“All right, boy, calm down.”
Joanne’s eyes went wide. She stood on the porch of the old Victorian house, suddenly wishing the boards would open beneath her feet and swallow her deep into the earth. Anyplace would be better than here, any moment far better than this one. That wasn’t Evelyn, that sounded like Sloan!
She looked longingly back at the Porsche idling in the driveway, a big plume of exhaust glowing behind it in the light of a streetlamp. She wished she could run back to it and drive far away from this house, this town, and the memories that lived here.
Heavy footsteps approached the door, but it was that voice that lit her anxiety like a fuse. She was positive it was him, and the dog sounded like Gus. She’d been seventeen when she left Hyde Park, the furry white Husky mix just a puppy who liked to sleep between her feet. That was what, thirteen years ago? “Gus, is that you, baby?”
The dog whined and she smiled wide, needing to focus on the dog instead of the human being on the other side of that door. “Oh, sweetie, I missed you so much!”
The footsteps had stopped, but no one answered the door. She closed her eyes tightly and pressed the doorbell a second time. This time it opened, a rectangle of light from the kitchen door putting the figure in silhouette. Still, she recognized him as she would from any angle, and a visceral ache stabbed her abdomen. “Hi, Sloan,” she squeaked.
For long moments, he didn’t move or respond. Then the storm door opened and the dog pushed out, jumping up onto her thighs and licking her face. Joanne laughed, petting the animal she’d once considered her own and wiping away his kisses. The light came on over her head and she squinted against it.
“Okay, that’s enough, get down,” he said.
She straightened and looked back at him. His eyes struck her first, as they always had—an arresting hazel of golden green that was his alone. Thick dark hair settled in waves and curls, and she remembered the feel of it slipping through her fingers as he moved on top of her. He was bulkier now than he had been, more muscular, the change turning what had been boyish good looks into something dangerous and fine. His brow, always heavy and starkly masculine, emphasized the glare he was giving her. She swallowed.
“Jo, what are you doing here?”
“Well, I’m not selling Girl Scout cookies.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at him with a smile, the joke garnering no response. She cleared her throat. “I was looking for your mom.”
“She’s in Machu Pichu.”
“Oh…”Fuck.
“Come on in.” He moved over for her to enter, holding open the door with one arm. She squeezed between him and the doorframe just as Gus pushed past her legs, knocking her off-balance and directly into his chest. His warm body carried his familiar scent straight to her brain. His arm came around to steady her, and she jerked away from the contact, righting herself and nearly jumping out of his embrace. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
She moved ahead of him to the kitchen, so aware of his presence behind her that her back tingled, and she needed to remind herself how to walk. The smell of something savory hung heavy on the air, and her mouth watered, reminding her she hadn’t eaten in hours. He’d always been an excellent cook, and her empty stomach longed for the food that smelled so good.
It struck her at once—here she was, starving and desperate, while his home was warm and full of food and anything she could possibly need. That had always been the dynamic between them, and it pained her to realize not even that had changed.
She entered the kitchen. A dark-skinned man sat at the table, fit and wiry, traces of silver shining in the scruff on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize you had company.”
“Joanne Buckley, Mac O’Brady. Mac, this is Jo.” He sat down, gesturing to a chair at a wide barn-wood table.
“I was just about to hit the road.” Mac stood.
She put her hand on her chest. “Don’t let me chase you out.”
“Nah, this fool was talking nonsense anyway. Good time to take my leave.” He took a black leather coat off the back of his chair and slipped his arm into the sleeve. “Though I wouldn’t mind you putting some of those snacks into a ziplock bag for me, Dvorak.”
Joanne took a seat, her stomach growling as she watched Sloan get food for his friend and say goodbye. When he was through, Sloan brought the tray back to the table. “Help yourself.”
Her nervous stomach warred briefly with her hunger, and she took one. “Thanks.”
“What brings you to town? Is it your father?”
She shook her head. “God, no. I don’t even know if he’s alive or dead.”
“Alive, last I knew.”
“Fabulous.” She looked at her hands. This was harder than she could have imagined. “I was really hoping to see your mom.”
“She’ll be back a week from Friday.”
Shit.
