,” she says over her shoulder, almost as if offering a wordless apology for her snarky comment, before she turns on her heel and walks away.

I stare after her, surprised by her recommendation. She’s like a Sour Patch Kid, sweet one second and sour the next.

I groan inwardly before blowing out a breath. At this point, just breathing is making me want to vomit so I will take any tips on how to help this migraine. I look for the compresses. She’s long gone by the time I get out to my car.

I sit in the parking lot for a moment, taking the migraine meds and a swig of the Gatorade. I told that beautiful-but-annoying woman who I was, but she hadn’t done the same. I only knew her name was Maya, but nothing else.

I can’t shake the feeling that I know her from somewhere. But I don’t remember the name Maya, and I would certainly remember those beautiful eyes and that gorgeous face if I’d seen her before.

Within minutes, I start the car and drive toward my brother’s house. Once I get there, I’ll find out if I can stay at Mom’s since my hotel fell through. It’s the last thing I wanted, but it’ll do for the short time I’ll be here.

The air feels heavy as I step out of the rental car and onto the gravel driveway of my brother’s house. The modern, oversized brick home looms in front of me.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, the familiar scent of pine trees and fresh dirt pulling me into a past I’d rather forget. I grip the suitcase handle tighter, trying to focus on the task at hand: attend Mom’s funeral, help my brother settle her affairs, and get out of here.

I lean back into the car to pull my prescription nausea pills out of the glove box.

Stupid head injuries.

The crunch of tires behind me forces me to turn. Ethan steps out of his truck, his boots hitting the gravel with a weight that matches the grim set of his face. His arm is in a sling—still healing from that damn horse-riding accident he called “bad luck.” More like bad choices, if you ask me.

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t expect for you to show up to the house,” Ethan says, voice gruff but not unkind. “I thought I’d have to pull you out of that hotel you reserved.”

“Did you have something to do with my reservation not being booked?” I asked.

“I can neither confirm nor deny.”