Page 21 of Right Number, Wrong Man

HAILEY

Sara Jean hugs me and I inhale the sweet, nutty smell of pecan pie clinging to her perfectly styled blond hair. It’s my favorite dessert when I visit the Walkers, and knowing her, I bet she made it especially for me.

“Hun, I’m so glad to see you again. It’s been too long,” Sara Jean says, her eyes misting up.

Tears burn the back of my nose. I sniffle.

Everyone is terribly nice to me today. First Colt gave me the signed DVD—the best gift ever—and now his mom is being her kind self.

She wears a bright pink blush on her cheeks and matching lipstick, but I can tell how exhausted she is beneath the facade. I’m not cut up about Mike’s death, but seeing what it’s done to her is a dagger to my heart.

Fuck, I was a self-absorbed bitch wallowing in my guilt instead of being there for her. Ignoring her calls makes me a total asshole.

I choke down a sob. The last thing I deserve is understanding and Sara Jean should be mad at me, but she’ s not.

She tucks some hair behind my ear. “Oh my, you’re wearing the earrings I sent for your birthday! I knew the turquoise would look great on you.”

“I love t-them! You got my thank you card, didn’t you?” I stammer.

Sara Jean nods, smiling warmly. “I did.”

I stall, working up the courage to say the important stuff. “Sorry for not taking your calls or answering your texts. I’m not trying to make excuses, but it’s been… been?—”

My lips move, but the words lodge in my throat like a ball of razor wire.

I can’t tell the truth about the breakup. And I can’t say that I’ve been feeling guilty for not mourning more. For moving on with my life, because mentally, I moved on from my marriage long ago when Mike stopped paying attention to me beyond petty insults.

Sara Jean puts a kiss on my cheek and I let out a hitched sob.

“Hailey Grace, sweetheart, you don’t have to explain yourself.

Everybody grieves their own way and you needed a little extra time for yourself.

We’re just glad you’re back here with us now.

” She leans in to whisper in my ear. “And if you ever need somebody to talk to, you can call me anytime, alright?”

All I manage is a choked-up nod before my gaze meets Colt’s. He’s standing behind his mother and his expression is soft. So soft, I can’t believe it’s real. I can’t believe it’s Colt. And then he smiles again. A small, understanding smile I thought he wasn’t capable of.

When his chin dips subtly in approval, my heart lifts. Normally, I don’t care what he thinks of me, but when it comes to his parents, it’s a different matter .

Sara Jean gently guides me toward the house, patting my hand. “Don’t be mad at Colton. It’s my fault he roped you into visiting tonight. He only did what his momma told him.” She winks over her shoulder and Colt grumbles.

Warmth radiates through my chest as we walk through the front door. This feels like coming home, but it’s not just because I grew up in this neighborhood. Most people from back then have moved away to bigger cities like Burtonville, anyway.

Until this moment, I didn’t realize how badly I missed this house and the people living in it.

The scent of roasted meat and vegetables fills my nose and my mouth waters. “That smells delicious,” I say.

“For the special occasion, I thawed a turkey from Colt’s spring hunting trip,” Sara Jean says, already halfway to the kitchen. “Y’all go and sit down, have a drink. I just finished setting the table.”

“Wait!” I cut in and she stops in the doorway. Her expectant expression has emotions swelling in my throat, but I force the words out. “First, I owe you and Earl a proper apology for not dropping by sooner and?—”

“In this house, you ain’t gotta apologize for nothin’, darlin’,” a gruff, deep voice booms out of the living room. Colt’s father Earl appears in the doorway, hat pressed to his chest and a pair of gardening gloves sticking out from his pocket.

Earl’s drawl is even thicker than Colt’s but I’ve gotten used to it. When I first heard Mike’s neutral newscaster accent, I couldn’t believe he grew up in the same house. Makes sense, though. Mike never wanted to be seen as part of his Southern family.

“We knew you’d come around in your own time,” Earl adds, running a hand over his short, grey hair .

My knees wobble with relief. The Walkers don’t blame me for Mike’s death, and they don’t expect me to grieve in any specific way.

A smile breaks across my face. “Hi, Earl. And uh… thank you.”

The mountain of a man puts his hat on a rack by the door before approaching me. He wraps me in a hug that smells of freshly mowed grass and sun warm soil, gently patting my back before letting go. Then he nods at Colt and holds out a hand. “Son.”

Colt takes off his hat before they shake. “Sir.”

I hold back a laugh. To a stranger who didn’t grow up around these two men and their rituals, the scene might look cold. But I don’t miss the twinkle of affection in their eyes and the trickle of warmth in their voices. It was the same every time Earl came back from a deployment.

I also don’t miss that Sara Jean’s smiles aren’t as bright as they were before Mike’s death or that Earl looks like he’s aged a decade since the funeral. But despite their grief, they’re trying to honor the memory of their son by living life to the fullest.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help?” I yell into the kitchen.

“Relax a little, honey. The food is almost ready,” Sara Jean shouts back.

While Colt hangs up his hat next to his dad’s, Earl gestures for me to walk into the dining room and I do.

I smile as I look over the colorful plates hung up on the far wall.

My gaze catches on my favorite, an oval plate with a scalloped edge and pale pink wildflowers on it.

Sara Jean inherited it from her great grandmother, or so I was told.

My eyes prickle when I realize I know the story behind every plate.

I know which one Earl’s mother gave Sara Jean for their wedding. It’s the one with the turkeys on it. I know which one Sara Jean bought when Colt was born. The one with the blue ribbons.

And I know I’ll never skip another monthly family dinner because my heart is so much lighter around these wonderful people. It is a little strange to see the table decked for four people instead of five, though.

Earl pulls out a chair for me and when I sit, he pushes it in softly. If I looked up the definition of Southern gentleman in the dictionary, I’d find a picture of Earl Walker. Pity none of that rubbed off on ice king Colt.

“Thank you, Earl.”

“You’re welcome, darlin’.” He takes my glass, shaking up the ice and lemon slices inside before he pours sweet tea from a pitcher. “Want a lil kick in it?”

“You’re driving, right?” I ask, looking at Colt for confirmation.

Colt gives a nod, his stoic silence emphasized by the clattering of pots and plates from the kitchen. Since we arrived, he’s back to being the stuck-up, cold bastard I know. Our friendly conversation in the car feels like it never happened.

I turn to Earl. “Then yes, please! I could use a drink.”

From a wooden bar cart, Earl grabs a bottle of bourbon and generously tops off my sweet tea. Then he pours another two glasses of neat bourbon and offers one to Colt. “One won’t hurt ya.”

Colt takes it and the two men grumble appreciatively at each other. They have so much in common, it’s adorable.

“Are your folks still enjoyin’ Florida?” Earl asks me.

“For sure! They love the sunshine and they made lots of friends in their retirement community. Dad has taken up tai chi and Mom joined a gardening club. ”

To show her neighbors how to grow the best weed , is the part I leave out.

Earl is a sweet man, but he’s also strait-laced as hell. I still get shivers remembering his temper when he first found out Mike was doing oxy in high school. Gun waving, he chased him out of the house. My parents let Mike stay in our guest room until he was clean—or claimed to be, at least.

Little did I know it would never last.

“Well, tell Linda and Tommy that we miss ‘em up here but we’re glad to hear they’re happy,” Earl continues. “And how’re you? I hope Colt is takin’ good care of you.”

“What?” I spit.

Colt tosses his bourbon back. Our gazes meet across the rim of his glass and my stomach jumps like I’m on a rollercoaster. He’s never looked at me like this, with such heat.

Earl scoffs and sits down next to Colt, swirling his drink as he speaks.

“When you were kids, Sunridge Hollow was safe. Addicts and drug dealers didn’t murder people in cold blood.

And now we’ve got a serial killer a stone’s throw away from the state line!

Can’t say I’m happy Colt put the brakes on his career, but at least he can protect you while he’s here.

Time’s almost up, though.” He claps a hand on Colt’s back.

Colt’s jaw twitches. I tense, too. Hopefully this won’t turn into another argument about the hardship discharge.

The topic has been a sore spot between them since Colt returned to town last Christmas.

Sara Jean was the driving force behind getting Colt home for Mike’s sake, fearing his addiction was finally spiraling fully out of control.

Even though Earl relented and eventually supported the decision, he made it abundantly clear he would’ve preferred if Colt put his career first .

Watching the two men glare at each other, I anxiously nurse my sweet tea. It’s delicious, ice cold, and the alcohol slightly helps to release the knots in my shoulders.

“I’m okay, Earl,” I speak up, trying to defuse the situation. “I don’t need anyone to protect me. You know I live across from the Retro Reel and I don’t really go out for fun after dark. I’m more of the couch potato type. So there’s no need to?—”

Colt slams his empty glass on the table, staring down his father. “I am protectin’ Hailey and I ain’t lettin’ anybody hurt her.” His voice is low and rough, almost a growl.

Fire fans across my face. What’s with his protective tone? He probably just wants to put his dad’s worries at ease.

“Speaking of which,” Colt continues, calmer now. “I promised Hailey that I’ll teach her how to shoot.”

I nearly choke on my drink. Fuuuuuuck, he hasn’t forgotten about that!

“Great idea.” Earl gives a satisfied nod, sipping his bourbon.

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, because that would be rude in front of Earl. Still, I’m not too keen on spending a day at the range with loaded guns and a sniper who hates me. He probably knows how to dispose of a body, too.

Black ops soldiers know that sort of stuff, right? Torture. Murder.

And he does hate me, right? The DVD doesn’t make the prank and years of animosity go away.

“Before I forget, son, could you search the shed for the leftover paint we used for the fence?” Earl asks. “I already looked for it, but I couldn’t find shit in there and with my bad back, liftin’ all those boxes ain’t a picnic. ”

Colt hums, already getting up. “I could grab it now before?—”

Sara Jean comes in from the kitchen and puts a big bowl of potato salad in the center of the table. “Wait until after dinner.”

Colt sits back down. “Yes, ma’am.”