Rafe started down the steps. “I’d like that.”
“Oh, hey!” Rex called, letting the screen door slap shut.
Stopping, Rafe turned to look up at his brother.
“You know a guy named … Shit. What was his name?” Rex moved closer. “Colt. No wait. That’s not it.”
Rafe stared at Rex, waiting patiently.
Rex snapped his fingers. “Holt. Holt Callahan, I think.”
Rafe did his best to hide his reaction, but the mere mention of his name had his blood pumping faster and hotter. “Yeah. I know him. Why?”
“He’s booked to stay here in a coupla weeks. He mentioned your name to Jack when he made the reservation. Apparently, he’s lookin’ for you.”
“That right?” Rafe shrugged as though it was of no importance to him. It wasn’t. Like his feelings for Bailey, Rafe had gotten good at pretending certain things didn’t exist. Holt Callahan was one of those things.
Rex scratched his chin. “Should I be worried?”
“Naw. Just a guy I used to know.”
“Friend or foe?”
Rafe snorted a laugh. “Who asks shit like that?”
“An older, protective brother,” he said with a grin. “Which is it?”
“Friend.”
At least, Rafe hoped so. He hadn’t talked to Holt in a long damn time. And the last time Rafe saw him, Holt was passed out cold, and Rafe had taken the opportunity to run for the hills. In all fairness, Holt had been the closest thing he’d had to a friend and one of the only people in the world Rafe had ever opened up to about what happened with his old man. Not all the gory details, but some.
“Well, now you know he’s comin’.”
Rafe nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The question was, why now? After all this time?
As Rafe was parking his truck along the curb behind his apartment, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the screen and frowned. It was the same number that had called him last night. He hit decline. Whoever it was hadn’t left a message last time, which meant it clearly wasn’t all that important.
Was it Holt? Was he calling to let Rafe know he was coming here?
He got out of his truck and took the stairs up to his apartment, ignoring the itch on the back of his neck that told him he needed to react to this. The same itch had caused him to get in his truck and head home after the night he’d spent with Holt Callahan.
Rafe managed to make it into his apartment before the memory assaulted him. He wasn’t sure why, but it always came with vivid clarity, bringing emotions that were better left in the past.
“I think I’m gonna head up to the house. Grab something to eat. Want to join me?”
Rafe peered at the friends sitting around the small camper they’d brought to crash in on the weekend. It had become a ritual of theirs. Every weekend for the past two months, ever since summer kicked off, they’d driven down here to shrug off the dregs of the real world for a little while. It had started with only three of them, but more people had latched on as the weeks passed. Now there were seven, and as was usually the case, they’d paired up, with Rafe being the odd man out.
Which was how he’d found himself forming a friendship with the writer who was staying in the house just over the dunes. He’d met the guy the first weekend they’d come down, and Rafe was pretty sure he used Rafe’s presence as a distraction from what he should’ve been doing.
Not that Rafe minded. Holt Callahan was a good guy. More than once, he’d splurged for pizza for everyone, and he didn’t have a problem restocking the beer when the supply got low. For those reasons alone, he’d become a favorite of the group.
Problem was Rafe couldn’t help but feel like there was something between them. Something that Rafe wasn’t sure he could acknowledge.
“You don’t have to,” Holt added. “I can make some sandwiches. Bring them down.”
Rafe glanced up at the three-story house on the other side of the dune. If he went up there with Holt, there was a good chance Rafe would have no choice but to acknowledge the foreign sizzle that he’d sensed on more than one occasion when Holt was around. Maybe that was what he needed. That final shove to help him figure out why he hadn’t stopped thinking about the man since they met two months ago.
