Come Home to Me

But why would he do anything to threaten her chance of catching a great guy like Riley—someone who, if he married her, would treat her like a queen?

What she’d said was true. That night when he first approached her at Sexy Sadie’s, he’d simply been trying to include a lonely woman, someone he’d seen around town for several years but who’d never quite fit in. Thanks to her mother, she was so battle-scarred that she made most people uncomfortable. But he could relate to someone who elicited distrust and hesitation. He had his own detractors, and there’d been a time when his circumstances weren’t a whole lot better.

She didn’t need him anymore, though; she’d said as much. He should be glad she was doing so well on her own. Instead, he was screwing with her head because she was screwing with his and she wasn’t even trying. She was giving him what he’d always assumed he wanted—for her to be happy and strong and less needy, less clingy. There’d been times when he’d thought he’d suffocate beneath her adoration. So why did he suddenly feel bereft now that she’d decided she was done with him?

She’d gone too far. Did she have to cut him off completely? He could understand if she had someone else in her life, but she didn’t.

“It’s confusing,” he told himself. Somehow it had been easier to move on when she wasn’t around, easier to make himself believe he wasn’t missing out on anything. Seeing her again, especially seeing her looking so healthy, reminded him of the details that made her unique, all the little things he’d pushed into the back of his mind. Her laugh. Her quirky sense of humor. The way she could roll with the ups and downs of life without growing bitter. Even some of her insecurities were endearing because she was so damn honest about them. He’d spent more time with her than any other woman....

He turned up the radio, hoping the pounding of his subwoofer would soothe his restlessness, or at least distract him. He didn’t like the way he was feeling. He wasn’t accustomed to jealousy, but he was pretty sure that was the emotion picturing her with Riley evoked.

Are you going to date him?

I think so.

Why wouldn’t she? Riley was universally admired. After college, he’d started his own contracting business, which was successful, of course. He’d never been picked up by the police, never gotten into a fight, never been thrown out of a bar. He’d messed up by getting a girl pregnant back in high school—not the best girl to put in such a vulnerable position, as it turned out—but he’d redeemed himself by raising the child and proving to be a devoted father.

“Forget Presley,” Aaron grumbled. “You won’t be living here much longer, anyway.”

But it was impossible to forget her when he could smell the pie she’d baked. So instead of going home, he drove to Jackson and went to a drive-through to get a plastic fork. Then he pulled over and dug into the pie. He was determined to eat as much of it as he wanted before his brothers got hold of it. After all, he was the one who’d spent his entire day painting, and he’d done a damn fine job, too. He deserved some of the most delicious pie he’d ever tasted, since he wasn’t going to get what he really wanted from Presley....

He was jamming another bite into his mouth when his cell phone vibrated against his leg. He thought it might be one of his brothers, or maybe one of his friends wanting to head out for a drink. It was Saturday night, after all. He wasn’t in the mood for the usual weekend revelry, but what good was it going to do him to sit around by himself?

Straightening his leg so he could get his phone out of his pocket, he checked caller ID. The number wasn’t in his contacts.

“’Lo?”

“Aaron?”

Noelle. Recognizing her voice, he turned down the radio. Music blared in the background as it was. Where was she? Sexy Sadie’s? “Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

He swallowed what he had in his mouth. “Eating.”

“You could do that here with me. I’ve got a plate of wings, and a seat with your name on it.”

He didn’t ask where “here” was. “How’d you get my number?” Sometimes they hooked up if they bumped into each other, but those occasions were few and far between, and he’d been careful not to let the relationship become more than that.

“Your brothers are at the club having a drink.”

Damn it! They knew better than to give out his number. He guessed whichever brother she’d gotten it from was drunk—or wanted her to leave him the hell alone.

“You should come join us,” she said.

He tapped his leg. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You’re not in the mood to see me?”

If only he could go back and talk to Presley, convince her to let him touch her again. That was what had him so worked up—what he really wanted. But he refused to be the kind of jerk who’d push for that if she didn’t want it, too. “I’m busy.”

“Eating?”

He didn’t answer.

“I have some more modeling pics to show you,” Noelle added with a suggestive giggle.

He hadn’t been particularly impressed with the last set. She was getting too carried away with surgeries and Botox and liposuction. Although she put every dime she made into improving her appearance—and charged the rest—in his opinion she’d actually looked prettier before. That was partly what he liked about Presley. She was so natural. She looked as good without makeup as she did with it. “Not tonight. I’m tired.”

“Come on! You can’t be that tired. I’ll make it worth your while....”

She wanted a man in her bed. And because he’d been crazy or drunk or stupid enough to accommodate her a few times, she was coming back for more.

Setting the pie aside, he leaned back. “You said my brothers are there?”

“All of them except you—and the one who doesn’t like me.”

She meant Dylan. But there weren’t many people who did like her, including her own family. Getting pregnant by her sister’s boyfriend, and using that pregnancy to wrangle a wedding proposal, had sealed her fate. Aaron prided himself on being more forgiving than most. He kept telling himself that whatever she’d done in the past was her business. But he had yet to find anything redeeming about her. “Dylan’s taken, anyway. Maybe Grady would like to see your pictures.”

“You don’t care if I show them to him?”

Her affronted tone made him nervous. The first time she asked to come home with him, he’d warned her that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. He’d reminded her since. The fact that he wouldn’t give her his cell phone number should’ve made that abundantly clear. But Noelle couldn’t stop herself from pushing too hard for whatever she wanted. “Noelle, we’ve been over this.”

“Never mind,” she snapped, and ended the call.

With a sigh, Aaron put his phone on the console, closed the plastic container that held Presley’s pie and started his truck. At this point, he knew for sure that he didn’t want to go to Sexy Sadie’s.

When his phone buzzed, indicating an incoming text, he almost ignored it. He suspected it was Noelle sending him the equivalent of a rude hand gesture. But he couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the screen.

Noelle hadn’t texted him; Cheyenne had.

Putting the transmission back in park, he picked up his phone.

Is there any chance you could get away sometime tomorrow to meet me in Sutter Creek? I need to talk to you in private. Please don’t mention this to Dylan or anyone else.

His sister-in-law was probably trying to act as mediator. Even after two years of dealing with him and Dylan, she didn’t realize that their arguments never lasted long. He’d see Dylan at the shop on Monday, and they’d go on as if nothing had happened. But Cheyenne loved her husband so much, she had to try and make them talk it out every time they had a disagreement.

You don’t need to get involved, he wrote back. Dyl and I are fine.

This isn’t about Friday.

Then what’s it about?

I have a favor to ask.

Of me?

What could that be? Dylan provided everything she could possibly want. Dylan would walk through fire for her.

I’d rather not put it in writing.

I won’t apologize to Dylan. I didn’t do anything.

I’m not asking you to apologize.

Then what on earth could it be?

Can you come see me now?

No. Dylan’s home. I can’t get away until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll tell him I have to help Presley and meet you at JB’s Steakhouse in Sutter Creek, if you’re willing.

This was turning into quite a mystery. His sister-in-law had never approached him in such a clandestine manner.

Another thought occurred to him.

Does this have anything to do with Presley?

Absolutely nothing.

I won’t talk to you about her.

He was adamant that she and Dylan mind their own business.

I promise.

Why are you being so secretive?

You’ll understand once I’ve had the chance to explain. I’m nervous about this. I’m only doing it because I trust you. Next to Dylan and Presley, I trust you most in the world.

Now she was making him nervous. What could it be?

He came up with a few alternatives, but didn’t like any of them. Especially the ones that had to do with catastrophic illnesses. Did she have cancer?

Maybe she’d received bad news from her doctor and couldn’t tell Dylan....

What time? he texted.

Dylan’s planning to work on the deck he’s building in back. He should be well into it by three. Will that work?

That’s fine. Meet you at JB’s.

I’ll text you if anything changes.

Sounds good.

Thanks, Aaron. I really appreciate it.

He had to try to clarify one last time.

And this has nothing to do with Presley? You’re not going to warn me off?

Didn’t Dylan already do that?

He tried.

This has nothing to do with her. But let me point out that you don’t really want Pres, or we wouldn’t say a word.

He sat staring at her last line for probably fifteen minutes. How did she know that when even he wasn’t sure?

7

JB’s was a traditional steakhouse with branding implements on the wood-plank walls and a bar along the right side. The interior was darker than the average restaurant, particularly in contrast to such a bright, sunny afternoon, and the candles sitting on the tables did little to offset that.

Aaron stood at the entrance for a second so his eyes could adjust. Then he spotted Cheyenne in a corner booth, looking like she was about to step in front of a firing squad. Her agitation heightened his own anxiety as the hostess hurried over from where she’d been rolling silverware into napkins. This was between meals—not a busy time of day, even on a Sunday.

“Would you like a table?” she asked.

He pointed at Cheyenne. “My party’s been seated.”

She waved him past her. “She said she was expecting someone. I left a menu for you.”

With a quick thanks, he strode across the restaurant and took the seat opposite Cheyenne, who offered him a fleeting smile. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem,” he said.

She slid his menu toward him. “Would you like to order first?”

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