Look who she attracted!

One glance at the hot firefighter who responds to a misguided 911 call and Penelope Denning knows she’s out of her depth. Leo Montesano is a charmer with an exciting career. She’s an accountant focused on getting her son through his teenage years. Yet Leo is definitely pursuing her. How can she possibly resist?

As the attraction between them ignites, Penelope discovers a wild side she never knew. The passion makes her think about a future beyond this affair…until her real life interrupts. And when she’s convinced she must choose her son over romance, Leo does something she never expects!

“I’d like to ask you out.”

Penelope’s throat dried. She couldn’t feel her fingers and had to lock her knees to remain upright. Date? Leo? Absurd. They were too different.

And she was afraid she wasn’t nearly enough.

She leaned her hip heavily against the desk. “I don’t think—”

“Or we could start slow. Have lunch. Or even just coffee.” His voice dropped to a husky, sexy tone that could strip a woman of her inhibitions. And her good sense. “It doesn’t matter to me. Just a few hours. I’d like to get to know you better.”

“Why?”

The word hung in the air, bald and loud and yes, desperate-sounding. Too bad. She wouldn’t take it back even if she could. She was too curious to hear his answer.

“Because I find you interesting.” Leo stepped forward, his body and her own pride trapping her between him and her desk. “Because I’m attracted to you.”

A thrill raced through her before she could stop it. He was attracted to her? That…that was impossible. Implausible. Incredible.

And terrifying.

Dear Reader,

It’s been seven years since I sold my first book to Mills & Boon Superromance. Seven years isn’t all that long, but oh, how things can change. Then, I was waiting for my first book to hit the shelves, my youngest daughter was in grade school, my older daughter had just entered the teen years and my son was learning how to drive. Now, my fifteenth book is out, my baby is a high school senior, her sister is a college sophomore and my son a college graduate.

He’s also a married man. Which makes me old enough to be a mother-in-law! How that happened, I’m not sure, but I feel incredibly blessed to have such a sweet and beautiful daughter-in-law.

So much has changed. Yet there are many constants, too. Family who give love and support. Dear friends who bring joy and laughter, and the familiar faces of the people in my hometown. Maybe that’s why I love writing the In Shady Grove series so much. Not only do I get to revisit previous characters, but I can also share some of my favorite things about small-town life.

In Charming the Firefighter, Penelope Denning moves to Shady Grove hoping to find a safe environment to raise her teenage son. When she meets firefighter Leo Montesano, she finds much more. Love, of course, but also a place where she truly belongs.

I hope you enjoy Penelope and Leo’s story and that you’ll look for the next book in the series, out next year. Please visit my website, bethandrews.net or drop me a line at beth@bethandrews.net. I’d love to hear from you.

Happy reading!

Beth Andrews

Charming the Firefighter

Beth Andrews

www.millsandboon.co.uk

When Romance Writers of America RITA® Award-winning author BETH ANDREWS was a young wife, she started a gas grill with the lid down. The small explosion left her with singed hair and a lifelong respect for propane. While no handsome firefighters came to her rescue that day, she will never forget that particular incident. Mainly because her husband reminds her of it every summer. Learn more about Beth and her books by visiting her website, bethandrews.net.

For Hannah Grace.

Welcome to the family!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

EXTRACT

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

PENELOPE DENNING GLANCED behind her, left, then right, then left again. Still alone. She was safe.

Shaking her hips to the Fray’s latest song, which streamed from her laptop, she danced from the pantry to the center island and set down the bottle of olive oil. She wiggled her shoulders and moved side to side to the beat, the tile floor cool under her bare feet. At the catchy chorus, she sang along under her breath.

And Andrew said she couldn’t sing. She may not be in Beyoncé’s league, but Penelope could hold her own against the likes of a few of those American Idol finalists. She was definitely good enough for the church choir, no matter what her son said. It wasn’t as if she’d have to stand in front of the entire congregation under a spotlight, performing solo and, no doubt, sweating and nauseous. She’d be a part of the group.

She sang louder. She’d finally be a part of something. Would have a place where she belonged. Maybe she should audition for the choir.

Unless Andrew was right. In which case she’d simply make a fool of her—

Something creaked. Penelope froze, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing on end, the tune dying in her throat.

She turned, her chest tight with trepidation. Only to exhale heavily to find the room still empty.

Oh, thank goodness.

She was being paranoid, that was all. But she stopped shimmying and two-stepping. Sang silently with only her foot tapping.

No sense tempting fate. If Andrew caught her dancing around the kitchen, he’d undoubtedly give her one of the smirks he’d perfected over the past two years. Then flay her with some sarcastic comment, one meant to hurt her. To anger her.

She hated to admit how often he was successful.

But not today, she assured herself, layering circles of fresh mozzarella and thick slices of tomato on a rectangular white plate. Today there would be no drama. No arguing. None of the angst, heartache or soul-crushing doubts that came with raising a teenager.

All she wanted was one day where she and her son weren’t at each other’s throats. Where they spent time together—in the same room—conversing and, perhaps, even laughing a few times. One measly day where she wasn’t the bad guy who’d ruined his life.

And he wasn’t an ungrateful, mouthy brat.

Surely that wasn’t too much to ask for.

She checked the caprese salad with a critical eye. Gently patted the tomato and cheese slices together so they lined up perfectly—two neat rows alternating white and red, each layer set exactly halfway on top of the one before it. Exactly. She wiped her hands on a clean towel, then drizzled a thin stream of olive oil over the dish.

The midday sun shone brightly through the dining room’s huge windows, illuminating the dust mites dancing in the air. One reason she’d bought the house, a midsize Victorian that had been remodeled, was the open floor plan. The entire first floor flowed, from one room to the other—foyer to living room, living room to dining room, and dining room to kitchen. She liked the sense of roominess. Of freedom.

After spending too much of her life cooped up in hospital rooms, waiting rooms and doctors’ offices, all she wanted was space. Space to stretch out. To move around.

Space to breathe.

A warm end-of-summer breeze ruffled the lacy curtain adorning the window above the sink and brushed against the back of her neck. Shutting her eyes, she inhaled deeply. Held it, just...held it in her lungs, the clean scent of the fresh air, the pungent aroma of olives and basil. Feeling this satisfied, this content, was all too rare. At least, it had been rare for her.

Might as well soak it in while it lasted.

She exhaled—mainly because she had no other choice, not if she wanted to keep living. She tore the top off the small bunch of basil on the cutting board, rolled the leaves up and began slicing. That sense of peace and contentment was fleeting. Life was too fluid. Always changing, always shifting, moment to moment, milestone to milestone.

She couldn’t do anything about those shifts taking her in new directions, those moments fading into the past, the milestones passing.

It was so annoying.

But what she could do was control how she responded to being set off course. She’d moved to Shady Grove to give her and Andrew a fresh start. It’d taken a while—going on eight months—but they’d finally settled in this small town so far away from everything they’d known. Everyone they’d known.

A fact Andrew never let her forget.

It hadn’t been an easy transition. There had even been times when she’d considered giving up and moving back to California.

If only to stop her son’s complaining.

In the end, she’d held firm and, more important, had stood by her decisions. Hooray for her. Hand over that shiny gold star, because she’d persevered against Andrew’s miserable attitude and constant griping.

This parenthood thing wasn’t for sissies, that was for sure.

She did her best to keep her son safe and healthy. Made sure they commemorated his milestones, no matter how small or insignificant, from getting his braces off to his voice cracking before it deepened to passing his driver’s test. Every stage of childhood, every rite of passage of adolescence, was cause for celebration.

For too long she’d worried he’d never get—

Clang! Clang!

She glanced up, just to make sure the weights Andrew was lifting—and dropping with such careless abandon—didn’t crash through the ceiling onto her head.

There was more clanging followed by a loud thump, which had her praying he hadn’t dinged the hardwood flooring.

Again.

Pressing her lips together, she carried the salad to the fridge and tucked it alongside the heaping bowl of fresh-cut fruit. She wouldn’t worry about the floor. She’d ignore the fact that she’d told him, at least one hundred times, not to drop his weights.

How hard could it be to set the dumb things down gently?

That was what her life had come to. Ignoring the parts she couldn’t control, couldn’t fix. Andrew constantly texting, even during dinner. His spending most of his time in his bedroom. How he took three showers a day—and there was no way she was even going to think about why, or what he was doing in there for so long. His new fixation with lifting weights and getting—as she’d overheard him tell one of his friends—cut, when he should be focusing on his schoolwork.

And, of course, his surliness, rudeness and out-and-out bad attitude.

The joys of motherhood. Someone should have warned her about this.

Not that she’d change anything, she assured herself quickly, kneeling to retrieve her favorite serving platter from a lower cupboard. Her son was going through a stage. A two-year-long stage that seemed to have no end in sight.

But that was all right. She could handle it. Andrew was fine. Not quite happy, but that would come in time. There were more important things than happiness. Security. Safety.

He was healthy and that was most import—

Clang!

She reared up, whapping the top of her head against the counter. Her vision blurred and tears filled her eyes. She fell onto her butt with a thud. Rubbed the spot and prayed like mad those tiny stars circling her head weren’t real.

When the dizziness passed, she gingerly climbed to her feet. She wouldn’t yell, she thought, as she carefully climbed the narrow staircase leading from the kitchen to the second floor. She’d approach him calmly. Rationally. Explain why he needed to be more careful.

She knocked on his door. Behind it metal clanged. He grunted in exertion.

It sounded like torture.

“Andrew?” she called, knocking again, making sure to keep her tone friendly and pleasant, as if she wasn’t sporting a possible concussion due to his negligence. “Honey, could you open the door?”

Nothing. Her eyes narrowed. She widened them, blinked a few times. No. She wasn’t going to get upset. Wasn’t going to jump to conclusions. For all she knew, he hadn’t heard her.

His next doctor’s appointment, though, she would make sure his hearing was checked.

Using the side of her fist, she pounded on the wood. “Andrew!”

No matter how hard she glared at the door, it remained shut.

She tried the handle. Locked. She jiggled it, frustration building. Still locked.

There was only one thing to do, one surefire way to get his attention. She pulled her cell phone from her shorts pocket and sent him a text.

Open the door. Now.

Andrew could, and often did, ignore her. Her insights and opinions, her attempts at civil conversation and questions about his thoughts, his feelings.

But he never ignored his phone.

A moment later, the door opened and her son—her sweaty, disheveled son, the child who used to look up to her with such adoration in his eyes—scowled down at her. Yes, down at her because, thanks to a growth spurt last year, he now towered over her by a good six inches.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “What?”

Her mouth tightened. Her head pounded. Then again, dealing with her son usually left her with a headache, pondering where she’d gone wrong.

“Take out your earbuds,” she said slowly, over-enunciating each word in case he’d suddenly learned how to read lips.

His frown deepened. “What?” he shouted.

She jabbed her fingers at her own ears, mimed pulling something out.

With an eye roll, he pulled the earbud from his left ear. Half his attention was better than nothing at this point. “What do you want?”

Her entire body stiffened. She wouldn’t lose her cool. She would not lose her—

Oh, who was she kidding?

“The first thing I want,” she said in a mom voice guaranteed to let him know he was messing with no ordinary mortal, “is for you to speak to me civilly and politely.”

Another eye roll.

How on earth had her well-behaved, sweet boy turned into this...this...closing-in-on-six-foot, shaggy-haired, sarcastic, ill-mannered man-child?

And what did she have to do to get the old kid back?

“Really?” she asked, crossing her arms. “No apology?”

He turned, walked to the weight bench in the corner, laid back, and started pumping a barbell up and down. Up and down.

Stubbornness was just one of the new, and many, unattractive traits he’d acquired and perfected since puberty hit him full force.

She stepped into his room and wrinkled her nose at the scents of stale sweat, dirty socks and only God knew what else. Maybe it was a good thing he kept the door shut all the time.

Holding her breath, she crossed to the window, stepping over a pile of clothes she knew darn well had been clean and neatly folded two hours ago. Mainly because she was the one who’d washed, dried and folded them.

She opened the window. “I guess you’ve had enough of your phone privileges then.”

Privileges he’d just gotten back after she’d shut off his account for the past two weeks thanks to his smart mouth.

Some days she felt more like a parole officer than a mother.

He set the weights on the support bar with a clang, his face flushed, either from exertion or irritation. Heaven forbid he actually be embarrassed or ashamed of his behavior.

“Sorry,” he muttered, already moving on to bicep curls, his elbow resting on his knee as he pumped the weight with slow, deliberate movements.

She smiled. A small, forgiving smile, though his apology was halfhearted at best. Forgive and forget—her life motto.

“It’s okay,” she said, but he kept his head lowered, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, lips moving as he counted his repetitions.

He’d changed, and more than his personality. The raging hormones she blamed for his bad attitude had also broadened his shoulders, deepened his voice. His face, a blending of her features and those of his father’s, had lost its roundness. His hair was darker—nearer in shade to her own than the sandy-blond he’d had as a grade-schooler—and badly in need of a trim. He was a tall, darkly handsome, soon-to-be-cut young man.

God save her when the teenage girls started coming around in earnest.

She picked up three clean shirts and carried them to his closet. “Why don’t you jump in the shower?” she asked, shaking the wrinkles out of the first shirt before placing it on a hanger. “I’m about to put the burgers on the grill so we can eat in half an hour.”

“I’m not hungry,” Andrew said, sweat sliding from his hairline down the side of his forehead.

Yuck.

She hung the shirt, then slid a hanger into the next one. “You’re always hungry.”

It was the main reason her grocery bill surpassed the gas, electric and cable bills combined.

With a shrug she had no idea how to take, he switched hands and started doing reps on that side. “I’m eating at Luke’s.”

She blinked. Blinked again. Kept the smile on her face. “Why would you eat at Luke’s?”

“He invited me over. His family’s having a picnic.”

“So are we. I made all your favorites. Taco dip and potato salad.” Both with light versions of sour cream and mayonnaise instead of nonfat. For him. Because he claimed the nonfat tasted like crap, which wasn’t even true. “And brownie sundaes for dessert. With whipped cream. I even got bacon for the burgers.”

He snorted. “Turkey bacon. Tastes like shit,” he said under his breath.

But loud enough that she could hear.

She pretended otherwise. “Real bacon.” She’d read it was better to use that instead of turkey bacon, which often had more additives.

He eyed her suspiciously, his blue eyes—his father’s eyes—narrowed. “Real burgers? From a cow?”

Full-fat beef burgers? Did he have any idea how bad all that grease was for him? “Turkey burgers. They taste just as good.”

“No. They don’t.” He switched sides again, didn’t bother looking at her. “Like I said, I’ll eat at Luke’s.”

“But I want you to eat here. With me.”

“No, thanks.”

She squeezed the shirt in her hand. She’d made a trip into Pittsburgh yesterday to get all the ingredients she needed to have a special picnic for the two of them. A trip that had taken all afternoon, which meant she’d had to stay up late to finish the laundry and housework, not to mention that profit-and-loss statement for work. She’d spent the morning cooking and baking, wanting nothing more than to enjoy a leisurely, pleasant Labor Day. With her son.

And all he had to say to her was no, thanks?

She didn’t think so.

“You’re eating here,” she told him, her tone brooking no argument—though that never stopped him before. “With me. We’ll eat, play some board games or maybe watch a movie. It’ll be fun.”

It would be like it used to between them. Before he started hating her.

His expression darkening, he stood. Let the weight drop to the floor. “I want to go to Luke’s.”

“I understand that,” she said, letting him know she heard him. That she was taking his wants and needs into account. Just as the therapist she and her ex-husband, Todd, had seen for marriage counseling had taught her. Not that it had worked out so well—they’d separated a month after their last session—but at least she’d learned a few valuable tools for dealing with conflict.

“After we eat,” she told Andrew, “you can go over there for an hour or so.”

See? That was completely reasonable. Completely rational and, if she did say so herself, a very nice compromise.

“Everyone will be gone by then!”

So much for trying to meet him halfway. No good deed and all that.

“I want to spend the day with you,” she said. “We hardly ever see each other.”

“That’s not my fault. You’re the one always working.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? It’s not as if I spend every waking moment at the office. I’d say the bigger issue is that we’re on opposite schedules.” When he wasn’t bussing tables at Wix’s Diner in the evenings, he was hanging out with his new friends.

Andrew tossed up his hands. “But I already told Luke I’d come over.”

“I guess the next time you’ll wait until you have permission before you make plans. Especially on a holiday.”

“It’s not Christmas,” he grumbled.

He stared at her, all resentment and anger. The dark stubble covering his sharp jaw and chin mocked her, sparse though it was. A visible reminder that he wasn’t a little boy anymore.

That he no longer needed her or, it seemed, wanted her around. Ever.

When she looked at him, love swamped her. Threatened to drown her.

And he looked right through her as if he wished she were already gone.

His phone buzzed. He grabbed it from the bed and checked the screen. “It’s Luke. He says I can come over whenever I want.”

Luke Sapko was a good kid. A nice kid.

Actually, he was nicer—and certainly more polite—to her than her own son was. The thought left her feeling guilty and inadequate.

Maybe she was too hard on Andrew. Maybe she wasn’t hard enough. She had no idea. All she knew was it shouldn’t be this difficult. It wasn’t rocket science, for goodness’ sake. By all accounts, humans had been raising children for two hundred thousand years. Surely she could guide her own son into adulthood. She had only two more years to go.

“Come on, Mom,” Andrew whined. Funny how he could look like a grown man—or pretty darn close to it—and still act like a five-year-old. “A bunch of the guys are going. I don’t want to be the only one stuck at home.”

She winced. Stuck at home. Guess that summed up how he felt about spending a few hours in her company.

She tried not to take it personally. “Andrew, I—”

“Please?”

The rest of what she intended to say dried in her throat. Please. There was a word she didn’t hear from him often.

He was working her. Or trying to. She knew it. He probably even knew she knew it. But he didn’t care as long as he got his way.

She found herself softening. Luke was the first friend Andrew had made since moving here, and she didn’t want her son to miss out on a chance to interact with his peers. Not when he actually seemed excited to be doing something in Shady Grove instead of complaining about how the kids were all small-town hicks, the weather was too cold and the beach too far away.

Maybe this was a step in the right direction. A sign that Andrew was finally settling into his new life.

And maybe she was just sick and tired of arguing with the boy.

“Fine,” she said, though she sounded as if it was anything but. Since she’d wrinkled his clean shirt, she tossed it over her shoulder to iron later. “You can go. But I want you home by nine.”

His triumphant grin collapsed. “Nine? I’m sixteen.”

“I’m well aware of how old you are, Andrew. I did give birth to you. And yes, nine. Tonight’s a school night.” He’d started his junior year at Shady Grove High last week. “I don’t want a repeat of what happened last year with your grades.”

“Whatever,” he mumbled, as if she hadn’t given in to him. As if he couldn’t care less that his grades last semester showed a marked lack of effort.

He sent a text, his fingers flying over the buttons.

Used to be a time when she could brush his hair back, make him smile and laugh. Those days were deader than her marriage vows.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said, tugging off his sweaty shirt. He dropped it on the floor—two feet from his clothes hamper.

With a grimace, Penelope picked it up by the hem, the fabric pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you have some sort of genetic defect that stops you from putting your clothes where they belong?” she asked, tossing the shirt into the wicker basket. “Or do you leave them scattered all over simply because you know it bothers me?”

“That’s just a side benefit.” And he rapped out a da dum dum on his dresser.

A joke? Wow. Give the kid his way and suddenly he was a comedian. She turned. Her smile froze, her breath locked in her lungs. The safe, secure world she’d worked so hard to build for them shifted, leaving her thoughts tumbling.

No. Please, God, not again.

“Andrew,” she wheezed on an exhale, and worked to keep her voice calm as she closed the distance between them. Focused on clearing her expression. No sense worrying him. Not when she wasn’t sure what was going on. “What happened to your back?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“You...you have a bruise.” Clearing her throat, she lightly touched his lower back, to the right of his spine. “Here.”

Turning to the mirror, he twisted so he could see what she was talking about. He shrugged. “I must’ve bumped into something.”

“I think you’d remember bumping into something hard enough to leave that big of a mark.” It was at least the size of her fist, the center a dark purple, the outer edges bleeding into yellow. “Do you...do you have any other bruises?”

Another shrug. “Not that I know of.”

But he had this one. One he’d seemingly been unaware of. Fear rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. “Do your joints hurt? Have you noticed being more tired lately? Have you been getting headaches?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, no and yes. Right now. A big one.”

“Not funny,” she murmured. This was serious. Couldn’t he see that? Spinning him around, she searched his body for more bruises. His appetite was still strong and he’d put on weight, not lost it. She reached up to check the lymph nodes in his neck.

He jerked away. “Jesus! Knock it off. I’m not sick again.”

“I know you’re not,” she said quickly, as if her words alone could make the statement fact. But she’d already learned the hard way that all the wishing, hoping and praying in the world couldn’t change what was. She tried to smile. “But I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Franklin tomorrow to—”

“I’m not going to the doctor.” He stabbed his fingers through his hair, making the strands stand on end. “Look, the truth is, I didn’t bump into something. I got it playing dodgeball in gym the other day.”

Relief made her knees weak. Her head light. He wasn’t sick. The leukemia hadn’t come back.

Thank God.

But he had been hurt. Could have been injured even worse. What if he’d been hit in the head and gotten a concussion?

“No school district should be allowing a game like that to be played in gym class,” she said, her fury and indignation growing. “First thing in the morning I’m going to call the school—”

“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d freak out about it and it’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt. And the last thing I need is you making it into some big deal.” He yanked open a drawer, grabbed a pair of socks and underwear, then shoved it closed hard enough to shake the dresser. “It’s a bruise. Not the end of the world. Not cancer. So don’t even think about calling and bitching out the gym teacher, because I’m the one who’ll have to take a bunch of shit if you do!”

He stormed out of the room, across the hall and into the bathroom. Slammed the door shut as if to punctuate his little tantrum.

She hunched her shoulders. Bit her lower lip. A moment later, the shower started.

He didn’t understand that she was simply doing her job as his mother. He resented everything she did for him. The healthy food she prepared, the doctor appointments she dragged him to, the tests and blood work. Even a simple question about how he was feeling set him off.

She worked so hard to keep him safe. Healthy.

And all it did was make him mad. But she was the one who suffered. She had to live with him, had to deal with him, day in and day out. His choices, actions and rotten, disrespectful, ungrateful attitude were her problems.

She just prayed they weren’t her fault.

CHAPTER TWO

“YOU GOING TO lie there all day?” James Montesano asked, tossing the basketball from one hand to the other.

Rolling onto his back, Leo Montesano squinted at the people peering down at him, their heads shifting as if they’d been detached from their bodies. Huh. Floating heads. That would make a great name for a rock-and-roll band.

James kept up with the ball tossing. Back and forth. Back and forth.

It drove Leo nuts.

He wanted to tell his brother to knock it the hell off, but the breath had left his lungs when he’d done his face-plant, and he couldn’t speak.

Next to James, their brother, Eddie, wiped his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt, dislodging the frayed brim of his black Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. On Leo’s other side, their younger sister, Maddie, smirked.

All three had dark hair, heavy eyebrows and deep, end-of-summer tans—traits Leo shared. About the only resemblances between him and his family. Because if the situation had been reversed and one of them were flat on their back, he’d be offering a helping hand.

They just waited for him to get his own ass up off the ground.

You’d think there would be a time or two when the odds were even among the Montesano siblings, but more often than not it was three against one.

Them against him, usually.

That was what he got for following his own path, being his own person. Freedom, yes. But also a lot of grief.

“Well?” James asked, as if Leo’s being bruised and sporting a possible head injury was ruining his entire day.

Leo squeezed his eyes shut, but as soon as he did, flashes of memory from last night’s accident scene bombarded him and he opened them again. At least when he did, everyone’s heads stayed put. And the images disappeared.

He shot James the middle finger.

“Guess he’ll live,” Eddie said before walking away.

James gave the ball extra spin as it moved from hand to hand, his dark eyes hidden behind a pair of aviators. “Too bad. I was hoping we could find a sub for you.”

“Your concern is touching,” Leo muttered as he shifted into a sitting position, the blacktop burning the palms of his hands, the bright sun warming his bare shoulders. He and James were both shirtless—no big deal when it came to playing a game of shirts versus skins, but not so great if you were pushed to the freaking pavement. His knees and palms—which had taken the brunt of his weight when he’d gone down—were scraped and stinging. He rubbed his hands against the sides of his shorts and glared at his brother. “Really. Warms a man’s heart to know his family cares so deeply for his well-being.”

“You want concern? Stop trying to turn a fun pickup game among family and friends into a grudge match.”

“Hey, don’t blame me. I’m the innocent victim here.” He jabbed a thumb in Maddie’s direction. “She’s the one who tripped me.”

“I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of,” Maddie said with a sniff and a lift of her chin, all affronted and lying through her teeth. “I was merely setting a screen.”

Eyes narrowing, Leo got to his feet. “You’re not supposed to move when you set a screen. Or stick your foot out.”

She lifted a shoulder and sent him a small, evil grin. “Oops.”

“You could at least try to pretend it was an accident and not a blatant act of aggression.”

James’s eyebrows rose above his sunglasses. “Blatant act of aggression? What have we told you about watching CNN? It’s only for grown-ups.”

Leo snatched the ball from James, and considered—briefly and with much relish—shoving it down his brother’s throat. Instead, he took three steps and heaved it over the ball hoop into the yard.

“I’ll get it!” called Max, Eddie’s eight-year-old son, scrambling after it.

Leo lifted a hand but couldn’t risk having his attention diverted. Not when Maddie, wearing a pair of cutoffs and a red Montesano Construction T-shirt, was sauntering closer and closer to him, her stride aggressive, her long dark ponytail swinging in agitation.

She was moody, unpredictable and capable of turning on a man at a moment’s notice.

“An accident?” she repeated, her tone cold, her shoulders rigid. “Like you ‘accidentally’—” she made air quotes, her brown eyes flashing “—rammed your elbow into Neil’s stomach when he went in for that layup?”

Now it was Leo’s turn to grin, although he was pretty sure his was way more charming and, yeah, even more smug than hers had been. “Incidental contact.”

“That is such bull.”

“I was guarding my man. A little jostling for position is part of the game.”

He didn’t know what she was bitching about. Her boyfriend—or whatever title she preferred to give Neil Pettit—played in the NHL. He got pushed, rammed into and hit for a living. Now he couldn’t handle someone playing tough defense on him in a friendly game of three-on-three?

Was it any wonder Leo couldn’t stand the arrogant bastard?

“How about we save this discussion for another time?” James asked in his calm, big-brother-to-the-rescue way. “Let’s finish the game before it’s called on account of darkness.”

Leo broadened his smile, knowing it would irritate the hell out of his baby sister. “Truce?”

He held out his hand. She looked as if she’d rather bite it off at the wrist and slap him with it a few times than shake it. “Do you really think I’m dumb enough to buy that?”

“That hurts.” He slung his arm around her shoulders. “I’m nothing if not sincere—”

“A sincere, and sweaty, pain in the ass,” she said, shoving his arm off.

He put it right back on her shoulders. Squeezed her to his side.

“And,” he continued, having learned early on it was best to ignore much of what his sister said, “I have nothing but the highest regard for you and your intelligence. You’re one of the brightest people I know.”

All true. But her taste in men sucked.

This time she ducked out from under his arm and stepped back. “Save it. I’m not one of your brainless bimbos—”

“Bimbos?” He laughed, hoping it didn’t sound as forced as it felt. “Did we time-travel back to 1952?”

“Yes, bimbos. Who hang on every word you say, simpering and sighing and batting their lashes.”

“I got it!” Max called, his round face red, his breathing heavy as he ran to the edge of the driveway, the ball clutched to his chest. “I got it, Uncle Leo!”

Leo held his hands out and neatly caught Max’s wobbly pass. “Thanks, bud.” He spun the ball on the tip of his forefinger. Winked at Maddie. “Can I help it if women think I’m amazingly witty and incredibly charming?”

“That’s only because they don’t know you,” she grumbled before walking to Neil and accepting the bottle of water he held out to her.

Leo let his smile slip. He bounced the ball twice—hard—then forced himself to tuck it against his side instead of winging it through the air again. Made sure his movements were easy and casual as he grabbed his own water and drank deeply.

He wished it were a beer. Or better yet, the slow, smooth burn of a Jameson. After the night he’d had, he could use a drink. But he had to report to work in a few hours.

And he was afraid once he started drinking, he might not stop. At least not until he had a decent buzz, one that blurred his thoughts and dimmed his memory. Until he could no longer remember the pain in Samantha Coles’s eyes. Could no longer hear her voice pleading for him to help her.

His fingers tightened on the bottle, the sound of crushing plastic loud to his ears. He finished the water and tossed it aside. Pushed all thoughts of last night from his head.

A drop of sweat slid from his hairline and down his temple before disappearing behind his ear. He wiped his forearm across his brow. The bright, late-afternoon sun burned the tip of his nose. It was hotter than usual for Labor Day in southwestern Pennsylvania, and his parents’ picnic was in full swing.

Family, friends, neighbors, coworkers and even a few college coeds—his mother’s classmates in her pursuit of finishing her degree—littered the wide, open yard, and spilled out of the two-story house and onto the large deck. The air smelled of grilled steaks and burgers. The muted sounds of Foreigner’s “Head Games” could be heard under all the conversation. The occasional good-natured cheer and burst of laughter rose from the group playing volleyball in the side yard.

Another successful party. Even though she was now a full-time student, having enrolled in Seton Hill University in Pittsburgh last year, Rose Montesano still found the time to entertain the masses.

Which was why Leo went to more than his fair share of gatherings, picnics and mandatory Sunday dinners. Having a large family who all lived in the same town had its share of perks—free meals being at the top of that list.

Across the driveway, Maddie and Neil stood so close together, you couldn’t get a breath between them. She rose onto her toes and said something in Neil’s ear. He grinned at her, then slid his hand to settle on her ass.

Leo’s right eye twitched. Having family close by also had more than a few drawbacks.

Such as watching your baby sister get back together with the loser who had broken her heart.

“Are we playing ball or what?” he called.

Facing him, Maddie readjusted her ponytail. “Just waiting on you, Princess.”

They resumed play, Maddie, Neil and Eddie against Leo, James and Ryan Pyatt, one of Montesano Construction’s employees. After fifteen minutes of hard play, the score was tied, twenty all. Whoever made the next basket would win the game. Maddie dribbled, looking for an open player while James guarded her.

“Switch, switch,” Leo told Ryan when Neil set a screen on the kid.

Ryan veered left and blocked Eddie while Leo spun right to guard Neil. They fought for position under the basket, pushing, shoving and bumping.

Maddie passed the ball to Eddie, who shot. It bounced off the rim. Leo went up for the rebound, shoulder to shoulder with Neil. He had a few inches more in height, but Neil had the advantage of being a professional athlete. He came down with the ball and pivoted and Leo knew he was going up for the shot.

The restlessness, the edge of frustration and anger Leo had tried to keep contained since last night built, bigger and bigger, until he was afraid he was going to explode with it. His muscles tensed, his body shook. He wasn’t going to lose. Not today.

Not to Neil.

Leo leaped up and with a low growl, spiked the ball out of Neil’s hands.

That he almost took Neil’s head off in the process was, to Leo’s mind, merely a bonus.

Breathing hard, Leo sent the son of a bitch a cocky grin. “You should stick to hockey.”

As he walked past him, he bumped into Neil’s shoulder with enough force to knock him back a step.

Leo grabbed the ball, then jogged over to the edge of the driveway. He bounced the ball at Maddie. “Check.”

“What the hell is your problem?” she asked, which was a neat trick seeing as how her lips barely moved.

“No problem. Just playing the game.”

“That how you want it to be?” She gave a sharp nod, then got into a crouch, her mouth set. “Fine. Don’t say you didn’t ask for it.”

And she shoved the ball into his stomach.

She’d always had a mean streak.

Eyes on her—because despite popular opinion, he wasn’t a complete idiot—he dribbled, keeping the ball low to the ground, his knees bent. James and Ryan worked to get open, James lifting his hand.

Maddie swiped at the ball, but Leo sidestepped. She was fast, he’d give her that. What she lacked in finesse and actual talent, she more than made up for in grit, determination and aggression.

They’d taught her well.

He faked left, then went right. Maddie stuck to him like a second skin, bumping and shoving as he made his way to the basket. He went in for the layup. Maddie jumped to block him.

And punched him in the jaw.

His head jerked back. His teeth snapped together and he landed awkwardly on the side of his foot. He stumbled, then caught his balance, juggled the ball, but it was too late. Maddie snatched it and sent Neil a beautiful bounce pass as he ran to the basket.

The show-off dunked it.

Bastard.

“Foul!” Leo waved his arms as if to erase the point from the imaginary scoreboard. “No basket. That was a foul.”

Maddie blinked at him innocently, which he didn’t buy for a minute. “Was it?” She made a show of looking around the driveway. “Funny, but I don’t see a ref here. And I certainly didn’t hear any whistle so I guess you’re wrong—which, as you know, is one of my very favorite things to say to any of my brothers, but right now I’m taking extreme pleasure in saying it to you in particular.” She patted his cheek. “You lost. Deal with it.”

He edged closer. She, of course, wasn’t the least bit intimidated. “You punched me.”

“I wouldn’t call that a punch,” James said as if he had the right to stick his fat nose into their conversation. He turned to Maddie. “If you’re going to jab, keep your elbow in. And don’t tuck your thumb under your fingers or you’ll break it.”

Something they’d told her at least a hundred times.

She was just too stubborn to listen to them.

She stretched and bent her fingers. Shook out her hand. “Everyone’s a critic. Should I try again? I promise to have better form this time.”

Leo gingerly touched the tip of his tongue to the cut on the side of his mouth. Tasted blood. “You deserve a broken thumb for that sucker punch.”

She wrinkled her nose in faux concern. “Looks like it hurts. A lot.”

“It does.”

“Great. Then my job here is done. Now maybe you’ll stop being such an ass.”

“I doubt that,” James murmured.

Leo bit back a snarl and kept his focus on Maddie. “If I need stitches, I’m going to be pissed.”

“It’s a scratch. Suck it up. Although it would be a real shame, messing up that pretty, pretty face with an unsightly scar.” She edged closer and lowered her voice. “But nothing less than what you deserve for trying to antagonize my boyfriend all the freaking time.”

“Just because you’ve forgotten what he did, how he treated you, doesn’t mean I have.”

“Yes, I’ve completely lost any and all memories from the past thirteen years,” she said drily. “Look, Neil and I both made mistakes. It’s not forgetting. It’s forgiveness.”

He couldn’t believe someone as smart and self-assured as Maddie was willing to put herself in the same situation she’d been in at sixteen. Loving Neil Pettit. Trusting him to be there for her and Breanne, their twelve-year-old daughter.

“Maybe I’m not in a forgiving mood,” Leo said.

“You don’t have to be. Neil didn’t ask for your forgiveness. And if you don’t stop acting like such a jerk, Neil, Bree and I will be forced to skip these family get-togethers.”

“Blackmail, Maddie? That’s beneath you.”

She nodded, not looking the least bit guilty. “And you acting like some overprotective brother is getting old. It’s awkward and irritating to listen to your snide remarks and put-downs to Neil every time we get together. Don’t think Bree hasn’t noticed, too. Or that it doesn’t bother her.”

Leo’s shoulders wanted to hunch so he jerked them back. But he couldn’t stop himself from glancing toward the deck, the last place he’d seen Bree. She was still there, her chubby legs curled under her as she read a book, the sun glinting off her short cap of dark hair.

Though many, many women had fallen hard for him, there were only three he could truly say he’d ever loved. His mother and his sister were near the top of that list. But the number-one spot was held by the only female who’d ever had him wrapped around her little finger.

His niece, Breanne.

Ever since he’d held her as a red, squalling newborn, he’d been hooked. He’d been eighteen and she’d been his first in many ways—first baby he’d ever held. First bottle-feeding and diaper change. First time losing his heart.

He’d do anything for her.

Too bad she didn’t need him any longer. She had her father back in her life.

For now.

“Do you really think Neil’s going to stay this time?” Leo asked harshly. “Just because he’s stuck it out this long doesn’t mean he won’t change his mind or take off again.”

It had been over a year since Neil and Maddie had reconciled, but nothing had really changed. Neil still played professional hockey. Sure, he’d recently been traded to the Blue Jackets, but they were based in Columbus—a three-hour drive from Shady Grove.

“I know he’s going to stick,” Maddie said.

Leo shook his head sadly. “I feel sorry for you for believing that.”

Her eyes got all squinty. Never a good sign. Swear to God, if she hit him again, he was dumping her crazy ass in the pool. Luckily, she kept her hands at her sides.

“I trust him and what we have,” she said. “Neil and I are together and we’re going to stay together so I suggest you grow up and get over this stupid, adolescent rivalry or whatever it is you have with him. Or be prepared to lose me and Bree.”

She stomped off, headed directly to Neil and into his arms. He kissed the top of her head.

Leo wanted to punch something himself.

“He abandons her and Bree,” Leo muttered when James joined him, “and I’m the one she socks in the jaw?”

“Quit whining,” James said. “It’s a scratch.”

Leo jabbed a finger at his injury. “Does this look like a scratch?”

“Yes. Rub some dirt on it and we’ll start another game. Get some of our pride back.”

“Easy for you to say.” Leo carefully ran his tongue over his bottom lip, wincing when he reached the gash at the corner. He bent and retrieved his T-shirt from the grass. “You’re not the one bleeding.”

“You deserved it.”

Leo snagged James’s water bottle and took a drink. Swished it around his mouth while Eddie joined them.

Leo spat onto the grass. “Deserved to be viciously attacked?” Eddie rolled his eyes. Leo narrowed his own. “You have something to say?”

“It was a foul,” Eddie said, like some freaking Zen master brushing aside Leo’s dark scowl and low growl with his own calm expression and quiet tone. “Not a mugging.”

Leo’s free hand fisted. “Who asked you?”

“What are you?” James muttered. “Thirteen?”

Eddie’s mouth turned down, his shoulders rigid. Maybe not so Zen, after all. “You asked, you idiot.”

Stepping between them as he had so many times in their lives, James made a tsking sound. “Name calling.” He faced Eddie, tossed him the ball. “Just walk away. You know this isn’t about you.”

“Maybe not,” Eddie said, “but he’s obviously jonesing for an ass-kicking. I’m happy to oblige.”

Leo shifted to the left, but so did James. He peered around James’s shoulder. “You want to go, Eddie?”

“That really something you want to do in front of Max and Cassidy?” James asked Eddie.

Eddie glanced at Max, who sat cross-legged on the grass raptly watching the unfolding scene, one small, grubby hand petting Zoe, James’s German shepherd/husky mix, the other holding a dripping red Popsicle.

“Cass is in the pool with Harper,” Eddie said, the latter being his girlfriend, Cassidy her three-year-old daughter. He spoke in his usual irritatingly slow way, as if thinking through each word before letting it out of his mouth. “And I could always send Max into the house for a few minutes.”

Max scrambled to his knees, and the action had Zoe jumping to her feet as well. “You always send me somewhere when you fight with Uncle Leo. Why can’t I watch?”

“Because you’ll lose respect for your uncle when you see him cry.”

Leo stepped forward. “We’ll see who ends up crying.”

Though he was honest enough with himself to admit there was a chance it would be him. Eddie was built like a tank, had fists like bricks, and could take a sock to the nose and keep coming at you.

Without so much as a glance Leo’s way, James slapped the back of his hand on Leo’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. “I’ll talk to him,” he said to Eddie. “See what bug is up his butt.”

Frowning, Leo glanced at Max. “Did I suddenly turn invisible?”

Wide-eyed, his dark hair in a newly minted Mohawk, his mouth stained red, the boy shook his head. “I can still see you.”

With one of his laconic shrugs, Eddie turned and walked away.

Leo sneered. “Wuss.”

James sighed, and before Leo could evade, wrapped his arm around Leo’s neck and squeezed. Hard. “Let’s chat.”

Leo struggled, but it was no use. James may have been the poster boy for mild-mannered good guy, but he knew how to put a headlock on someone and make it stick.

“James,” their mother said in the exasperated tone she’d perfected raising four children—Leo figured it was the teen years that had done her in, “what are you doing?”

James turned, dragging Leo along. Leo raised his head as much as possible to see Rose staring at them from her vantage point on the deck, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. A small crowd had gathered around her, including James’s wife, Sadie; Sadie’s sister, Charlotte Ellison; and Breanne.

“Just going to have a heart-to-heart with Leo,” James said, sounding way too cheerful for the situation.

Then again, if their positions were reversed, Leo would be feeling pretty damned chipper himself.

“You,” Leo spat out as James sent their audience a jaunty wave, “are a dead man.”

James whirled them around, forcing Leo to scramble for balance or wind up on his knees. With his free hand, James gave Leo a noogie. “Actually, I’ve never felt more alive.”

As if to prove it, he started whistling and didn’t stop until they turned the corner behind the garage.

Leo shoved James, stumbling when his brother’s arm suddenly loosened. “What the hell is your problem?”

“My problem? You’re the one going all rogue on the basketball court. Far as I can tell, I just saved you from getting your fat head beat in.”

“I can handle Eddie.”

“I wasn’t talking about Eddie.”

“Neil won’t do anything.” That was the problem. No matter how much Leo baited the other man, he never lost control.

“Neil’s not the one I was talking about, either. Maddie’s pretty pissed at you.”

Leo twisted the lid onto his empty water bottle. Untwisted it. “She’ll get over it.”

She couldn’t stay mad at him. No one, especially not anyone female, ever could.

“You’ve been acting weird ever since you got here,” James said, watching Leo carefully. “What’s going on?”

He began to pace, but couldn’t rid himself of the edginess riding him like some howling monkey. “Nothing’s going on.”

Christ, couldn’t a guy have an off day? Just because he wasn’t all charm and humor didn’t mean something was wrong.

“Charlotte was telling me and Sadie about that car accident on Langmaid Lane last night. The one involving those two college girls.”

Leo’s stomach pitched. The water he drank threatened to come back up. His brother’s tone was neutral, his expression clear, as if they were discussing something as irrelevant as the Steelers’ chances of making the playoffs this year.

“She mentioned how upset she was, how upset everyone in the E.R. was that they lost the driver.”

A cold sweat formed between Leo’s shoulder blades. He pulled his shirt on, but still felt chilled. Sick with unnamed emotion. With regret. “Char’s an E.R. nurse. She understands they sometimes lose a patient.”

As a firefighter and EMT, Leo knew that as well.

But knowing it sure as hell didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“She said you were at the scene of the accident,” James continued, drilling for information, trying to get inside Leo’s head, inside his thoughts. Wanting Leo to spill his guts—as if that would do any of them any good. “First one there, actually. And you stayed with the victim the entire time.”

Leo’s hands shook. He curled his fingers, once again hearing the crackle of plastic from the water bottle while his nails dug into his other palm until he felt the bite of pain. Victim. That’s all she was to James. All she’d be to most people who would read about the single-car accident in tomorrow’s edition of the Shady Grove Times. A faceless victim. A tragedy.

“She had a name,” Leo managed to say, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Sam. Her name was Sam.”

Samantha Coles. She’d been young, barely twenty-two, her cheeks still holding the softness of youth. When he and his partner had arrived on scene, she’d been trapped, the front of her crumpled car wedging her between the steering wheel and her seat. Leo had assessed her injuries, and kept her calm while the rest of the team had worked to free her.

Blood had stained her clothes, her brown hair. Her face had been bruised, her body cut and broken. But her green eyes had been clear. Through it all—the horrible noise and her own pain—she’d kept calm.

Had trusted him to help her. Had believed him when he’d said she’d be okay. That he’d save her.

“I wasn’t with her the entire time,” he continued, his voice strained, though he fought to sound casual. “Once we brought her to the hospital, the E.R. staff took over.”

“Charlotte also mentioned that when you heard Sam hadn’t made it, you punched the wall.”

Leo opened and closed his fist. It still ached.

There had been no censure in James’s tone, no judgment. Only compassion and pity.

And that was even worse.

“You ever see someone die?” Leo asked quietly, knowing the answer before James shook his head. “I have. More than a few. It gets to you sometimes, but you deal with it. Compartmentalize it and move on to the next case, the next person who needs help.”

It was what he did, what he lived for. It was what made him different from his siblings—carpenters, all three. What made him who he was.

James clapped a hand on Leo’s shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

Hell, no. What good would talking do? It wouldn’t turn back time so that they reached Sam and her friend earlier. Wouldn’t stop Sam from checking her phone or taking that curve too fast. Wouldn’t bring her back to life.

No, rehashing it wouldn’t do anyone any good. Least of all Leo.

“Can’t,” Leo said, stepping back so James’s hand fell to his side. “I need to get home and grab a shower before I go to the station. Tell Mom and Dad I had to leave for work, would you?”

Without waiting for James’s response, Leo walked away, kept his stride unhurried and relaxed, though he wanted to run, wanted to escape as quickly as he could before James tried more psychobabble crap. Or worse, dragged a few family members in on his attempt to get Leo to open up to them, tell them all his thoughts and feelings.

A young woman had died last night. He’d witnessed it. How the hell did they think he felt?

He passed Maddie’s truck and pulled his keys from the front pocket of his cargo shorts. The only reason he’d even come to the picnic was because he hadn’t wanted to be stuck at his place alone with his thoughts and memories. He’d figured being surrounded by people and conversation, laughter and food, would help settle the unease rolling through him, the tension, the feeling that, while he’d done all he could for Samantha, he should have found a way to do more.

He slid behind the wheel of his car, turned on the ignition. And wished he’d stayed home.

* * *

WHEN ANDREW BOUNDED down the stairs, Penelope was sitting at the dining-room table. His hair was still damp and curling at the ends, a tiny piece of toilet paper stuck to a cut on his chin. He’d changed into loose gray shorts and one of the clean T-shirts she’d hung in his closet, his favorite sweatshirt slung over his shoulder.

“It’s curious to me,” she said, her voice sounding surprisingly loud to her own ears, “how anxious you were to leave and yet it took you over an hour and a half to get ready.”

He gave her one of his ill-mannered shrugs. “Car keys.”

Raising her eyebrows, Penelope took off her reading glasses. “Is that a declarative comment? Or an inquiry into the keys’ whereabouts?”

“Can’t you talk like a normal person instead of a librarian? Curious. Anxious. And no one says declarative. Or inquiry.” He frowned and scratched his cheek. “Except for judges and lawyers and stuff.”

“Thank you for that.” She picked up her wineglass only to discover it was empty. Well, that would just not do. She leaned forward, the edge of the table digging into her sternum, the tips of her fingers grazing the bottle of chardonnay. Grunting softly, she stretched and snagged the bottle by its neck. Dragged it toward her, then waved it in her son’s general direction. “It is so enjoyable to be critiqued on my vocabulary by a child who calls everyone dude—including his mother—and uses the word duh as an answer to most questions, as well as a pithy response to any conversation someone beyond the age of twenty might attempt to have with him. Next you can educate me on the finer points of eye-rolling, sarcastic comebacks and a general disrespect for authority. It’ll be such a good time.”

He went still. Studied her. “You’re acting weird,” he finally said. “I mean, you know, more than usual.”

Lovely.

She started to roll her eyes, but then realized she couldn’t very well lecture him on the disrespectful gesture if she did it herself, so she pretended to find the ceiling extremely fascinating.

“I’m fine,” she said, feeling no desire to assure him when, in all honesty, he didn’t sound worried, but more...put out. Then again, when was he ever concerned about her feelings?

She poured wine into her glass, the bottle significantly lighter than when she’d opened it not thirty minutes ago. How had that happened? She’d only had a glass...or had it been two? She gave an inner shrug. And took a healthy sip.

Having lost her appetite knowing she’d be dining alone, she’d opted to catch up on some of the work she’d brought home. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been able to concentrate, not with her out-of-control emotions clouding her thoughts. Wine was a surprisingly effective remedy for what ailed her.

Even if the numbers on the laptop screen were now a bit blurry.

It was an interesting discovery, and one she could have made years earlier had she ever allowed herself to have more than one glass of the wonderful stuff.

“Mom!”

She jumped and, horror of horrors, had wine sloshing over the edge of the glass and onto her hand. She sucked it from her fingers. “Why are you yelling?”

Andrew gaped at her as if she were the one who’d lost her ever-loving mind. “Because I’ve asked you the same question twice and you haven’t answered me.”

She blinked at him. Why was he so upset? Teenagers. Lord only knew what got into their heads sometimes. “I already told you, I’m fine.”

Better than fine. She actually felt...good. Light and floaty and sort of free. As if all her worries had simply drifted away. Although oddly enough, for all her floaty feelings, her eyelids were becoming heavy. It was increasingly difficult to keep them open.

Andrew’s narrow gaze flicked from her, to the glass, to the bottle. “Are you...are you drunk?”

She whipped her head around and leaped to her feet, but had to grab the table so she didn’t topple over. Just a rush of dizziness from standing too quickly, she assured herself. “Of course not. I do not get drunk. I have never been drunk. Not once in my life.”

And why she was speaking so slowly and carefully, she had no idea.

Andrew smirked—oh, how she hated it when the boy smirked. “Whatever.”

She bristled and straightened, lifting her hands from the table as if to prove to both of them she was not only capable of maintaining her balance, but sober enough to do so. “Andrew, you know how I feel about drinking to excess.”

“I know how you feel about everything. Every. Damn. Thing.”

What was wrong with that? She made her expectations clear, let him know her thoughts, views and opinions on the matters that were important. Her views on drinking—especially underage drinking—smoking, drug use and sex may be conservative, but there was nothing wrong with making good, smart, responsible choices and respecting your body.

“Why all this concern about my sobriety?” A thought occurred to her. “Will there be drinking at this picnic?”

“You caught me,” he said as he flipped his sweatshirt from one shoulder to the other. “I’m just trying to divert attention from the fact that Luke’s mom bought a keg so her son and all his friends can get wasted. Too bad she drew the line at hiring those strippers we asked for.”

“The scary part is I’m not entirely sure you’re joking.”

His answer to that was, yes, one of his impressive eye rolls. “Keys?”

“On the hook by the door.” Where they always were. Well, where she always put them. He, on the other hand, seemed to have a hard time remembering to hang them up after using her car. One time she even found them in the freezer.

She prayed he remembered to brush his teeth every day. No need to worry about him using deodorant, though. Or aftershave. The child splashed the potent stuff on like it was some sort of muscle-building, beard-growing, girl-catching elixir.

The room spun. Which was incredibly strange as she hadn’t actually moved. Maybe wine on an empty stomach hadn’t been the best idea. Lesson learned.

She’d always excelled at learning her lessons. And not making the same mistakes twice.

While Andrew texted someone, she pulled the raw turkey burgers from the fridge, then crossed to the double doors and stepped out onto the patio. Inhaled the warm air. There. That helped. A little food, a little fresh air and her head would clear right up.

She set down the plate, then knelt and turned on the gas to the grill.

“Bye,” Andrew said, stepping outside.

“Hold it.” She straightened—too fast, it turned out, as the world pitched and spun. “Were you born in a barn?”

“Seeing as how you were there, you’d know that better than me.”

“Ha-ha. Close the door.”

While he did, she shut her eyes for a moment, got her bearings. “I don’t recall you asking for permission to take the car.”

“I figured you wouldn’t mind,” he said, jiggling the keys, “since you’re not going anywhere.”

Irritation pricked her, dimming some of her previous glow. She couldn’t fault his logic—after all, she had nowhere to go. But did he have to rub it in? Her foot began tapping in agitation as if of its own accord. She wasn’t jealous of him. That would be ridiculous. She was thrilled beyond measure he’d made friends. That he didn’t have her shyness, her awkwardness around others. And it wasn’t as if she was a complete social pariah. There were a few women in the office she chatted with. Sometimes.

When they initiated the conversation.

“I’m not going anywhere, but seeing as how it’s my car, it’d be nice if you asked first.”

She winced. That had sounded close to...well...whiny was the only way to describe it. She pulled her shoulders back. She wasn’t a whiner. She was a doer.

A doer with absolutely no social life whatsoever.

How wonderful.

Andrew shifted, impatient to be gone. “Can I take the car?”

She wanted to say no, but that would be petty. Besides, if he didn’t drive himself, she’d have to take him. And she was seriously considering a third glass of wine, since what she’d had already was making her feel...not quite happy...but certainly no worse for the wear. “I suppose.”

He brushed past her. “See ya.”

“At nine,” she reminded him, since he’d had a hard time lately remembering when his curfew was. He didn’t even acknowledge she’d spoken, just descended the two wooden stairs and crossed to her car in the driveway. He climbed in, buckled up, then, with the sound of the radio thumping much louder than was necessary, he carefully backed into the road.

“You’re welcome,” she muttered. So glad to see he appreciated her letting him go to Luke’s, use her car and avoid her company for yet another day.

Didn’t matter, she assured herself. She was fine on her own. She’d have a nice dinner, catch up on her work and maybe even finish the bottle of wine. Why not? Everyone else seemed perfectly content to indulge in bad behavior once in a while.

Maybe it was time she joined the party.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she had to worry about giving her teenager the wrong impression since the child preferred to spend his time anywhere and with anyone but her.

Frowning, feeling more than a little sorry for herself, she jabbed at the grill’s ignition button, though something in the back of her mind told her not to.

Too late. There was a loud boom and the lid flew open as a wall of flame engulfed her.

CHAPTER THREE

“I THOUGHT YOU were dead.”

With a groan she fervently hoped wasn’t audible, Penelope eased onto one of the two high-backed stools at her wide kitchen island. “So you said,” she murmured. “Several times.”

More like twenty, but who was counting?

Well, yes, she was counting, but she doubted her young guest was.

“No,” Gracie Weaver said somberly, shutting the door to the deck. The girl had gone out to make sure the grill was off. “I mean I seriously thought you were dead. Really, completely dead.”

Penelope frowned, but her face felt sunburned and any movement or twitch hurt so she schooled her expression. “Is it possible to be sort of dead?”

She winced—another painful moment—and wished she could see her words floating in the air so she could grab them back before they reached Gracie’s ears. The last thing she wanted was to encourage her neighbor’s sixteen-year-old daughter to continue this inane conversation.

Maybe if she pretended to die—really and completely—the teen would go on her way.

“Oh, it’s very possible.” Gracie opened and shut several cabinet doors, her movements comfortable, as if she went through a stranger’s cupboards on a daily basis. “I once read an article in Reader’s Digest or National Geographic or something about this man who was in a coma for two months, but, get this—” she stood on her toes, the heels of her bright pink flip-flops lifting from the ground as she reached for a glass on an upper shelf “—he could hear everything going on around him. His brain was completely working the entire time. Can you imagine, being trapped in your own body, your mind working, but being unable to get your body to do what it wanted? Not being able to escape?”

Penelope glanced wistfully at the door. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

Gracie filled the glass at the sink and carried it over to Penelope. “Here. You should drink something so you don’t go into shock or get dehydrated.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works.” But to appease—and hopefully silence—the girl, Penelope took a small sip of water, the trembling of her hand barely noticeable.

She still wasn’t sure what had happened. One minute she’d been having a nice little alcohol-induced pity-fest and the next, she’d been flat on her back, the scents of propane and singed hair filling her nostrils. Her head had spun, her face stung and a low, annoying thrum filled her ears. But it hadn’t been all bad. She was, for the most part, unharmed. And lying on the sun-warmed deck, blinking at the puffy white clouds drifting across the sky, her thoughts still pleasantly blurred by that last glass of wine, had been sort of calming. Peaceful.

Until Gracie arrived.

By then, Penelope had struggled to a sitting position and had only been catching her breath, getting her bearings. But Gracie had insisted on helping Penelope get inside—though Penelope took great pride in standing on her own two feet, on making her own way.

Now her little savior wouldn’t leave her alone. And Penelope, never any good at asking for what she wanted, had no idea how to get rid of her.

“I really am fine. I appreciate you checking on me,” she added in case she’d come across as ungrateful. Or worse, rude. “I’m sure you have better things to do today than worry about me.”

Worry. Annoy. Why quibble?

“Not really. Besides, you shouldn’t be left alone. You might have a concussion. Or internal injuries.”

“I don’t.”

“But you could,” Gracie said, studying her with a gaze that was way too direct, way too adult for someone so young. It was unnerving. “And you wouldn’t even know until you fell unconscious or started coughing up blood or something.”

“That’s a disturb—”

“Are you hungry?” Gracie asked. “I could make you something to eat.”

“I’m—”

“That’s probably stupid, huh? I mean, you just had a near-death experience—”

“I wouldn’t say I was anywhere near—”

“The last thing you want is a snack, right? Then again, you might want to celebrate being alive and I noticed you have brownies—”

“Really, I don’t—”

“—and what better way to celebrate still being among the living than with some chocolate?”

Penelope wanted to cover her ears and beg Gracie to be quiet, just for a moment, but the determined and talkative girl walked over to the pan next to the stove.

Humming the same Fray song Penelope had danced to earlier, Gracie brought the brownies to the island, then once again invaded Penelope’s privacy by searching through several kitchen drawers.

Penelope slumped. She surrendered. A woman had only so much fight in her, and she’d used up her stores with her son.

Her home was being overrun by a five-foot-two-inch wisp of a girl in cuffed jean shorts and a floaty white peasant top. A thick floral headband held back Gracie’s light brown hair, the riotous curls reaching her waist.

Penelope couldn’t imagine the time and effort needed to take care of that much hair. Her father believed long hair was nothing more than vanity. Her mother—whose own hair was still kept in the same short, layered style she’d worn since her college graduation in 1970—thought it was too much work.

Touching the ends of her chin-length hair, Penelope set her elbow on the counter. Even after she’d been on her own, independent in every possible way, she’d never let her hair grow past her shoulders.

Almost as if she was trying to gain her parents’ approval.

Still.

She dropped her hand and straightened. Absurd. Years ago she’d realized she no longer needed to prove anything to her parents. She didn’t care what they thought of her if they were proud of her.

If they loved her.

She could grow her hair as long as she pleased. Could color it and wear makeup and dress in any manner she so chose.

Except thirty-eight counted as middle-aged. Long hair would now be inappropriate.

Wonderful. She was old, haggard, divorced and unappreciated by her only child. Gracie was right. She really did need a brownie.

With a soft aha, Gracie faced her, waving a small spatula in the air. “Molly says chocolate is the perfect food, good for any and all occasions. Celebrations...commiserations...breakups and makeups...”

Using the spatula, Gracie cut into the dessert, whacking away at the chocolate all willy-nilly so that a few brownies were huge, a few were tiny and none were all-four-sides-are-perfectly-equal squares, as brownies should be.

Curling her fingers into her palms, it was all Penelope could do not to grab the pan and save her dessert from such butchery. How difficult was it to cut straight, neat lines?

Gracie dug out a huge, misshapen brownie and set it on a napkin. “Here you go.”

Penelope glanced from the dessert in Gracie’s hand up to the cheery, expectant grin on her face. “Thank you.”

Then she broke off a corner and popped it into her mouth because Molly—Penelope’s neighbor and Gracie’s stepmother—was right. There was never any occasion that didn’t go well with chocolate.

Even occasions such as suffering first-degree facial burns, being ditched by your own son, and, oh, yes, being alone while everyone else had somewhere to go and people who actually wanted to spend the day with them.

The bite stuck in her throat so she took another one to try to push it down. No need to feel sorry for herself. She was fine. Things could have been much worse, after all. She was healthy and whole and not seriously injured.

She ran her fingertips over her eyebrows. Still there.

See? She was just dandy.

But she’d been careless. Stupid. She really could have been seriously injured. Or killed.

All because she’d let her emotions get in the way of her good sense. Had let Andrew’s behavior and attitude upset her to the point where she’d been unable to think of anything else.

She couldn’t be an effective parent if she took things so personally. If she let him hurt her feelings or make her angry. Composure. Control. Those were the traits she needed to focus on. They would help her do her job of raising a productive, well-adjusted, hardworking human being. One she could send out into society without guilt, doubts, regrets or fear.

She shoved more brownie into her mouth. It wasn’t helping. Maybe chocolate didn’t make things better. What she needed, she decided on a brilliant flash of insight, was another glass of wine.

And possibly one of the Valiums she’d been prescribed during the worst of Andrew’s illness. Of course, she’d had way too much pride to ever take any of the pills. Pride that was currently crumbling faster than her brownie.

Wine was definitely the lesser of the two evils.

She slipped off the stool and crossed to the table, snagging her glass and the bottle. On her return trip she wove a bit, her steps not exactly steady. Perhaps Andrew was right. Perhaps she had imbibed a little too much alcohol.

Except she didn’t feel drunk. She felt quite good—other than her twinges of self-pity, her stinging face and her sore rear from landing so hard. She certainly wasn’t acting drunk. No dancing topless on the table, no wearing a lamp shade on her head. She had complete control still.

She set down the bottle, then sipped from her glass. Glanced over to see Gracie staring at the pan of brownies with undisguised longing. “Would you like one?”

Gracie smiled and it lit her entire face. She wasn’t what Penelope would call a pretty girl—took one plain Jane to know a plain Jane, after all—but she was cute with her wild hair and big gray eyes.

“I’d love one, but I’m a vegan. I don’t eat any meat products, and that includes eggs and dairy. Well,” she continued, as if Penelope had asked her to go on, which she definitely had not, “actually, I only decided to start practicing veganism last week. My dad, of course, thinks it’s stupid, but then he’s a carnivore right down to the barbaric practice of hunting animals—like going out and shooting a helpless deer makes him some sort of alpha male. Molly says it’s his way of providing for his family, but I figure it’s easier and costs less for him to go down to Pineview Market and pick up a package of ground beef, you know?”

No, Penelope didn’t know. Just as she didn’t know how to respond to Gracie. How to act or react with the girl around. She was much happier on her own, taking care of herself and Andrew. She didn’t need or want help.

“I’m not sure—”

“Besides, no one I know even likes the taste of the animals he brings home. I mean, who eats rabbit, squirrel or venison? If it was that good, they’d have it in the stores, am I right? But he just laughs, like my beliefs and ideas are some big joke, so I decided to counterbalance his overabundance of meat consumption by going vegan.” Gracie slid another longing look at the brownies. “I’ve been good, too. I mean, Friday it was super hard because I forgot my lunch and it was pizza day—which is the only decent food they serve at school—but I held firm and I was really proud of my willpower.”

“Well,” Penelope said, shifting in her seat. Did the girl want a pat on the back or the go-ahead to forget her convictions this one time? “If you’re sure—”

“Then again, I haven’t eaten dinner yet on account of my entire family going to my grandmother’s for a picnic, which, let me tell you, Molly was not happy about. Not that I blame her. Grandma can be so mean. Like last time she actually told Molly she was gaining too much weight even though she’s the same size she’s been at this stage with all the other pregnancies. Molly started crying, right then and there, and Dad just sort of stood there like he had no clue what to do or say. I mean, how hard is it? Your mother insulted your wife. Your pregnant wife. The woman who popped out five—and counting—sons for you. Say something. But he didn’t so I had to step in and then I got in trouble for being mouthy and disrespectful to my grandmother. Where’s the justice in that?”

Was Penelope supposed to answer that? “Thanks again for helping me. I really am feeling—”

“So, I’m sure a brownie would make me feel way better about being abandoned on a holiday by my own family,” Gracie continued, as if she had no intention of ever running out of steam, breath or words. “And it’s not like you actually told me you used eggs or butter to make these.”

She stared at Penelope as if waiting for something. Penelope had no idea what. Denial? Confirmation? She couldn’t read minds, after all, and was horrible at deciphering expressions. Oh, how she hated these situations. Social situations, which, oddly enough, this one definitely qualified as. She was always insecure and out of her element. It didn’t help that her hair smelled singed and the pleasant, buzzed feeling she’d had was fading to a pounding headache.

She gulped more wine, then refilled her glass.

She could tell Gracie that of course she’d used butter and eggs. Who made brownies without those ingredients? And why would you want to?

But she respected the girl’s determination to stick to her guns and eat healthy.

Plus, if she told Gracie the brownies were definitely not vegan-friendly, maybe, just maybe, the girl would leave, go to her own house.

Her empty house. Then they would both be alone.

How depressing was that?

“No,” Penelope finally said, “I didn’t tell you there were animal products in the brownies.”

“In that case, and without any verbal proof or confirmation, I’ll have a small one.” Wrinkling her nose, Gracie nodded. “Half a one. Just a bite, really.” She cut a tiny piece from the pan and ate it. “Two bites. Two bites can’t hurt, right?”

“Thanks, again, for the help,” Penelope said, standing so she could usher the girl out the door. “I don’t want to keep you from this gorgeous, sunny day.”

Gracie waved that away. And ate another bite of brownie. “I was just reading in my room. I have to be careful because I burn really easily and with all the new research on the hazards of too much sun exposure, I prefer to stay inside.”

Penelope hung her head. She felt foggy. Her thoughts not quite clear. If they were, she’d be able to think of a way to get rid of Gracie—in a polite, careful manner, of course. Her ears started to ring. No, she thought, frowning, not ring, more like...blare.

Like...she lifted her head, her eyes wide. Sirens.

“You called 911?” she asked, incredulous and horrified at the very idea, even as the small part of her brain that was still functioning logically wondered why it had taken the emergency responders so long to arrive. Definitely something she needed to take into account if something ever happened to Andrew.

Gracie, in the act of eating yet another brownie, dropped the spatula guiltily. Nodded. “When I was outside turning off the gas to the grill.”

Penelope checked her watch, squinting to make out the numbers. Approximately eight minutes for them to get here from across town. Not bad, she had to admit. Though five minutes would have been better.

The siren got louder. And louder. Closer and closer.

She did a mini twirl, her mind telling her to escape, her feet having no idea what she was doing. No. No, no, no. The last thing she needed was everyone in Shady Grove knowing she’d done something so completely stupid. And they would. She’d lived here for less than a year, but she already knew the paper was notorious for printing things like this, usually smack-dab on the front page.

Oh, dear Lord, she could imagine the headlines: Local Accountant Left Heartbroken and Alone After Son Refuses to Spend Time With Her. Almost Blows Her Own Head Off to End Her Grief.

She’d die of embarrassment.

No. She definitely did not want the fire department here, parked in her driveway for the entire neighborhood to see. Did not want them trying to help her. She was fine. Slightly charred, yes, but overall no real harm done.

The sirens were close now, the sound incredibly loud. Gracie hurried toward the front door as if she owned the place, her flip-flops slapping in the most irritating way.

“This way,” she told someone.

A moment later, she returned followed by a tall, darkly handsome firefighter—in boots, a heavy jacket and even a helmet—looking as if he was ready to battle a raging inferno instead of dealing with a now stone-cold grill.

“This is a nightmare,” Penelope whispered, shutting her eyes. “A complete and utter nightmare.”

“Are you kidding?” Gracie asked breathlessly, her eyes dreamy as she stared at the good-looking man. “If I’d known the local firefighters looked like that, I would’ve let that stove fire keep burning last year instead of putting it out with the extinguisher.”

Penelope doubted all the firefighters in town looked like the one approaching her. He was one of those guys. Too handsome, with dark, wavy hair visible underneath the helmet, deep brown eyes and a charming, boyish grin.

One that said, why yes, I do know I’m God’s gift to women. Drink it in, ladies. Drink it in.

The worst kind to a woman’s sense of self, willpower and virtue.

Not her, of course. Other women. She was too old for him. Had too many responsibilities and more important things to focus on in her life other than dating or, heaven forbid, a relationship.

Especially when she’d already proved she wasn’t any good at them.

“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m Leo Montesano with the Shady Grove Fire Department. Could you tell us where the grill is?”

Ma’am. See? Even he knew she was too old for him.

Why she was disappointed and a little ticked off, she had no idea.

It must have been that disappointment that had her taking a moment to realize what he’d asked—and that he wasn’t alone. A huge bear of a man, his wide face as ordinary as the dark-haired one’s was extraordinary, stood behind the younger firefighter.

All she could do was lift her hand and point to the door.

“I’m on it,” the second fireman said, heading out the French doors.

“Could you tell me what happened?” Firefighter Montesano—or whatever title he went by—asked, taking his helmet off.

Even mussed, his hair was perfect, dark as night and waving sinfully, almost artfully, around that sculpted face.

“I was reading in my room,” Gracie blurted, stepping between them. “I had the window open because it’s such a nice day, when Leighann—that’s my best friend—called. She was upset, again, over her boyfriend. I was talking her through yet another romantic crisis—I mean, it’s obvious he only wants in her pants so I’m not sure why she’s so shocked each and every time they’re alone and he tries something and then he gets mad and storms off when she says no.” She frowned at the firefighter. “Are all guys like that? Or is it just a teenage thing? Because most of my friends have the same problem.”

Shedding his jacket, the firefighter raised his eyebrows at that overload of information, but didn’t seem embarrassed by the question. “I’m going to respectfully decline to answer that.”

She sighed as if in resignation—or else she was simply taking in the firefighter in all his six-foot-plus glory. And what glory it was. Broad shoulders, narrow waist and biceps that proved the man spent a great deal of time in the gym.

“Fine.” Gracie shrugged. “I’m only trying to get some insight into the inner workings of the adolescent male brain.”

He grinned and yes, it was even more potent than Penelope would have imagined.

“Believe me,” he told Gracie. “The last place you want to go poking around is a teenage boy’s mind.”

“Amen,” Penelope muttered so fervently she wouldn’t have been surprised to see a choir of angels drift down from the heavens to sing it with her.

Then again, if she could see into Andrew’s head, she might have a better idea why he hated her so much.

Sending that devastating grin her way, the firefighter helped her sit.

“Anyway,” Gracie said, “I was telling Leighann she needed to dump him when there was this big boom—”

“It wasn’t that big—” Penelope interjected.

“It was! It shook the windows. I hung up on Leighann and hurried over. By the time I got here, Ms. Denning was awake but like, stunned. The grill wasn’t burning or anything so after I helped her inside, I shut it off and called 911.”

“Smart thinking,” the firefighter told her.

“When you have five brothers under the age of eight, you learn the ins and outs of fire safety. The twins especially are fascinated with anything that burns. Or explodes,” Gracie said, helping herself to another brownie. “Still, I was terrified I’d find poor Ms. Denning dead or in flames when I got here.”

Poor Ms. Denning?

Penelope shut her eyes. She’d been called many things in her life—smart, reserved, aloof. Cold. But never poor Penelope. Not when she’d been a child and had moved ten times before her fourteenth birthday, forced to attend a new school almost every year, always the new, awkward girl no one wanted to sit with at lunch. Not when her marriage had fallen apart and Todd had found comfort in the arms of another woman. Not even when her son was so sick that many people, including his doctors, feared he wouldn’t make it.

She wasn’t someone to be pitied.

“I’d offer you a brownie,” Gracie said to the firefighter, “but I can see you take your physical health very seriously and probably don’t eat sweets or junk food or anything that, you know, tastes good. How many hours a day do you work out?”

Penelope caught his gaze. “Make it stop,” she whispered. “For the love of God, make it all stop.”

His grin broadened and he knelt in front of her. “I take it you’re Ms. Denning?”

“Yes. Penelope Denning.” She’d gone back to her maiden name a few months ago when her ex-husband had remarried. She hadn’t felt right being Mrs. Freeman anymore. Not when another woman also claimed that title.

She held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Montesano.”

A look of bemusement in his dark eyes, he shook her hand. His grasp was firm and warm. “You, too, Ms. Denning. And Leo is fine.”

She wondered if he was related to the people who ran Montesano Construction, a successful contracting firm in town. She assumed so, but hated to assume anything, and asking felt like prying. Small talk was part of the world, part of living and breathing and sharing the planet with other human beings.

It should be reserved for certain situations—workplace gatherings, social interactions such as parties and bridal showers that one couldn’t get out of, and horrendous first, second and third dates.

But small talk should not be a part of her day off.

“Look straight ahead for me.” He shone a light in her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

Stupid. Helpless. Both of which she hated. “I’m fine. Gracie is making it out to be worse than it was.”

“She was acting spacey,” Gracie said, peering around Leo’s arm, her mouth twisted in contemplation. “I think she may have been in shock.”

“I’m not in shock.” Penelope looked at the firefighter. “I’m not in shock. All of this fuss isn’t necessary.” Yes, she sounded a bit...strident...but it couldn’t be helped. “I did not almost die. I did not suffer any internal injuries or head trauma. All I want is to curl up on the sofa and relax.”

Her voice broke at the end, a low, desperate sound that could have been misconstrued as a sob. It was horrifying. Humiliating.

She simply wanted to be left alone.

Now a bubble of laughter rose in her throat. She clamped her lips together to make sure it didn’t escape. She’d lost her mind. That was the only excuse for her roller-coaster emotions. For wanting to be alone when she spent so much of her time on her own.

When she spent so much time being lonely.

The events of the past hour started pressing down on her, pushing on her chest, an unbearable weight forcing the air from her lungs. She felt her composure, her control slipping, sliding away from her grasp, faint as a wisp of smoke. Tears stung her eyes, made her throat ache.

“I think I left my cell phone on the deck,” she blurted, praying her phone—safely tucked in her pocket—didn’t ring. She looked at Gracie. “Would you mind looking for it?”

“No problem.” But she seemed reluctant to leave. “I’ll be right back.”

Gracie stepped outside and Penelope grabbed Leo’s hand and tugged him forward so their faces were only inches apart.

“Help me,” she whispered, her voice ragged and more than a little desperate. “Please, please help me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

PENELOPE DENNING WAS DRUNK.

Leo wasn’t a detective, but it didn’t take a shiny badge or a degree in criminal justice to figure out she’d enjoyed one too many glasses of the wine on the island. Her amber eyes were glassy and slightly unfocused, her speech slow and careful.

He’d give her a five on his personal Levels of Intoxication Scale. Not pass-out, blackout or even fall-down drunk. Just tipsy. And obviously careless with it.

He could have warned her that too much alcohol and gas grills didn’t mix. Actually, alcohol didn’t mix well with any item that contained a flammable liquid—lawn mowers and those damned turkey deep fryers especially, included.

He patted her hand, but she continued clutching him, her nails digging into his skin. “That’s what I’m here for,” he said soothingly. “To help you.”

He tried to ease away but her fingers tightened on him and she leaned forward, scooting so close to the edge of the stool she almost slid off. She caught her balance, perched there like a bird about to take flight.

“No.” Her clear voice trembled; her eyes took on a wild glint. “Help. Me.”

She tipped her head to the left—and about toppled herself off the stool. He steadied her, then followed her pointed gaze out the door where his partner, Forrest Young, had been joined by fellow firefighters Casper Rhett and rookie Simon DePaul. The teenage girl lifted a chair cushion and said something that had Casper fighting a smile, Simon turning white and Forrest letting out one of his huge laughs.

The girl had a way with words—and wasn’t afraid to use as many as humanly possible.

“While I’d love to help look for your phone,” Leo said to Penelope, “my search-and-rescue training has taught me only how to find people.”

His tone was easy and he even managed a grin, though he was sure it was strained. But then, he wasn’t some damned bloodhound with nothing better to do than find lost personal items.

She frowned, looking so confused he bumped her intoxication score up to six. “Why would you look for my phone?”

He patted her hand again, both to reassure her and in the hopes she’d get the hint and let go. The woman had a grip like a spider monkey. “Because you lost it.”

“I did not lose my phone,” she said, all kinds of indignant. “I don’t lose anything. I’m a very careful, responsible person.”

He took in her disheveled dark hair, her pink face and wrinkled clothes. “That’s obvious.”

She nodded, her expression saying, damn right.

Finally releasing him, she shifted, lifting her hips off the stool in a pelvic thrust that was so awkward, jerky and unsettling, he shut his eyes and tried to erase the memory from his mind. No woman should ever, ever move like that.

“See?” she continued, dragging her phone from her pocket. She waved it at him and he was surprised she didn’t stick out her tongue and add a triumphant Ha! “I told you I didn’t lose it.”

“Then why did you ask that girl to look for it?”

Penelope stared at him as if he was as simpleminded as his siblings always accused him of being. “You’re a firefighter, right?”

“That’s what it says on my shirt.”

“Exactly. You’re a hero. A real live-action figure. No one has a body like that except firefighters. And maybe marines. I mean...” She gestured at him. “Look at you.”

The back of his neck warmed. He scratched it. He knew what he looked like. Hell, females had been hitting on him since puberty struck in full force at the age of fifteen. And while he’d admit to having a healthy ego, it wasn’t as big as most people—mainly Maddie—thought. “That’s a little hard to do at the moment. How about I find a mirror as soon as we get you checked out?”

She rolled her eyes then slapped her hand over them. “Oh, my...did I...did I just roll my eyes?” she whispered.

“Yep.”

She groaned, the sound way sexier than it should have been. It was totally inappropriate and unprofessional, but for a moment—a brief, heated moment—his body tensed. Interest, attraction stirred.

He pushed it aside.

He didn’t flirt on duty.

“I hate when people do that,” she said.

It took him a moment to realize she wasn’t talking about men flirting with her. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, the eye-rolling thing is irritating as hell.” And, luckily, not something Bree had perfected yet. Though a few of the boys he coached on Shady Grove High School’s football team had it down to a science.

“I’m sorry,” she said, finally lowering her hand. “But you were placating me when I’m trying to make a valid point.”

He lifted her wrist, pressed his fingers against her pulse, tried to focus on the steady rhythm and not on how soft, how warm, her skin was. “Which is?”

She exhaled in exasperation, her breath washing over his cheek. “You’re trained to do heroic things, like run into burning buildings when everyone else is smart enough to run out.” She edged closer and under the cloying, lingering scent of propane, she smelled sweet, like lavender. “Leo, I want you to play hero for me.”

Though her words were throaty and cajoling, he doubted, very much, that she meant it the way it sounded. Which was fine. He wasn’t interested in her. Yeah, she was pretty enough with her dark complexion and light eyes and that little mole next to the right corner of her mouth.

Okay, maybe he was a little bit interested. He wasn’t dead, after all. And the image her words created in his mind—one of him, shirtless in only his uniform pants and suspenders, standing next to a bed where she reclined in a fire-red teddy that ended high on her tanned thighs—took hold and rooted deep.

He let his gaze skim down her legs to her bare, narrow feet, the toes painted a pale pink. She had great legs, curvy and muscular.

“I’m flattered,” he told her, unable to count the number of times he’d said that to a female while on call. “But it’s against regulations for me to fraternize with women while I’m working.”

Or at least, it was highly frowned upon.

He wouldn’t do so even if his captain gave him a notarized note telling him to go for it. His family thought he was a dog, some playboy who took any and every opportunity to make time with women. Not completely untrue, but he had his standards, whether they believed him or not. He didn’t hit on women under his care.

“Flattered? What are you...” Her eyes widened and she blushed, the color staining not only her cheeks but also her throat and the sliver of skin on her chest visible in the vee of her shirt. “You think I...that I want...” She shook her head, then reached up and held both sides of it as if afraid it would fall off her shoulders. “I’m not...I’m not flirting with you.”

He pulled his stethoscope from his bag. “My loss.”

She twisted her fingers together. “I do not flirt with men.”

“No? Just women?”

She laughed, a surprised, light burst of sound that washed over him, sweet and warm, like a ray of sunshine. He wanted to absorb that brightness, soak it into his skin, into his bones. Wanted it to dispel the coldness inside of him, to erase his memories of last night.

“I’m not gay. I just...I don’t flirt with men or women. I don’t flirt with anyone.” Her voice trailed off in resignation. Or disappointment. “At all.”

“That clears it up,” he murmured, his voice inadvertently husky. He skimmed his gaze from her long, side-swept bangs to her prominent cheekbones, then lingered on that mole. “Like I said...my loss.”

Her mouth opened on a soundless oh, her eyes wide.

He bit back a grin. Technically his comment, his demeanor, could be considered flirtatious, but he wasn’t big on technicalities.

“I couldn’t find it,” the teenager said as she stepped into the room. She pulled her own phone from her pocket. “Do you want me to try calling it?”

Penelope blanched; her guilt over her little white lie couldn’t have been clearer on her face if she’d written out a full-blown confession on her forehead in red marker. “Isn’t it silly? I had it in my pocket all along.”

The kid, a pixie in hippie clothes with hair to her waist, lifted a shoulder. “No problem. Are you sure I can’t fix you something to eat? Or I could do your dishes,” she said, crossing to the sink. “Maybe throw in a load of laundry for you?”

Penelope glanced at Leo. “Oh, I don’t need you to—”

“And when I’m done, I’ll grab a couple of movies from my house. You probably shouldn’t be alone.” The kid turned to Leo. “She shouldn’t be alone, right? If she has a head injury?”

Penelope’s sigh was as close to a whimper as Leo had ever heard from a human. She sent what could only be described as a long, yearning look at the bottle of wine.

And Leo finally got it.

Why the hell hadn’t she just said she wanted him to get rid of the kid for her? Women. Always wanting a man to read their minds, know their every thought and react accordingly.

Only to give the poor sap hell when he didn’t.

Wrapping his stethoscope around his neck, he stood. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name when I came in.”

“Gracie Weaver,” she breathed. But when she shook his hand, she made eye contact and didn’t send him any underage come-hither looks or step closer in order to brush against him. Unlike what a few of the bolder cheerleaders had done after their first scrimmage last week.

Thank you, sweet Jesus, for small favors and for young girls who didn’t hit on him. Amen.

“Weaver?” he asked. “Wes’s daughter?”

“The one and only.”

Far as Leo knew, she meant that literally. Last he’d heard, Wes and his wife, Molly, had enough sons to form their own basketball team.

He took the girl by the arm and led her toward the door. “You did a great job,” he told her. “Calling us, shutting off the grill and helping Ms. Denning inside. But HIPAA rules state that unless you’re related, or a legal representative of the patient, you can’t be present at this time.”

All bullshit, and if he wasn’t mistaken, something Gracie suspected, but unless she called him on it—and whipped out a copy of the HIPAA regulations—he was standing by his words.

He opened the French doors, avoiding Forrest’s smirk as he deposited Gracie on the deck. “I’m sure Ms. Denning is grateful for all your help.”

And he shut the door.

“You were a little rude to her.”

He crossed back to Penelope, who was giving him the time-honored death stare of doom.

Some days, a guy couldn’t win.

“Sometimes playing hero means being the bad guy.” He unwound his stethoscope and put the ear tips in. “Just going to listen to your lungs, make sure they’re clear.”

She sat rigidly, her hands on her thighs, her fingers curled. Everything sounded good.

“Gracie meant well,” she said.

“I’m sure she did.” He wound the stethoscope around his neck and straightened. “But it seemed to me you could use a break from her good intentions.”

“She was very helpful,” Penelope said, glancing nervously to the deck as if worried Gracie was going to return. “But she was quite...chatty. And pushy.”

“That can be a lot to take in. Especially when someone is having a rough day. She seems like a sweet girl, but it was obvious she was wearing out her welcome.”

“I think she’s lonely,” Penelope said softly. “Her parents went to some picnic and left her home by herself.”

“Wes—that’s her dad—is a good guy. And Molly, his wife, is as sweet as they come. I’m sure they didn’t abandon her. They love their kids.”

Her ill-natured shrug told him she was firmly on Gracie’s side in this imaginary battle she’d concocted between the teen and her folks—no matter that the kid had bugged the hell out of her. “So you’re close friends with them?”

“Nope.”

“Then how could you possibly know what emotions they do, or do not feel, toward their children?”

“I don’t,” he said simply. “But Shady Grove’s a small town with all sorts of ties among the people who live here. Some of those ties are personal—friendships, marriage, family. Some are professional. But even if you don’t know someone personally, chances are someone you know does. In this case, that someone would be my eldest brother and his wife. They went to school with Molly, hung out in the same crowd. And Wes is good buddies with my captain. So I know them well enough to say they wouldn’t ditch their kid. They’re decent, hardworking, caring people. And about as opposite as two people can be, which must be why their marriage works so well.”

“That is ludicrous. Not to mention highly unlikely. I would surmise that if they truly are as opposite as two people can be, their marriage will eventually crumble under the pressure of trying to hold up unrealistic expectations of success.”

Gripping both ends of his stethoscope, he leaned back. Tried to figure out what the hell was wrong with him. He should be put off by her prim and preachy tone, but he liked her light, clear voice too much, the way she spoke with such careful precision. And it was tough to get pissed at her haughty, patronizing expression when her hair was such a mess, her face pink.

Interest stirred again and this time, he didn’t fight it. Didn’t plan on acting on it, not at the moment anyhow. But that didn’t mean he could stop from finding her fascinating.

From wanting her to keep talking.

If only because, for the first time since he’d arrived at the accident scene last night, he felt...lighter.

Women had a way of doing that, of making a man forget his troubles and focus on other things. Things such as soft, sweet-smelling skin, lush curves and long kisses. All things he’d rather think about than what had happened last night to Samantha, the pain and grief her family was going through.

His sense of responsibility for their loss.

“I take it you’re not big on the theory that opposites attract,” he said.

“Hardly. Oh, people like to believe in that silly, romanticized notion, but in reality what holds a relationship together is commonality. Common interests.” She ticked the items off on her long fingers, one by one. “Common views on religion, politics, finances, child-rearing—”

“And sex,” he couldn’t help but add.

Her flush deepened, but she held his gaze, her chin lifted as if to prove he couldn’t fluster her. “Yes, naturally they should also have similar views about sex. What they shouldn’t believe is that simply because they have a satisfying physical relationship, they can work through other problems. For a relationship to succeed, a couple should have similar intellects in order for them to enjoy scintillating conversation, as well as interesting and intriguing debates. If they have similar tastes, they can share hobbies and enjoy the same types of film, shows and music. All of which will make it easier for them to want to spend time together.”

“That’s quite the theory,” he said, wondering about her romantic relationships. Was she in one? His gaze flicked to her left hand. No ring. No signs of a husband from what he could tell. But then, he’d seen only the hallway and kitchen. For all he knew, there could be a spouse lurking around somewhere, but something told him there wasn’t. “Most women believe in love and forever and happy endings.”

She snorted, then looked appalled, as if unable to believe the sound had actually come from her. “I’m all for love and forever. I also realize that happy endings require an immense amount of work and sacrifice, and if both people aren’t willing to pull their weight, none of it will be enough to make a doomed relationship last.”

She made relationships sound like a job, not something to be cherished and revered.

Like he’d said—fascinating.

She shook her head. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with why you’re here.”

“Not a thing.” But she was right. He needed to get back to work, focus on getting the details for his report, and make sure she really was as okay as she seemed and move on to the next case. He pulled out his notebook and pen. “Can you tell me what happened exactly?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

He tapped the notebook. “Gives me something to write in here. If I come back with blank pages, my captain gets cranky.”

She slumped back and crossed her arms. “I had a glass of wine.”

He waited, but when she didn’t elaborate, he asked, “And the wine made the grill explode?”

She sent him a bland stare. “I was simply explaining the events leading up to the...the...incident.” Chewing on her bottom lip, she cleared her throat. “I may have had more than one glass, but definitely less than three. I think.”

Holding his pen over the paper, he raised his eyebrows. “You lost count?”

“Of course not. I’m an accountant. Counting is what I do,” she said in an aggrieved tone. “Counting and adding and subtracting and reading tax law among other things. The point,” she said, “is that I am not drunk.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

She sniffed. “You didn’t have to. I can tell by your face. You look all...smug. And amused.”

“Smug?” he murmured. “That hurts.”

“Let me tell you something,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “While I may not be completely, one hundred percent sober, I am not inebriated.” She spoke with the slow enunciation of the drunk, but she handled the word with impressive skill. “I’d realized I should eat something and that was why I lit the grill in the first place. I’m not drunk,” she repeated, though way less vehemently. “I’m just...” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her eyes taking on a sadness that tugged at something deep inside of him. “I’m just having a really bad day.”

Compassion swept through him. Nothing new there. Taking care of others wasn’t just his job, it was his calling, one he was damned good at. He prided himself on his ability to sympathize with the people he helped, to understand what they needed most.

Penelope, with her sad eyes and that sexy mole, needed someone to make her day a little brighter, a little better.

She needed to know she wasn’t alone.

“Excuse me a minute,” he said before crossing to the French doors. He stepped outside and shut the door behind him. “Everything okay with the grill?” he asked Forrest.

“Hoses are still intact, no leaks or damage to them or the tank. Rhett and the rookie just left.”

“Good. Hey, can you give me ten minutes? Ms. Denning isn’t feeling well, but I think it’s only low blood sugar.” Low blood sugar. High alcohol content. Why split hairs? “I want to make sure she has something to eat, is feeling steadier before we take off.”

Forrest shook his head sadly. “You saving the world again, partner?”

“Not the whole world,” Leo corrected as he turned to go inside. “Just this one little corner.”

* * *

WITH HER HEAD resting on her folded arms on top of the island, Penelope shut her eyes. She needed a moment to get her bearings, to gather her thoughts, then she’d get on with her day.

Her awful, horrible day.

She could hardly wait.

A moment later, she jerked upright. Confused and disoriented, she glanced around, then frowned at the fuzzy image of Leo Montesano taking food out of her refrigerator. She must have dozed off. The thought of Leo witnessing her impromptu nap should have horrified her, but she had too many other things on her mind.

Such as why on earth he was still there.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Getting you something to eat.” He set the bowl of potato salad on the counter, reached back in for the caprese and taco salads. Carried them to the dining-room table, then crossed to her. “Let’s sit at the table.”

“This isn’t necessary,” she said, knowing she sounded ungrateful and prissy but unable to help it. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“That’s clear enough to see, but everyone needs help once in a while.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t have to know you. It’s my job to make sure you’re all right, and in a place like Shady Grove, we take care of each other.” He studied her and for some odd reason, it took all her willpower not to fidget. “Let me guess. You’re not from here.”

“No.” But she had been in town almost eight months. Long enough, she would think, to stop feeling like a tourist. An outsider. “But I lived here for six months when I was in middle school.”

Many, many eons ago.

Out of the dozen-plus places she’d lived during her lifetime, the six months she’d spent in Shady Grove had been, by far, the happiest. She’d felt a sense of peace, of belonging she’d never experienced before. She wanted that for Andrew.

Was it so wrong to want it for herself, as well?

“Since you’re new to town,” Leo said, “let me show you how we take care of our own.”

He helped her off the stool, kept his hand on her elbow, solicitous and polite, as he led her to the table. She sat, mainly because she had no idea what else to do. When he headed into the kitchen, she slid her hands to her lap, hid them under the table and pinched her forearm.

Yes, it hurt. This was real. She was wide-awake, sitting at her table while a man handsome enough to give a movie star a run for his money searched her cabinets.

What on earth had happened to her life?

“I hate to repeat myself,” she said, “but what are you doing now?”

“Looking for...ah...” He pulled a plate from the cupboard. “Found it. Silverware?”

“Are you certain you don’t want to open and shut every drawer?” she heard herself ask, then was appalled, not only that she’d say something so blatantly rude and antagonistic, but that she’d sounded so petulant doing so.

But she’d already had one stranger rummaging through her personal items—as personal as kitchenware could be. Her patience was threadbare.

“I could,” he said, not sounding the least bit bothered by her rudeness. “But it’ll save us both time if you just tell me.”

“Next to the dishwasher,” she muttered. Where else would they be? It was the most convenient place for them.

He pulled out a fork, knife and serving spoon, then walked toward her. He set the plate in front of her, laid down the silverware and began opening containers.

Maybe she was still in shock. Or tipsier than she’d originally thought, because she sat there like a helpless idiot and let him pile food onto a plate. Noticing that the potato and taco salads were touching, she grabbed the plate and pulled it out of his reach. Used the fork to separate her food.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly. “But you really don’t have to do this.”

“That’s what neighbors do. They help each other. Good neighbors, anyway.”

Which let Penelope know, in a quiet yet still scolding way, that she was not being a good neighbor. Or, at least, a polite one. Shame filled her. See? She was horrible at this, this whole...social interaction thing. “I prefer to handle things on my own.”

It was safer that way. No one could let you down if you didn’t depend on them. And you couldn’t disappoint them, either.

“Today,” he said quietly, “you don’t have to.”

A lump formed in her throat and she dropped her gaze. She was being rude. Rude and inconsiderate and, worse, ungrateful, while he treated her with nothing but kindness.

She shouldn’t want his sympathy. Surely she shouldn’t be soaking it in, but it wasn’t so horrible, letting someone else take the lead. Especially when she was so far out of her element. At work, she was fine dealing with people. She had her position and behaved accordingly. There were clear rules and guidelines of what was and wasn’t acceptable behavior.

Personal relationships—whether casual or intimate—were different. It was too difficult to discern her role.

“Why are you doing this? I mean, beyond the good neighbor reason. This—” she gestured toward the food “—seems to go beyond the boundaries of your job description.” She didn’t consider herself a suspicious person, but she was old enough, and wise enough, to realize good deeds often came with strings attached.

“Because I’m a nice guy. And because it really is my job to make sure you’re okay.”

Of course. What did she think? That he wanted to spend more time with her? That he was flirting with her?

She was way too pragmatic for such nonsense. While she didn’t underestimate her physical charms, she wasn’t a great beauty by any means. Nor did she possess the type of overt sexuality that inspired flirtatious banter, longing looks or heated seduction. Especially from a man several years younger and at least three steps above her on anyone’s looks scale.

Not that it bothered her. Much.

“Go on,” he continued with a nod toward her plate. “Take a few bites for me.”

Her eyes narrowed. She could do without that condescending tone, but if the only way to get rid of him was to eat, she’d gladly lick the plate clean.

“Would you care to join me?” she muttered, sounding about as ungracious and inhospitable as one could get. Sounding, she realized with an inner sigh, like Andrew.

Leo sent her a lethal grin and she couldn’t help but think he was laughing at her. “Thanks, but I ate earlier at my folks’ place.” He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the slight bruise at the corner of his mouth. “Besides, my jaw’s still sore. I’m not sure I’m up to chewing at the moment.”

“Were you injured in the line of duty?”

“Nothing that dangerous. Or exciting. My sister punched me.”

In the act of slicing a neat piece of tomato, Penelope froze. “Excuse me? Did you say your sister hit you?”

“Punched me,” he said, as if that made a difference. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t the first time, and knowing Maddie’s temper, it won’t be the last.”

She couldn’t wrap her head around his words—or how nonchalant he was about the whole thing. What sort of woman physically attacked her own brother?

“Do you have any siblings?” he asked.

“A brother. Patrick.” She couldn’t imagine ever resorting to violence against him. She and Patrick respected each other, gave each other their space. Easy enough to do when they hadn’t seen each other in two years...or was it three? She couldn’t even remember the last time they’d spoken. Knew she hadn’t talked with her parents since Christmas.

Did they ever miss her? Did they regret not having her in their lives?

She stabbed a chunk of potato, any appetite gone.

“Hey,” Leo said, frowning at her in concern. “You okay?”

She couldn’t even muster up a decent lie. Just shook her head. “I had all these plans for today,” she heard herself admit, and blamed her uncharacteristic desire to confess on the wine. “And they’re ruined.” She swallowed, but it still felt as if she had a pebble stuck in her throat. “Everything’s ruined.”

Leo touched the back of her hand, a gentle, reassuring brush of his fingers. “I’m sorry your day didn’t turn out the way you wanted.”

The sincerity in his tone undid her. Her throat closed as tears threatened. Tears. She hadn’t cried in years and had welled up several times today. But tears were useless. They didn’t solve anything, only left her blotchy, red-faced, and feeling silly and pathetic. Giving in to them, in front of a stranger no less, was a weakness she couldn’t afford. She had to stay strong. Control, of her life and her emotions, of her actions and reactions, was all she had.

She couldn’t give it up. Not even for a moment.

Her lower lip quivered and she stood quickly, pushing back her chair with such force it wobbled precariously before settling on four legs again. “Excuse me, please,” she murmured, already hurrying toward the small bathroom around the corner.

She’d just flipped on the light when the first tear escaped. Locking the door, she sniffed, tried to hold on to her composure, but it was no use. So she slid to the floor, hugged her knees to her chest, lowered her head and gave in.

CHAPTER FIVE

LEO STARED AT Penelope’s empty seat, then craned his neck to look around the corner where she’d disappeared. Scrubbed a hand through his hair. Hell. What had he gotten himself into? He had a habit—a bad one other people liked to point out—of jumping in with both feet, trying to do what was needed to fix any situation. It made him a damned good firefighter and EMT, but sometimes, his tendency to leap first got him into trouble.

Or into a weird, uncomfortable predicament. Like now.

Nothing he couldn’t handle, though.

His phone buzzed. He checked the text from Forrest.

ETA?

Rubbing the bruise on his mouth, Leo considered his current circumstances, then typed in ten min knowing he could drag that estimate out another five minutes before Forrest got on his case about them needing to head to the station. But as long as they didn’t get any emergency calls, Leo wasn’t in a hurry to leave. Not until he’d made sure Penelope was okay.

Call it a personal defect, but when a woman ran from the room in tears, he had to find out what was wrong. Had to help her.

Telling himself he was just doing his firefighterly duty, and that his desire to somehow comfort her had nothing to do with the way his gut had tightened at the sight of her tears, he walked into the living room. No sign of her. He frowned. He doubted she’d gone outside. She didn’t seem like the type of woman to let others see her in a vulnerable state—let alone someone who’d step out her front door looking anything less than completely put together.

Then again, he had only met her. For all he knew, she ran down the streets of Shady Grove barefoot and disheveled on a nightly basis.

But he doubted it. She was too self-contained. Too uptight.

And he was rarely wrong when it came to reading people. Especially women.

The sound of running water made him turn. He approached the closed door tucked under the stairs and tapped on the wood. “Ms. Denning? Are you all right?” When she didn’t answer, he knocked again. “Ms. Denning?”

The water shut off. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

He pursed his lips. Not exactly a confirmation that her physical and mental states were A-okay, but at least he now knew she was conscious and capable of communication. He’d give her two more minutes. If she didn’t come out on her own, he’d go in after her.

Deciding to give her some space and privacy, he returned to the kitchen. The counters were granite, the cabinets a glossy dark cherry, the tile floor Italian marble—or a really excellent facsimile—done in an intricate pattern. The walls were a soft yellow that carried into the bright and airy dining room. Splashes of green and blue accented both rooms in the form of knickknacks, wall hangings and a vase of cheerful flowers on the table. Whoever had done the remodeling did a good job—although his family would have done it better.

Just because he hadn’t wanted to be a part of Montesano Construction, had never wanted to spend his life pounding nails, hauling boards and installing windows, didn’t mean he wasn’t biased when it came to the work they did.

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