PART TWO
CHAPTER 5
MELISSA
Lonesome is no Chicago.I know this because in the eight hours it took me to fly from Miami to Dallas to Bismarck, North Dakota, I looked for hotels in Lonesome and there aren’t any. There is one bar, one grocery store, one gas station, and one veterinary clinic, but not a single hotel, motel, bed and breakfast, or rental place within twenty miles.
It seems like I’m going to have to stay at my husband’s house. It’s two in the morning. I hope that he hasn’t brought anyone home with him from the airport or things are going to get awkward. Right now, though, I’m so tired that I don’t care.
I never made it back to Chicago after we disembarked from the Tropical Wave. I didn’t intend to come to Lonesome until I opened the package that Captain MacLeod left for me and saw the papers inside. Once I finished reading them, I spent an hour online, switching flights and booking rental cars. I flew to North Dakota wearing a sweatshirt I got at the Miami airport over my Bahama Mama souvenir T-shirt. If it wasn’t for the ski jacket that I grabbed from a box store I passed on my way out of Bismarck, I’d be freezing to death.
I’m still confused about what happened. I am praying that Wade has a clue. When I opened the fancy envelope, I expectedto find a souvenir certificate of our wedding at sea. Instead, I found copies of a marriage application for the state of Florida that had been duly signed, witnessed and submitted to the appropriate government offices when we stopped in Key West on the last full day of our cruise.
It turns out what Josh and Joanie called their vow renewal was actually them marrying each other again. Officially. Since Wade and I insisted on following suit, we had the same legal ceremony. Hopefully, we can undo this mess together.
This isn’t a situation that I can explain in a text. I have to talk to my husband directly. I check the address I requested from Josh against my rental car’s GPS and turn right off Main Street. It’s a short residential road. At the end of it, in a corner lot, is an institutional gray, stucco bungalow that screams “Fuck off” to all who gaze upon it.
“I’m in the right place,” I say to myself.
All the lights are off. A security light snaps to life as I approach the front steps. The doorbell echoes inside the dark house. I give Wade a minute. He’s not expecting anyone in the dead of night. I freeze my ass for another minute and press the buzzer again.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” a deep voice asks.
I turn around and jump when I’m faced with a solid wall of muscle. “Fuck! Where did you come from?” I shout. I’m not worried about waking the neighbors. At this point, I think I need witnesses. “I’m here to see Wade.”
“Why do you want my brother?”
I stare harder at the mountain in the unflattering light. Dark hair, dark eyes, full, dark beard. They could be related. “Mason?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“It’s a long story. My name is Melissa Prescott. I’m Wade’s…” I can’t tell him my news before I speak to Wade. “I’m an old friend of Wade’s. We’ve known each other for years.”
“Bullshit. You should have done your research. Any real friend of his would know that everybody calls him Duck.”
“Honey, I’m thereasoneverybody calls him Duck,” I say. “And Wade will tell you so if you ask him. Is he inside?” My sneakers and light-weight jeans are invitations to frostbite. I need to get into either the house or my car, but the mountain in front of me refuses to move.
“Duck?” he yells.
“She’s fine.” Wade’s familiar voice comes from the shadows along the side of the house. He’s wearing a leather jacket with a patch on the chest that I can’t read in the dark. “What are you doing here, Mel?”
I cup my hands and blow on my fingers. “Freezing my ass off. Can we go inside? We need to talk.”
“We do?”
I stare at him. “I’m not here at two in the morning for shits and giggles, Wade.”
“Fine. Grab your stuff,” he says to me. “Thanks for the ride, Mace. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” his brother asks.
“She’s fine,” Wade repeats. “Come inside, Trouble. What did you do this time?”
“You did it with me,” I grumble as I head back to my car to get my luggage.
Wade’s house screams masculine energy. At least, it does from what I can see from the single floor light in the corner of the living room. The walls are gunmetal gray. His furniture is black leather, the side tables, chrome and slate. Three walls are dominated by a massive television, an even bigger window, and a photo gallery that would take hours to explore.
“I want to go to bed, Mel. It’s been a long-ass day. I don’t know why you’re here, but it must be an emergency,” Wade says. “How vital is this?”
