Page 3 of Sweet Obsession (Honeysuckle, Texas #5)

“Jillian Sweet, what in the Sam Hill do you think you’re doing?”

“Didn’t Madge on dispatch tell you to wait for me?

” The sheriff’s heavy boot steps crunched on the gravel of the side path before he appeared beside her, his substantial frame a sudden, grounding presence.

He didn’t yell; he just sighed, the sound of a man who’d seen this kind of stubbornness from a Sweet before.

He gently touched the top of her extended hand, his fingers applying firm, yet gentle pressure to point the barrel of the gun toward the neatly trimmed lawn.

“I know you know how to use that thing, but the last thing I need is for you to shoot someone’s foot off. ”

“Not where I’m aiming.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. Generally, I prefer my B&E suspects alive and able to answer a few questions.”

“As long as I can say the same for Mrs. Kirby.” The sincere concern made Jillian’s voice sound tight.

Images of the sweet, feisty old woman harmed by this skulking intruder prodded at her gut like a hot poker.

“He was breaking in, Sheriff. In broad daylight. What was I supposed to do, offer him a glass of sweet tea?”

“I see that.” The sheriff shifted his focus past her, his own voice hardening into the official tone he used when things got serious. “Alright, son. Hands where I can see ’em. Stand up straight and turn around. Slowly.”

The figure complied, unfolding himself from the hardwood surface, rising to his full height, he raised his hands in surrender. As the suspect turned, Sheriff Brody took a step forward, reached through the window, and with one quick tug, pulled the hoodie away from the man’s face.

Jillian’s world stuttered to a halt. The gun in her hand suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

Mussed sandy blond hair, a strong jawline, shadowed with stubble, and those eyes—startlingly green eyes she hadn’t seen in person since she was a kid, now wide with a mixture of apprehension and weary resignation could only be one person—Blake Kirby.

“Lord love a duck.” The sheriff’s stern expression melted into one of pure, dumbfounded disbelief. He stared for a long moment, a frown creasing his brow as he processed the impossible. “Boy, what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing breaking into your own grandmother’s house?”

Yep. Blake Kirby. The rock star. The boy from her youth whose memory was tangled up with the scent of summer nights and the sound of a guitar. Before he could answer, another voice, chipper and utterly familiar, floated from the front walkway.

“Sheriff Brody, what’s all this commotion?”

The sheriff and Jillian both took a step back, making way for the homeowner now heading up the path with a bag of groceries in one arm and her handbag in the other.

Jillian’s gaze dropped to the gun in her hand and quickly secured the safety, then hurriedly stored the gun in the locked compartment of her handbag.

Coming to a sudden stop, Sara Kirby placed a hand on her hip, and fixed the sheriff with a withering glare that could have curdled milk. “And what exactly, Martin Brody, do you think you are you doing to my favorite grandson?”

Blake dropped his hands, a look of profound, soul-deep relief washing over his handsome face. “Grams! I was so worried. I called, you didn’t answer… I thought something was wrong.”

“Pish posh. I was at the market getting ingredients for your favorite pie.” She beamed at Blake, a vision of grandmotherly adoration, then her sharp eyes narrowed, landing first on Jillian, then at the purse where she’d stowed her handgun.

“And you, young lady. Jillian Sweet. Threatening my grandson with that firearm? Has the world gone completely mad?”

Jillian felt a hot, mortifying blush creep up her neck “I… I thought he was a burglar, Mrs. Kirby. He was climbing in the window. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Well, you’ve got good intentions and a steady hand, I’ll give you that.” Mrs. Kirby flashed a familiar smile before turning her full attention back to the sheriff. “Now, is it now illegal for a boy to visit his grandmother?”

“No, ma’am.” Sheriff Brody sighed, tipping his hat toward Mrs. Kirby, a gesture of respect and surrender. “I’m assuming you won’t be pressing charges?”

Now Jillian understood why the cliché if looks could kill remained popular in modern culture.

The aging woman gave the sheriff a look so potent, so full of unspoken history and small-town authority, it made both Jillian and Blake chuckle under their breath.

The sheriff held up his hands and began backing away toward the street, shaking his head.

“Thought so,” he mumbled, turning away. “You all have a nice day now. And next time, son, try the door.”

Not till Sheriff Brody was completely out of sight did Blake’s pulse finally slow to a normal rhythm.

“Well.” His grandmother turned and sporting an even brighter smile than moments before, faced the woman who only moments ago had been pointing a loaded gun at him. “No point in standing out here growing roots. I baked a pie this morning. Come on in and I’ll cut us a slice.”

Jillian didn’t get a chance to do more than sputter like a clogged engine.

It was obvious to anyone within ear shot that his grandmother wasn’t expecting an argument.

Heaving a loud sigh, the girl he hadn’t seen in what felt like forever waved her hands and hurried after his grandmother.

“Mrs. Kirby, I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding—” her voice carried through the open window.

“Don’t you worry yourself. Any good neighbor would have done the same. The important thing is you didn’t shoot him.”

The front door swung open in time for Blake to see Jillian. Moving quickly, he took the grocery bag from his grandmother as she stepped inside. “Let me get those for you, Grams.”

“Thank you, dear.” She patted his cheek, the familiar gesture tightening his throat. “Put those in the kitchen. And for heaven’s sake, take off that ridiculous hoodie. You look like you’re planning to rob a bank.”

He ducked into the kitchen, grateful for something to do. The layout was as familiar as his own heartbeat—glasses by the sink, plates to the left, silverware in the drawer below. Grams was a creature of habit, which made that disoriented phone call all the more disturbing.

On his heels, his grandmother opened a cabinet by the sink, pulling out a stack of plates. “Set these down on the coffee table in the living room.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come back for the tea.”

He nodded again. Unable just yet to meet Jillian’s gaze, he set the dishes on the antique table and muttered, “Be right back.”

On the counter, his grandmother had set a pitcher, silverware, napkins and glasses on a tray. “Take this and I’ll bring the pie.”

Setting the tray down beside the plates, he couldn’t help but think how normal everything seemed. Nothing about his grandmother’s behavior seemed odd or out of place. Not a single word had set off any alarm bells. So why did he still feel more uneasy than a cat in a room full of rocking chairs?

Quietly perched on the edge of the Queen Anne wingback, Jillian looked like she might bolt any second.

Blake sank into the sofa, the cushions sighing under his weight.

The air in the room still, his grandmother taking her time slicing the fresh pie, he finally looked at Jillian, really looked at her.

The years had been kind. More than kind.

The fiery kid he remembered was still there in her green eyes, but now there was a poised, capable woman staring back at him.

A woman who, he reminded himself, had been perfectly willing to shoot him a few minutes ago.

“So.” Sliding a slice of pie onto a dish and holding it out for her guest, Grams smiled sweetly.

Too sweetly. “Tell me what’s so important it had you flying all the way from California and climbing through my window like a teenager sneaking into a house before his parents have had time to figure out he’d been out all night. ”

“It started the other night when you called to wish me a happy birthday.”

Her brow furrowed. “Your birthday? But your birthday isn’t for months. Why would I do that?”

Her response was so clear, so lucid, that for a second, Blake questioned his own memory. Had he dreamed the call? Had the exhaustion of the tour finally made him crack? But he knew he hadn’t. He remembered every bewildering word.

He leaned forward. “You called at four in the morning, wished me happy birthday then told me you had to get off the phone to cook dinner.”

“Cook dinner at four in the morning?” Brows arched high quickly buckled over her narrowed gaze. “I don’t suppose you were… drinking when you got this phone call?”

His days of drinking and partying from tour to tour were long gone. “No,” he shook his head, “but the call did worry me.”

“Did you have sushi? That raw fish probably gives lots of people nightmares. I mean, really, why would anyone want to eat raw fish?”

This all sounded so much like the grandmother he’d known all his life and loved dearly. But he knew he wasn’t dreaming when she called. Had he been asleep, maybe he would have believed he’d imagined the whole thing, but he’d been wide awake. Now he was more confused than ever.

“Oh, my. I forgot the ice cream.” Grams sprang up from her seat. “I’ll be right back.”

As his grandmother’s back disappeared into the kitchen, Jillian cleared her throat. “I really am sorry about before, with the gun.”

Tearing his gaze away from the kitchen doorway, he leveled his gaze with hers. “While I prefer not to have loaded guns pointed at me, it’s good to know folks are watching out for Grams.”

“Always.” Jillian’s smile was sweet, soft and at the same time, radiant. “We all love Mrs. Kirby.”

His attention darted back to the kitchen where he could hear his grandmother puttering about, no doubt scooping ice cream into bowls.

“You’re really worried?” Jillian’s voice came out low and laced with concern.

“Yeah.” He blew out a heavy sigh. “I didn’t dream that call. She was totally confused.”

“She seems fine now.”

“I know. Which has me totally confused.” He shook his head. “I can’t leave. For all I know, that call could have been caused by a stroke, or…worse.”

Jillian’s brows buckled. “Worse?”

“The call reminded me of a friend’s mom right before she was diagnosed with dementia.”

A small gasp escaped from Jillian’s throat as her gaze drifted to the kitchen where his grandmother was now closing the freezer door.

“She seems fine now.”

He nodded. She did. But he couldn’t get that call out of his head. “I can’t leave now and pretend nothing happened. But I can’t stay in town either.” He raked a hand through his hair. “It would be a circus.”

Jillian’s eyes were thoughtful. “What about the Sweet Ranch?”

“What about it?”

“You could stay with us. We’re far enough out of town that you could stay out of the limelight, but close enough that you can check on your grandmother and visit your parents. At least while you figure out what to do about your grandmother.”

Growing up, the Sweet Ranch had been like a second home to him, but that was back before he and Kade had left Honeysuckle to follow their dreams. Could he take her up on it?

Did he have any other choice? Something was definitely not right with Grams, and until he figured out what, he wasn’t going anywhere.

He sure hoped the old adage was true and there really was no place like home.