His Rebel Heart

Every so often, Kyle would ask a question about his father...questions Adrian didn’t know how to answer. Even though she’d remained ambiguous through the years, she knew that Kyle’s curiosity about his paternal heritage was a barely contained bud she didn’t have the heart to suppress completely.

Olivia trailed Adrian from the office into the hall as she headed for the back door that led out onto the inn’s lawn behind her greenhouse. “What’re you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Adrian said wearily. Damn it, she had enough to worry about on a day-to-day basis without a dilemma this size obstructing life in general. “I’ll...think of something. I have to.” She stopped, propping the door open with her shoulder and knee as she glanced back. She noted the way Olivia was leaning against the wall, the bags under her eyes. “Is Gerald home?”

“Yeah, writing. Why?”

“You should go. Have him take care of you. Seriously. You look like shit.”

Olivia frowned over the sentiment. “So long as we’re being honest...does it strike you as coincidence that James is moving in next door to you?”

“What do you mean?”

Olivia lifted a shoulder. “Maybe he already knows what you don’t want him to know. Maybe he’s trying to edge his way back into your life—to be a dad, a man. Not the screwup he was eight years ago.”

Adrian pressed her lips inward, rubbing them together as she thought back to their abrupt reunion. James had seemed as surprised to see her as she was him. Though, could Olivia be right? Did James know something about Kyle already? The thought made Adrian’s heart race like something preyed upon.

There was no way anyone was going to get to Kyle. There was no way anyone was edging their way into her life and taking her son from her.

Adrian raised her chin. “If that is the case, then he can kiss his chances goodbye. It’d take a heck of a lot more than a new house to convince me that James Bracken has become an honest man, much less daddy material.”

CHAPTER THREE

ADRIAN CARLTON. UNBELIEVABLE.

After the movers left him alone with the boxes and furniture, James went over to the little cottage next door. It was a charming yellow clapboard house with a well-tended yard and picket fence. He knocked on the red-painted door a few times, then returned home, disappointed, when no one answered.

She must have gotten home late that night. He hadn’t seen or heard a car pull in. And she must have left early the next morning, too, because after he rose, showered and had what he could find for breakfast in the nearly empty pantry, he’d gone over again to knock. No answer.

Put off by the fact that she had evaded him again, James got in his sportster and drove into town. The garage on Section Street was another work in progress. Still, it was in better shape than the house. It was an old service station in desperate need of a paint job and some TLC. James had wanted it from the moment he heard it was for sale.

He’d already had several of his old cars brought down from North Carolina, some favorites he had collected over the years of good fortune. He pulled in next to the cherry-red Shelby he had bought to replace the one his father owned—the one James had plowed hood first into the office of Carlton Nurseries. As he got out of the sportster and walked around the Shelby, his hand automatically reached out to graze the restored hood. He veered around the tow truck the previous garage owner had generously left him and, digging the keys from the pocket of his worn jeans, rounded the front of the building.

Bending over, he unlocked the latch at the bottom of the steel door and, grabbing it from the bottom, shoved it up over his head. The door rolled up and bright morning sunlight spilled into the garage, revealing the automotive and mechanic’s tools James had already started to arrange around the room. Taking off his sunglasses, he moved past rolling toolboxes, a couple of jacks, the electric car lift he’d recently spent a weekend installing and even a rough-hewn table covered in wrenches, wipe rags and the Corvette engine he had finally finished restoring after starting the project with his father in his early teens.

James had kept the engine around for luck, mostly. Over the years, it had served him well. He would need that luck to get his fledgling small business off the ground. And it also reminded him of why he had bought the run-down garage in the first place. Back in those early, simple days of adolescence when Zachariah Bracken had still been alive, father and son had talked about opening a garage together when James grew up.

His father might have given up alcoholism and tinkering with boats and automobiles to devote his life to God and join the ministry. James, however, had held on to that dream, and it had never really left him. Not even after his father passed away and James buried himself in seedy, reprehensible pursuits to get away from that reality.

His father was long gone. And those shady years after had left their mark. But James still had a love for cars and all things automotive. His passion and knack for mechanics had served him as well as the lucky Corvette engine through the years. He was to the point in his life where he didn’t need money or cars anymore—he had plenty of both. What he needed now was closure. Peace. He had a good sense that launching Bracken Mechanics in Fairhope, the place he began, would be a big step in that direction.

As he set the duffel he’d brought from the house on the work counter beside the dusty screen of his service computer, James caught himself scrubbing a hand over his sternum and the wooden cross that hung beneath his black T-shirt. A tinge of regret flared to life in his chest. He’d been meaning to visit his father’s grave since his return. He hadn’t yet found a moment to do it. Maybe some part of him was avoiding the painful errand. He hadn’t even ventured into the cemetery since the funeral—the funeral he hadn’t been man enough to sit all the way through...

He would do it, he thought, squaring his jaw. He just needed a bit more time.

Ghosts. The memory of Zach Bracken was just one of those lurking around Fairhope. His mother still lived here, though he hadn’t summoned the gall to show up at his old childhood home. There were too many hurts to make up for between the two of them, and he needed to mull a little longer on how best to approach that situation. Anyway, James had found yet another ghost staring him in the face yesterday afternoon in the form of Adrian Carlton.

No, he hadn’t been able to forget Adrian. The memory of their summer together was burned into his mind, into his skin. She looked a good deal different, undoubtedly a woman now. She’d cropped her hair short. Eight years ago, it had hung down her back. He remembered how he’d wrapped it in his hands, a thick, red silk rope.

The short hair suited her. It left the fascinating angles of her face to answer for themselves. And answer they did. It made her eyes look bigger, deeper—saucers of dark chocolate. That was exactly what he had thought the first time he’d lost himself in them.

As a seventeen-year-old, Adrian had been built like a waif. Not too thin but with more angles than curves. As James watched her retreat from him yesterday in puzzlement, his eyes had latched onto the line of her hips, more rounded now in womanhood. He’d wanted nothing more than to chase after her, place his hands on either side of her waist and soothe the stark, white panic he’d seen on her face.

Clearly, he hadn’t left things well between them, but James had known that before he encountered her on his front porch. The thought of Adrian had troubled him deeply as he skipped town all those years ago. It didn’t matter that he’d been doing the right thing at the time. The right thing for her, at least. But he couldn’t understand the sheer level of terror that confronting him again had obviously caused her. Anger would have been a great deal more justified and characteristic of the Adrian he’d known. But fear? James couldn’t make sense of that.

He needed to make sure she was okay. Hell, he needed to know how life had treated her. When he decided coming back to Fairhope was the right decision, he’d thought of her, of course. Though he’d figured there was little chance she’d still be living here. Fairhope had seemed far too small a town for both of their wild teenage selves. As they grew to know each other over the course of that summer, one of the commonalities that had struck a fast bond between them was the mutual desire to one day put as much distance as possible between their hometown—and the people in it—and themselves.

Thinking about the firebrand version of Adrian he’d known back then, James caught himself smiling. He scraped the back of his middle and index fingers over his mouth to chase it away and turned at the sound of an approaching vehicle.

Sunshine shot off the black hood of the car. James squinted as the light beamed into his eyes, raising a hand to his brow to shield them as he watched the 1969 Camaro Z28 with white racing stripes pull into the parking lot. He let out a low whistle. “Nice car,” he called as he walked from the garage to greet the man who unfolded himself from the driver’s seat.

“Thanks.” The visitor appeared to be in his midthirties with dark hair growing over the collar of his black business suit. As he approached James, he stood tall and straight. “That’s a nice Shelby GT350 over there. You wouldn’t by any chance mind a stranger taking her off your hands, would you?”

James cracked a smile. He looked over at the Shelby, reaching back to scratch his neck. “Sorry. She’s got sentimental value.”

“That’s a damn shame.” The man offered a hand and shook James’s in a firm grip. “Byron Strong. I heard someone bought ol’ Cy Witmore’s place and had to come by to see for myself.”

“James Bracken,” James greeted him. “I take it you were one of Witmore’s customers?”

“Since I moved over from Mobile several years ago.” Byron nodded. “Every once in a while, he’d let me help out around the place. Not that I’m a certified mechanic or anything.”

“No kidding,” James said. “My dad and I used to come up here when I was a kid and hang out with Witmore. But this was back when he kept glass bottles of Coca-Cola to sell to his customers and his old coon dog, Scout, was still loping around after him. You lookin’ for a job? I could use a tow truck driver.”

Byron lifted a shoulder. “My day job keeps me busy enough. I’m an accountant. The other reason I came by is because my sister, Priscilla Grimsby, is a reporter for the local newspaper. She has a business column. I thought you’d like to get in touch with her, see what kind of publicity the two of you can generate for this place. I’d sure like to see it do well again.”

James took the business card with Byron’s sister’s name and number on it. “I appreciate it.” He scanned Byron’s face. “You play any poker, Byron?”

A smile wore into the corners of Byron’s mouth as he relaxed his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. “When the occasion strikes.”

“I just got back into town,” James admitted. “When I get settled in, we should get a game together so that I can repay you for this...” he lifted the card, then gestured to the Camaro “...and for letting me take a peek under your hood.”

Byron considered for a moment before his smile widened. “Sounds fair.”

Byron even went a step further and let James fire the Camaro up. He revved the Z28 and listened to the ponies work, impressed. The two of them drooled over the engine for a while. Byron obviously knew his way around one. It was no wonder ol’ Witmore had let him hang around occasionally.

It wasn’t until Byron closed the hood and stepped back toward the open driver’s door of the Camaro that he said, “There’s already some talk about you in town, you know.”

“Huh.” James could imagine what residents were saying about him. Eventually talk would lead back to those ghosts of his who still lived and thrived. Not just Adrian, but also his mother. His stepfather. James fought off the shadow that thoughts of his relatives brought about. “Word of mouth’s as good promotion as any.”

“True,” Byron acknowledged. “Word is you were the town riot back in the day.”

“I’ll go out on a limb and say that everything you’ve heard is true.”

Byron leaned against the driver’s door and raised a brow. “Even the joyriding?”

“Maybe. Why?”

Byron grinned. “I’m just wondering if I need to be worried about my ride here.”

James laughed despite himself. “If I’m gonna take your Camaro, Strong, it’ll be in a hand of poker, along with most of your earnings.”

Byron chuckled. “For what’s it worth, welcome back to town. And call the number on the card. Let Priscilla fix you up.” He gazed over the hood of his car at the garage. “This place deserves a second chance.”

James stood back as Byron folded himself back into the driver’s seat of the Chevy.

“Anything else I can do, you’ll let me know,” Byron asserted, rolling down the driver’s window.

James frowned. “Actually...how long did you say you’ve been here?”

“In Fairhope?” Byron reached up to scratch his forehead. “Going on three years.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the Carltons?” James ventured.

Byron thought for a moment. “You mean Van and Edith?”

James’s pulse jerked at the mention of Adrian’s parents. “That’s them. More to the point, it’s their daughter I’m wondering about.”

“Adrian,” Byron said and nodded. “Yeah. I know her. Pretty well, as a matter of fact.”

With a frown, James wondered what the man meant by pretty well. He cleared his throat. “I just moved in next door to her. Do you know where she works?”

“Oh, yeah,” Byron said. “She owns that little flower shop on the bay, a few blocks from where she lives. Next to Hanna’s Inn. You know it?”

Years ago the proprietor of Hanna’s Inn, Hanna Browning, had been close friends with James’s mother. “I do. So Adrian’s a florist now?”

“A good one, too,” Byron said. “She does damn good business, anyway. The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree as far as business interests go. Though I’d never say so to her face.” When James only frowned at him, Byron explained, “I do the books for Carlton Nurseries so I’ve come to know the Carltons pretty well. Adrian and Edith don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

“They never did,” James muttered.

“She’s a prickly one. Edith,” Byron added. “I’m assuming you and Adrian went to school together.”

James thought about that, brows coming together. “We knew each other,” he admitted.

Byron watched James chew over the words for a moment. “Well, give her my regards. It’s been a while.”

“I’ll do that,” James agreed. If she’ll let me. He shut Byron’s door for him as he cranked the Camaro and the engine’s horses purred to life. Through the open window, James said, “Thanks for stopping by.”

Byron slipped his sunglasses into place and gave James a salute. “See you around.”

* * *

“ADRIAN?”

“Back here,” Adrian called from the cooler as she moved several wedding and funeral arrangements around to make room for today’s pièce de résistance—a bouquet ordered by one of the local churches for the altar on Easter Sunday.

Penny peered around the jamb of the open steel door. “Hey, you got a minute?”

“Yeah,” Adrian said with a grunt as she hefted the large vase onto the second shelf at the back of the cooler. Wiping her hands on the front of her apron, she turned to her shop assistant with raised brows. “What’s up?”

Penny pressed her lips inward as if hiding a smile. Her eyes were a tad overbright. She was nineteen and friendly with customers—the attractive men in particular. Adrian knew by the look on Penny’s face that she’d recently encountered one such appealing male specimen.

“There’s a man here to see you,” Penny answered, confirming Adrian’s suspicions.

“What kind of man?” Adrian asked. Then she paused, frowning as her heart rapped hard against her ribs. “Wait,” she said, holding her hands up before Penny could explain. “Does he have a beard?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Penny said. “And tattoos all down his arm. Very James Dean.”

Adrian shook her head. “James Dean didn’t have tattoos, Penny,” she muttered in automatic response. “Or facial hair.”

“I meant he has that vibe,” Penny said. She opened her mouth, then stopped and stared at Adrian as the latter began to scrub her hands over her face. “What’s wrong?” Penny’s face fell. “Oh, my God. Is he Radley, your ex? Should I call the police—or Mr. Savitt?”

“No,” Adrian said carefully. “He’s not Radley. And there’s no need for the police or Cole.” She took a deep breath, hoping it would calm her—or at least make her legs stop quaking. “I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure?” Penny asked doubtfully.

Adrian rolled her eyes as Penny’s voice mirrored all the uncertain voices in her head. She shouldered past the shop assistant into the prep room of Flora. “Tell him to come on back. Then you can go home.”

“All right,” Penny said hesitantly. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”

“Just do it, please,” Adrian told her. When Penny returned to the front of the shop, Adrian ran her fingers through her hair, feeling frazzled already. She planted her hands on her hips when she heard heavy footsteps coming toward her and turned to face James as he entered.

By God. With his height and massive shoulders, he filled the room. Hell, he filled the air, stealing it from her. Her alarm and resentment for him rose by twin notches. Crossing her arms over her chest in a shielding stance, she jerked her chin high and met his gaze with a cold look. “James.”

He stopped just inside the door, not even bothering to glance around. Those blue eyes latched onto her and seized. “Adrian,” he said, his tone a great deal softer and gentler than hers.

There was kindness behind those eyes. And longing. Adrian blinked, frowned and forced herself not to look away. Instead, she scanned his features. She’d always thought he had the face of a Roman warrior—manhood had affirmed that. The bones of his face were long and broad. Beneath his beard, his jaw was perfectly etched. Someone could break a knuckle or two against that jawline and probably already had. The rise and hollows of his cheeks were artfully hewn.

There were three buttons at the top of his black T-shirt and, damn it, every single one was open, giving her a better look at the tattoos underneath. The one most visible was a bit faded, but she could still clearly see a black and red nautical star. Fitting. He’d spent a great deal of his childhood on the water. His father had been a boat captain at one point before becoming a preacher. James had inherited Zachariah Bracken’s recreational daysailer after he passed away.

Just below his collarbone was more ink, Latin letters. She couldn’t make out what they said. Neither could she discern what shape the darker ink below took. It was lost under the cotton and what looked to be a thick growth of chest hair.

Adrian took a gulp of air and hated when it trembled out on an exhale. “What are you doing here?”

One of James’s dark brows arched, but his eyes lost none of their softness nor, unfortunately, did they stray from hers. “I guess I figured we should talk.”

“About?” Adrian prompted, trying not to sound defensive and failing miserably.

“About how we left things yesterday...or how you left things yesterday,” James told her. “I need to know that you’re okay.”

“You want to talk about how I left things yesterday,” Adrian repeated, incredulity honing the words to a fine point. She felt anger brewing and latched onto it like a lifeline. “That’s all you came here for?”

“Yeah,” James said with a small nod. “And to make sure you’re okay.”

“Huh,” Adrian said, punching the word out as she walked to the other side of her prep counter. With the raised surface between them, she felt better. Half to herself, she muttered, “I haven’t seen or heard from the man in eight years and he’s as blind and self-centered as ever.”

“Excuse me?”

“You, James Bracken,” she said, turning to face him and slowing the explanation to mocking speed, “are a self-centered jackass.”

James stared at her for a shocked moment, jaw slackened. Then his features shifted into an unexpected and equally devastating smile. He took a step toward her, then another. “And you, Adrian Carlton, are the same crazy, beautiful firebrand.”

When he continued advancing on her, Adrian found herself retreating backward. Damn it, this was her turf. “Stop flattering me, for God’s sake,” she said, flustered. “I’m trying to insult you.”

James chuckled. The deep, rich laughter flowed over her like warm waves. Her heart trembled. “Christ, I’ve missed you.”

“No,” she said, as she found herself backed into a corner, his big, rangy body closing in on hers. His friendly gaze locked her into place, cutting off all means of escape. Raising her hands, she planted them on his chest and pushed against the hot, strong line of his torso. “Stop, James. You have to stop.” Panic closed up her throat and she could breathe no longer. “Please.” Damn it, she hadn’t meant to beg. But there it was. Please. That weak, useless word she’d grown to hate over her years with Radley.

James’s body stiffened and his smile dropped away. He frowned, scanning her face. When he spoke, his words were low, surprised. “You’re afraid of me.”

Adrian swallowed, unable to deny it with her voice trapped at the back of her throat. Her heart banged away at her ribs like a wild, caged thing. She stared at those Latin letters on his collarbone, very aware of the rise and fall of his chest as the moment between them stretched, the silence deep. Don’t let him see.

James’s hand lifted and she braced not for a blow but a touch she knew would be just as crippling. She drew back against the wall, every muscle in her body tightening. The rough pad of his thumb grazed the knob of her chin just below her lips before his fingers spread and cupped her cheek.

Adrian closed her eyes to keep from looking at his face and all the things she might see there. Possibility. Light.

Nope, she refused to look at him and let her heart leap at him in the reckless, kamikaze way it had all those years ago.

His words were low again but edged in need that made her bite the inside of her lip. “The past eight years have been a crazy blur,” he began. “I’ve had some amazing highs and some pretty terrible lows. There’s been triumph and pain, light and shade. But no matter where I was, or what was going on around me, sometimes I would close my eyes and, in my mind, quiet would take over. For a moment, everything around me would be still and I could breathe. I could think. And then you’d be there. I’d see your face in front of me as clear as it was the last time I saw it. And there with you in the calm, I’d feel at peace again.”

Adrian opened her eyes as her lips parted. She gaped up at him and the emotions clashing in his eyes. She had expected pretty, empty words of apology from him. But this was a surprise—and the only thing that could have shattered her defenses. Suddenly, they were standing together and he looked as vulnerable as she felt.

She scanned his face, unable to look elsewhere. His expression, his eyes, all the silent words he communicated to her...they were like an eclipse—too dangerous to look at without some sort of shield but too irresistible not to. Adrian firmed her mouth in a tight line before she whispered, “You can’t...” Faltering, she reached up, took his hand, dropped it away and tried to form words again. “You can’t just come back into my life, say all the right things and expect me to fall at your feet again.”

A flicker of mirth crossed James’s face. A corner of his mouth twitched. “Well, the last time you didn’t exactly fall at my feet. Women like you, Adrian, don’t fall.” He moved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You’re much more resourceful and purposeful than that.”