He just wanted things the way they’d been.

When they’d been as comfortable and familiar as a pair of old, beloved boots.

He dropped his hand and looked at Tabby from the corner of his eye. “If I let you punch me in the nose, would you finally get over your anger?”

She stabbed her fork into her pie, seeming to focus fiercely on it. “We’re not five.”

“We were nine.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I remember it vividly, since you managed to break it.”

“I never intended to break your nose,” she muttered.

“I know.” He waited a beat. “We survived that. So can’t we survive another kiss, even one—I hate to admit—as badly executed as the last one was?” It had been a helluva lot more than a kiss, but he didn’t figure she wanted to get into that territory any more than he did.

“It doesn’t matter. It was years ago.”

He leaned over the arm of his chair toward her. His gaze caught on the wedge of creamy skin showing between the unbuttoned edges of her shirt. Stupid, because there wasn’t anything like that between him and Tabby.

Except that one time they were both trying not to think about.

A frequent name on bestseller lists, ALLISON LEIGH’s high point as a writer is hearing from readers that they laughed, cried or lost sleep while reading her books. She credits her family with great patience for the time she’s parked at her computer, and for blessing her with the kind of love she wants her readers to share with the characters living in the pages of her books. Contact her at www.allisonleigh.com.

The BFF Bride
Allison Leigh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my daughters and the fine young men who love them.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

Nineteen years ago

“Come on, Tabbers.” The boy holding the chains of the swing leaned closer to her and grinned. His weird bluish-purple eyes were full of mischief. And goading.

But that was something Justin Clay had always been good at.

Goading. And a whole lot of it.

Usually, it led to her getting her rear end in trouble with her mom and daddy.

“I told you. I go by Tabitha now,” she said firmly. She’d just turned nine. Tabitha seemed more fitting than Tabby, much less Tabbers.

Justin’s eyebrows skyrocketed, and he hooted with laughter, giving the swing’s chains a shove so that she shot backward then forward again so unevenly that her bare toes dug into the sand beneath the school’s swing set.

“That’s bat-crap crazy. You’re Tabbers,” he said with the annoying superiority he’d developed lately. Catching her chains again, he stopped her forward progress with such a jolt that her chin snapped against her chest. “And you might as well just kiss me. It’s gonna happen, one way or another.”

She glared at him. “You made me bite my tongue.”

If anything, he looked even more devilish. “You going to cry about it?”

She curled her lip. “Not ’cause of you, that’s for sure. And I’m not gonna kiss you just so you can make Sierra Rasmussen jealous!”

His eyebrows drew together. “You’re my best friend,” he complained. “We’re supposed to help each other out.”

Now it was her turn to snort. “Good thing your best friend isn’t a boy, then. And I’m still not kissing you!”

“One day you’re gonna wanna kiss me,” he warned.

Annoyed at the absurdity, she shoved her hand against his chest and pushed him away far enough that she could jump off the swing. Even though his daddy was the tallest person Tabby had ever met, for now, she and Justin were exactly the same height. She looked him straight in the face. “Try it and I’ll punch you in the nose,” she warned. “I’d sooner kiss a toad than you.”

His skinny chest puffed out. “Lotsa toads down at the swimmin’ hole, Tabbers.”

She puffed out her own chest. It was just as skinny as his. And as flat. Which was fine with her, since boys seemed to have more fun than girls did. At least all the ones she knew around Weaver, anyway. Who wanted to be all prissy and perfect when there were baseball games to play and cow chips to throw and worms to be threaded onto fish hooks? Summer was short enough in Weaver without spending half your time playing indoors with dolls and dress-up. And Justin’s granddaddy had the best swimming hole around, out on his Double-C Ranch. She and Justin, along with his cousin Caleb, spent half their summer vacation out there. “I can make you kiss a toad just as easy, Justin Clay, and you know it.” She scuffed her bare toes through the sand. The sun was hot as Hades, and now that he’d brought up the topic of swimming, that’s all she wanted to do. “I dunno why y’all are so gaga over Sierra, anyway,” she groused. The other girl was a year ahead of them in school and the biggest snot around.

“’Cause she’s got boobs,” he said, as if the answer were obvious. “And Joey Rasmussen says his cousin won’t kiss no boy who ain’t already kissed someone.”

“So? Since when’re you interested in kissing girls?”

“Erik’s already kissed three girls!”

She rolled her eyes. “Who cares if your brother’s kissing girls?”

“I do. So now I gotta kiss someone, and I ain’t gonna kiss Caleb!”

She leaned over, pretending to gag. “That’s just gross.”

“That’s just ’cause you don’t got any boobs.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved his shoulder hard enough to tip him over in the sand.

He laughed, squinting up at her in the sunlight as he stuck out his suntanned hand. “Help me up.”

Sighing mightily, she grabbed his hand and yanked.

He sprang easily to his own bare feet and pecked his thin lips against hers before she had a chance to evade him.

Then he danced around her, cackling like a madman, waving his arms over his head in victory. “Told you!”

She made a face. “You are disgusting.”

He laughed even harder. “You’re just mad ’cause I got my way.”

“And it was disgusting, too. Still don’t know why you gotta keep up with your big brother. I don’t gotta keep up with mine.”

His smile didn’t die, but he stopped his victory dance and dropped his arm over her shoulders, like the best buddies they were. “Come on.” He started walking away from the swings. “Let’s find Caleb and go out to the swimming hole to catch some toads.”

She shrugged. Because she did want to go swimming. “Sure. But first—” She hesitated when they left the sand for the closely shorn green grass covering the rest of the playground.

He hesitated, too, his eyebrows lifting again over his weird bluish-purple eyes. “What?”

She smiled.

Balled her fist.

And punched him in the nose.

Chapter One

“Hey there, Tabby! Happy Thanksgiving.” Hope Clay reached for the covered dish in Tabby’s gloved hands. “Every year we keep telling you all you need to bring is yourself,” she chided with a smile.

“And every year, you know I’m going to bring something to share,” Tabby countered easily as she followed the older woman out of the cold November air into the warm, soaring foyer. This year, the rotating Thanksgiving feast was being held at Hope and Tristan Clay’s home. The smells of Thanksgiving dinner filled the air, along with the sounds of music and laughter as Tabby pushed the heavy wooden door closed behind her. “I can’t take credit for the casserole, though. That’s Bubba’s doing.” Robert “Bubba” Bumble was the cook down at Ruby’s Café, which Tabby managed for Hope’s two sons, who owned the place.

“How is Bubba?” Hope asked over her shoulder as she turned left and sailed into the dining room, where an enormous table was set with white china and sparkling glasses. Next to it—jutting out into the wide hallway—was a slightly smaller portable table set with disposable plates and cups.

The kids’ table, Tabby knew, though the kids generally ranged from her generation down to any child old enough to hold her own spoon. “Bubba’s fine,” she said wryly. “He’s been cooking once a week for Vivian Templeton when her usual chef has the day off.”

Hope glanced toward the great room across the wide hallway, as if she were afraid Tabby’s words might be overheard. She even put a finger in front of her lips in a silent shush, and her “that’s nice” was barely audible.

Tabby had spent as much of her childhood roaming around Hope and Tristan Clay’s home as she had around her own. She raised her eyebrows pointedly but lowered her own voice to a whisper while she pulled off her gloves and her coat. “What’d I say?”

“That subject is still a little...sore...with some,” Hope replied.

Tabby started to glance toward the great room but managed to stop herself. She’d have to encounter Justin sooner or later. And later was better. “Squire?” she mouthed, more to keep her mind off Hope’s youngest son than anything.

Hope nodded, adjusting a few dishes in the middle of the table to make room for Tabby’s casserole dish. She looked over her shoulder toward the sound of the crowd in the other room getting all riled up again. “Ever since I married Tristan,” she said in a more normal tone, “he’s told me how stubborn his father could be. But I’ve never seen Squire be truly cantankerous until Vivian moved to Weaver. He’s downright ornery when it comes to the subject of her.” She straightened, her violet eyes studying the table through her stylish glasses.

Tabby knew there was bad blood between Justin’s grandfather and Vivian Templeton dating from way back, though. The elderly woman had only arrived in town a little more than a year ago.

“Guess it’s good that she’s not going to be here for Thanksgiving dinner, then,” she said drily. “And I assume there aren’t going to be any other Templetons at the table today?”

Hope shook her head, making a face. “That would have been nice, but everyone is still feeling their way after learning they’re all related through Tristan’s mama.”

“Understandable.” Tabby’s hearing was acutely attuned to the voices coming from the great room, but she kept her gaze strictly on the table. She didn’t need to listen too closely to be able to pick Justin’s voice out from the others.

He never missed spending Thanksgiving with his parents. He’d never once failed to come home from Boston for the holiday, even if it meant flying in one day and right back out the next—which was what he’d done for the past four years.

“Anything I can do to help get the meal on?” she asked, trying to drown out her memories.

“Bless your heart, honey. You’re not on the job here. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful for your help.”

Tabby grinned. “You know me. Always happier being useful and busy than sitting around on my thumbs.” And it kept her from having to go into the great room just yet.

She couldn’t imagine spending Thanksgiving anywhere else—particularly when her own parents were away—but being with the Clays on the holiday came with a price.

Thankfully, her hostess was unaware of Tabby’s thoughts. “You’re just like your mama.” She tossed Tabby’s coat onto the pile in the study, then drew her into the kitchen, where nearly every inch of counter space was covered with one dish or another. “Even though she and your dad are off visiting your grandma this year, I’m pleased you still came.”

Hope and Jolie Taggart had been best friends for Tabby’s entire life. “You’re my second family. Where else would I be? So put me to work.”

Hope gestured at an enormous pot steaming on top of the stove. “I just need to get the potatoes finished. Selfishly, I was hoping you’d get here in time to do the honors. Nobody makes mashed potatoes like you do.”

Tabby immediately rolled up the sleeves of her white blouse and plucked a clean white flour-sack towel out of a cupboard. “Flattery’ll get you everywhere.”

Hope laughed. “I’d hoped. I should have everything you need all set, but if I don’t, you know where everything is, anyway.”

Smiling, Tabby tied the towel around her waist like an apron before turning off the flame under the potatoes and hefting the pot over to the sink to drain it. From the great room came a loud burst of laughter and hooting catcalls. “Football game must be a close one.” She was recording it at home to watch later.

“Sounds like.” The older woman glanced over her shoulder when her sister-in-law Jaimie entered carrying an empty oversize bowl. “More tortilla chips?”

“And salsa.” Jaimie smiled at Tabby and bussed her cheek on her way to the far counter where a variety of bags were stacked. She deftly tore open a large one and dumped the entire contents into the wooden bowl. “You’d think the hordes hadn’t eaten in a week.”

“Or that they weren’t going to sit down to turkey and ham in only a few minutes.” Hope grimaced but handed Jaimie the near-industrial-size container of salsa she pulled from the refrigerator. “I know better than to warn any of them.”

Tabby didn’t bother hiding her smile as she began scooping the steaming potatoes into the ricer, which Hope had left on the counter next to the sink along with two large crockery bowls. At the diner, she made mashed potatoes by the ton, so the work was simple and easy. But unfortunately, it also allowed her mind to wander down the hallway to the great room and the people there.

Her parents traditionally spent every other Thanksgiving with her grandmother. Tabby’s brother, Evan, and his family had gone this year, too. Tabby could have accompanied them. She still wasn’t sure why she hadn’t.

She grimaced at her own thoughts and scooped more potatoes into the ricer. Steam continued rising up into her face, but she barely noticed as she squeezed out the fluffy fronds, filling the first bowl, then the second.

Who was she kidding?

There were only a few times every year when she was guaranteed to see him. Thanksgiving and Easter. He’d missed Christmas for years. Birthdays? Forget about it.

Seeing him was like picking at a wound that wouldn’t heal. She couldn’t stop herself, to her own detriment.

She huffed a strand of hair out of her eyes and refilled the ricer yet again. Fortunately, the contraption was just as large and sturdy as the ones she had at the diner, so the work went quickly.

“Don’t you agree?”

She realized the question had been directed at her, and she looked over her shoulder at Hope, only to realize Jaimie had left the kitchen with her chips and salsa and she’d been replaced with another one of her sisters-in-law, Emily. Tabby racked her brains, trying—and failing—to recall their conversation. “Sorry?”

“Thanksgiving is an easier holiday than Christmas,” Hope repeated.

“Oh. Sure.” It was a lie, and she looked back down at the potatoes. “None of the Christmas gift shopping stress.” Just all the stress of knowing Justin would be back in town.

She huffed at her hair again and scooped the last of the potatoes into the container, making quick work of them before running the ricer under the faucet.

“Frankly, I don’t know what to get anyone this year for Christmas,” Emily was saying. She moved next to Tabby, holding a saucepan filled with steaming cream and melted butter. “I don’t suppose you have any ideas for my son-in-law, do you?”

Tabby made a face and left the ricer to drain while she grabbed a long-handled spoon from the drawer. “I don’t have any ideas for him, and Evan’s my brother.” She gestured for Emily to begin pouring the liquid into one of the bowls while she gently stirred the riced potatoes.

Hope stepped up behind Tabby, watching over their shoulders. “I swear, honey, watching you work is like watching a cooking show on television.”

At that, Tabby snorted outright. “Only doing the same thing your grandmother taught me to do when I started working at her diner.”

“Hope’s grandma was quite a cook.” Emily drizzled more hot cream into the second bowl at Tabby’s prompting. “But I’m just thankful Ruby taught you how to make her cinnamon rolls.”

“My hips aren’t that happy,” Hope said drily. “I can’t tell you how many times Gram tried to teach me how to make her rolls.” She shook her head. “I can make them, but not like she could. Or you.” She patted Tabby’s shoulder. “She would roll over in her grave hearing me say so, but I think yours have got hers beat.”

“Good grief, don’t say that.” Tabby looked up at the ceiling, as though she was waiting for lightning to strike. “I loved Ruby Leoni, too, but oh, man, did she have a temper.”

Hope laughed. “You nearly finished there, honey?”

Tabby focused on her work again, giving the creamy potatoes a final stir. “All set.” She picked up both bowls, cradling them against her hips. “You want them on the table now?”

“That was twenty pounds of Yukon Golds. I should get one of the boys—”

“No worries. I’ve got them.” Tabby quickly cut her off and carried the bowls out to the dining room, placing one at one end of the main table and the other on the kids’ table. Hope and Emily followed along, bearing platters of freshly carved roast turkey and glazed ham.

“I have a good mind to let them all watch football while we feast on our own,” Hope said when a caterwaul of cheers and jeers burst out from the other room. She adjusted one of the platters just so and stood back to admire the display.

Emily, meanwhile, was counting off chairs and place settings. “I think we’re a few short,” she warned.

“We’re always a few short,” Hope returned. “That’s what happens these days when nearly the whole family turns out.” She stepped to the archway opening onto the wide hallway. “Food’s on,” she called briskly. Her onetime schoolteacher’s voice cut across the racket of televised sports and thirtysome family members debating the latest call. Considering they weren’t all rooting for the same team, it was chaotic, to say the least.

Nevertheless, at Hope’s announcement, the television volume immediately went mute and those thirtysome individuals turned en masse toward the dining room.

She didn’t rush.

For as long as she could remember, she’d sat at the kids’ table.

“Tabby! I didn’t even hear you come in.” Hope’s husband, Tristan, grabbed her up in a bear hug that lifted her right off her toes. “Thank God we’ll have decent mashed potatoes.” He kissed her forehead and dropped her back down. “When Tag said he and your ma were visiting Helen this year, I was afraid it was gonna be boxed potatoes.”

Hope gave him a pinch. “Since when have I ever made you mashed potatoes from a box?”

The tall man, still blond in his sixties, grinned and gave Tabby a quick wink before he made his way toward the head of the big table, jostling his relations while Hope directed butts to seats and ultimately determined that Emily had been right. They were short of chairs. Erik—Hope and Tristan’s eldest—immediately pigeonholed his adopted son, Murphy, to help him search down more.

Tabby, long used to the process, just moved out of the way as far as possible and bit back a chuckle when Squire brushed past everyone to take the first seat—which happened to be Tristan’s at the head of the table. “All that fancy money you earn, boy, seems you ought to have a bigger table ’n’ chairs.”

“That’s my chair, old man,” Tristan said mildly. But Tabby could see by the humor in his blue eyes that he wasn’t offended. Or surprised. “And the way this family keeps growing, we’d need a reception hall to seat everyone at one table.”

Erik and Murphy returned with two more chairs and a piano bench, and the shuffling began again.

“Same thing happens every year.”

Tabby stiffened inwardly at the deep voice. She didn’t look at the tall man who’d stopped next to her, bumping his elbow companionably against hers. She didn’t need to.

There’d been a time when she knew everything there was to know about Justin Clay. And he’d known everything about her. They’d been best friends.

Now...they weren’t.

“Yes, it does. Some people like that,” she answered smoothly and moved toward the kids’ table. She sat down in the only spare seat, next to fourteen-year-old Murphy, who was eyeing her from the corner of his eye the way he had been for at least a year now. On her other side was April Reed—one of Squire’s grandchildren courtesy of his long-ago marriage to Gloria Day.

“Haven’t seen you since last summer.” She greeted April with a smile, all the while painfully aware of Justin trading barbs with Caleb Buchanan behind her. “You cut your hair. I like it.”

The young woman flushed and looked pleased that Tabby had noticed. She toyed with the shoulder-length auburn bob. “Job hunting,” she said. “Thought it looked more in keeping with a suit.”

“Looks great.” Tabby tugged the ends of her own hair. It was riddled with wayward waves. “I’ve been thinking of cutting mine, too.”

“Why?” Justin nudged Murphy’s shoulder. “Scoot your chair over, kid.”

Murphy made a face, but he moved over enough to accommodate Justin, who pushed a backless stool into the space and straddled it. “Your hair’s been like that as long as I can remember.”

Tabby knew he wasn’t trying to get cozy with her. There was simply a finite amount of space available for chairs and bodies. She looked away from the jeans-clad thigh nudging against her. “All the more reason it’s time for a change, then, right, April?”

“I suppose. But I’ve always thought you had gorgeous hair. Such a dark brown and so glossy.”

Tabby couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. “Grass is always greener, my friend with the smooth red hair.” She leaned over the table a little, mostly so she could shift away from that damned masculine thigh. “So, how is the job hunt going out in Arizona? It’s advertising, right?”

“Dad wants me to work for him at Huffington,” she said, referring to the network of sports clinics he operated around the United States. “The Phoenix location is getting huge. But I want to make my mark on my own.”

“Makes sense.”

Justin jostled Tabby’s arm. “Remember when you wanted to go to Europe to make your mark on the great art world?”

“Lofty dreams of a teenaged girl,” she said dismissively. She wasn’t going to let him bait her. “I learned I was perfectly happy right here in Weaver,” she told April, though the words were aimed at Justin. “This is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“Ruby’s would have to shut right down,” someone interjected from the other table. “Weaver would never be the same.”

Tabby rolled her eyes. “Erik and Justin own the place.” She still didn’t look at the man beside her. “They’d hire someone else to manage it.”

“There’s a nasty thought,” Erik said. He was sitting at the main table next to his wife, Isabella, and didn’t look unduly concerned.

The same couldn’t be said of their son. “You’re not gonna leave, are you?” Murphy gave her a horrified look.

She lifted her hands peaceably. “I’m not going anywhere!”

Justin jostled her again. “Do you even still paint?”

If she’d have been five—or maybe even twenty-five—she would have just elbowed him right back. Preferably in the ribs, hard enough to leave a mark. Because the Justin she’d grown up with could take as well as he could give. “Yes, I still paint.” Her voice was even.

“Absolutely, she still paints!” Sydney, who was married to Derek—yet another one of Justin’s plentiful cousins—called from the far end of the other table. Their toddler son was sitting in a high chair between them. “An old friend of mine who owns a gallery in New York has sold a couple dozen of her pieces! He wants her to give up working at Ruby’s and focus only on painting.”

Tabby shifted, uncomfortable with the weight of everyone’s eyes turning toward her. “I’m not quitting Ruby’s,” she assured them, wondering how on earth the conversation had gotten so off track.

“We know that, Tab,” Erik assured her calmly. Of the two brothers, he was the active partner in the diner, though he pretty much left the day-to-day stuff to her.

Squire cleared his throat loudly. Tabby was quite sure if he’d had his walking stick handy, he’d have thumped it on the floor for emphasis the way he tended to do. “We gonna sit here and jabber all the livelong day, or get to eating?”

Tristan chuckled. “Eat.”

“Not before we say grace,” Gloria said mildly. And inflexibly. So they all bowed their heads while Gloria said the blessing.

Justin leaned close to her again. “Nothing changes,” he murmured almost soundlessly.

Tabby’s jaw tightened. She looked from her clasped hands to the insanely handsome, violet-eyed man sitting only inches away from her.

“You changed,” she whispered back.

Then she looked back at her hands and closed her eyes. Gloria was still saying grace.

Tabby just prayed that Justin would go away again, and the sooner the better.

He’d been her best friend.

But he was still her worst heartbreak.

Chapter Two

His mother might have put the meal on the table, but it was up to her husband and sons to cart everything back to the kitchen when the meal was done.

Not even the Thanksgiving holiday—or televised football games—got them out of that particular task.

So even though Justin generally would rather poke sharp sticks into his eyes than load a dishwasher, he did his fair share, carting stacks of plates and glasses from the dining room to the kitchen, following on Erik’s heels.

And while the rest of the women in the family had pitched in to help Hope, the three men were brutally left on their own by their fellows.

“Typical,” Justin muttered, dumping the plates on the counter next to the sink his dad was filling with soap and water. “Couldn’t even get Caleb to help.”

Erik chuckled. He was five years older than Justin and he good-naturedly threw a clean dish towel at him. “You ever help clean up when we have a meal at his folks’ place?” The question was rhetorical. “Be glad that half the crowd today used disposable plates.”

Justin had personally filled a big bag with the trash. He would have been happy to fill a half dozen of them if it meant not having to load a dishwasher.

“Stop grousing and get it done,” their father ordered. “Dessert’s waiting on us, and Squire never likes waiting for his dessert.”

“The old man looks good,” Justin said. He left the dish towel on the counter and pulled open the dishwasher. He began to load it methodically, mechanically transferring the items his dad rinsed into the racks.

“He’s gonna run for city council,” Tristan said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “There’s a special election coming up in February.”

“Squire?” Justin couldn’t help but laugh at the notion of his ninetysome-year-old grandfather sitting at a council meeting. “That ought to shake things up around Weaver. He’s always hated politicians.”

“Which is the reason why he figures an old rancher ought to try his hand at it.” Erik started filling containers with the leftover food. They heard a cheer from the great room and he groaned a little.

“Shouldn’t have bet against Casey on the game,” Justin said knowingly. Their cousin had an uncanny gift for picking winners. “What’re you gonna lose to him this time?”

“Week out at the fishing cabin. And I haven’t lost yet.”

“When’s the last time you won a bet against him?” Tristan stacked more rinsed plates on the counter. “What’s going on with that promotion of yours, Jus?”

Justin added the dishes to the rack with a little more force than necessary. “Not a damn thing.”

“You crack those plates, son, you’ll be the one to face up to your mother.”

Justin straightened again and met his father’s gaze. “It’s gotten...complicated.”

Erik blew out a soft whistle. “Probably happens when you’re dating the boss’s daughter. Warned you.”

“I didn’t get the job at CNJ Pharmaceuticals nine years ago because of Gillian. I won’t lose it because of her, either.” He was trusting that his relationship with Charles Jennings, her father and the owner of the company, was on firmer ground than that, at least. He swiped his damp hands down his jeans and retrieved a cold bottle of beer from the refrigerator. “And we stopped seeing each other almost half a year ago.”

“Thank God,” Erik muttered. “Woman was a nosebleed.”

Justin grimaced. “I don’t sneer at your choice of women.”

Erik grinned. “How could you? Izzy is the perfect girl.”

Justin couldn’t deny the truth of that, though he liked arguing with his brother merely for the sake of it. And he didn’t really want to think about Gillian, anyway. Because she was a nosebleed, even though his brother shouldn’t rub it in. And even though it had taken Justin several long years to face it.

He toyed with the beer cap but didn’t actually twist it open. “The complication isn’t because of Charles’s daughter. He’s put me on a special project we’ve had some problems with. If I can bring it in on time, the VP position should be mine.” Making him the youngest vice president in the company’s century-long history.

“Give me cows over pharmaceuticals,” Erik said, hanging his arm over Justin’s shoulder. “But I suppose if anyone can do it, it’s my genius little brother, Dr. Justin Clay.”

Justin shrugged off the arm. He had a PhD in microbiology and immunology, and dual master’s degrees in computer science and chemistry. But he rarely used the title that went with the PhD. The fact was, he’d often felt a little out of step among his extended ranching family, even though his computer-geek father had bucked that trend, too.

“I want to work on the project from Weaver,” he announced, and saw the look his brother and dad exchanged. “I’ll be able to concentrate on it better here. I figure Aunt Bec might clear the way for me to work at the hospital, since she runs the place.”

“Rebecca probably can, though that’s—”

“Rebecca probably can what?” Justin’s eldest uncle, Sawyer, entered the kitchen carrying several empty beer bottles.

“Approve space in the new lab they’re building for a project I’m working on for CNJ. The company will cover all the costs, of course.”

“Sell that to my wife,” Sawyer advised wryly. “Every day for the past two years I’ve been hearing about problems with that lab she’s trying to get built. Construction delays. Cost overruns. Losing the lab director didn’t help, and now it’s that fund-raiser event they’re having in a few weeks.” He dumped the bottles in the recycling basket and pulled open the refrigerator to retrieve several more beers. “You gonna be done in here soon? The old man’s getting impatient for dessert. He’s been debating pumpkin pie versus pecan versus chocolate cream for the past half hour.”

“We’d be done sooner if we had some help,” Tristan told his brother in a pointed tone.

Sawyer just laughed, snatched the unopened bottle out of Justin’s hands to add to his collection and left the kitchen again.

When Justin went to the refrigerator, he found the shelf empty of beer.

“Snooze you lose, son,” Tristan said. “Just because you choose to live in Boston doesn’t mean you’re excluded from that basic fact.” He pointed a thumb at the stack of rinsed dishes still waiting to be loaded.

Sawyer’s intrusion was followed almost immediately by the rest of his brothers—first Jefferson, ostensibly to make sure there was still hot coffee on the stove, then Matthew and Daniel together, who made no bones that they were wanting their dessert, too.

“Nothing changes,” Justin repeated when the kitchen eventually cleared.

“Ever consider that there are times that’s a comfort?” Tristan finally turned off the faucet and dried his hands on a towel.

“Never thought so before, particularly.”

His father’s gaze wasn’t unsympathetic. But then, back in his day, Tristan had left Weaver for a good long while, too. Until he’d married Hope Leoni and they’d settled in Weaver permanently. He’d established a little company called Cee-Vid that became a huge player in consumer electronics, and Hope had taught at the elementary school and then ended up the head of the school board.

“Someday—” Tristan’s voice was unusually reflective “—you might sit up and realize one of the most disturbing things in life is finding out that something you’d counted on never changing has already done so, without you ever having noticed.” Then he tossed the towel on the counter and left the kitchen, too.

Frowning, Justin turned toward Erik. “What’s with him?”

“Nothing that’s new. You’re just not usually around to see it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just a fact,” Erik said mildly. “You’re in Boston. You don’t see the day-to-day effects of the crap he deals with. And I’m not talking about Cee-Vid.”

No. Erik was talking about the real work their father did. The secretive, frequently dangerous world of Hollins-Winword’s black operations, where their father was second in command. Cee-Vid was the legitimate front that hid the covert work, which Justin and Erik knew about but rarely discussed.

“It’s been a hard year,” Erik said.

“Isn’t it always hard?”

“Harder than most,” his brother amended. “I think he’s getting tired of it.”

“Then he should quit.”

“Who should quit what?” Izzy entered the kitchen, her brownish-black gaze bouncing from her husband’s face to Justin’s and back again.

Erik just looped his hands around her waist and tugged her close. “Are you hungry again?”

She smiled impishly. “For pecan pie. I came to help with the dishes in order to get at dessert more quickly.”

“Too late.” Justin stuffed the last glass in the dishwasher and closed the door. He’d arrived barely an hour before they’d sat down for dinner, so he hadn’t had an opportunity to catch up very much with anyone, including his sister-in-law. “You’re looking better than ever, Iz.”

She turned in the circle of his brother’s arms and beamed at him.

It took a few seconds for Justin to notice the way their linked hands were clasped over her belly. But when he did, it took less than a second for him to realize why. “Holy—” He broke off. “You’re pregnant?”

Izzy glanced up into Erik’s eyes. “Looks like we’re announcing it today whether we planned to or not.”

Erik smiled slowly and Justin felt an unfamiliar—and unwanted—jolt of envy. His brother looked so damn happy. So content. And Justin felt so...not.

Still, his brother was happy. And Justin was genuinely glad for that. And Isabella...well, she’d always been a looker with her white-blond hair and dark eyes. And now she had an extra shine around her.

He blew out a breath because his throat actually felt tight. “Damn. Congratulations.” He wrapped them both in a big hug, which made Izzy laugh and complain, because she was a good foot shorter and couldn’t breathe while stuck between two big men. When Justin finally stepped back, envious or not, he knew he had a big, stupid grin on his face. Probably one that matched Erik’s. “So when’s he—”

“She,” Erik corrected.

“Due?”

“The baby,” Isabella said with a soft laugh, “is due the end of April. We’re not going to find out early what we’re having.”

“Murphy knows there’s a baby, though?”

Isabella nodded. “We told him yesterday.”

“He figures it’s his right to make the announcement today,” Erik said wryly. “Being the big brother and all.”

“Sounds like he’s got the Clay tendencies down, born into them or not.” He leaned over and kissed Isabella’s cheek. “You’re going to be a great mom, all over again.” The circumstances leading to her becoming Murphy’s mom had been tragic. But they’d ultimately prompted their move to Weaver, where they’d found Erik and become a family.

She blinked, looking teary through her smile. “Thanks.” She sniffed quickly. “We’ll all learn together, anyway.”

“So...pretty much status quo,” Erik said wryly.

Isabella chuckled and swiped her cheek. “Pretty much.” They all looked back at the sound of footsteps as Tabby entered the kitchen.

The easy smile on Tabby’s face faded a bit as she hesitated. She didn’t look at Justin. “Um... I just came to help get the pies—”

Isabella quickly moved out of Erik’s arms. “Squire’s probably getting testy,” she said with a knowing laugh. She picked up two of the pies sitting on one counter and handed them to Erik before she grabbed two more. “Bring the plates,” she said as she and Erik left the kitchen.

Tabby quickly snatched up a stack of pie plates and started to follow, but Justin grabbed her arm. “Wait a sec.”

“They can’t eat pie without plates.”

“My family? You’re kidding, right? They could eat without hands. You’ve been giving me the cold shoulder since I got here. Don’t you think it’s time we got past that?”

Her brown eyes—usually warm and shiny as melted chocolate—were unreadable. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your lying’s on par with your French. You remember French, right? I had to help you pass it in high school.”

Her lips tightened. She pulled free and opened a drawer to extract a cake server. “If you want a slice of Gloria’s chocolate cream, you’d better get out there quick.”

He was tired of the chasm that had developed between them, even though he knew he was the cause of it in the first place. “Come on, Tabbers. We were friends long before—”

She lifted her eyebrows and gave him a look that stopped any further discussion. “Pie’s a big deal in this house at Thanksgiving. Or have you forgotten that, living the fancy life in Boston?”

She turned on her heel, and her glossy hair flipped around her shoulders as she left the kitchen.

He exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

There were a few things he’d always counted on. The love and support of his big, crazy family. His own ability to figure out a convoluted puzzle. And the easygoing friendship of one Tabitha Taggart.

Yeah, he knew he’d messed up with her pretty good, but that had been four years ago. Stacked up against the rest of their lifelong friendship, couldn’t one monumentally stupid move on his part be forgotten?

Or at least forgiven?

He blew out another breath and grabbed the last two pies that were sitting on the counter and carried them out to the dining room.

“Oh, good. Set them there, honey.” His mom pointed with the long knife she was using to cut the pies, and he set them on the table. She’d already divvied out two pumpkin pies onto plates. “There’s a gallon of homemade vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Would you mind getting that, too? Oh, and the glass bowl in the fridge with the whipped cream.”

He turned around and retrieved the items. When he got back to the dining room, she’d finished plating the chocolate cream. He grabbed a slice while the grabbing was good and went back into the living room. It was a huge space. Always had been, with three couches long enough that even his dad—nearly six and a half feet tall—could stretch out, and an eclectic collection of side chairs and recliners. With all the family around—or close to it, anyway—there still weren’t enough seats. So folding chairs had been dragged in. And cushions to lean against on the floor.

He took the same corner he’d been in before dinner. Since he’d forgotten a fork, he picked up the wedge of pie in his fingers and took a bite.

“Neanderthal.” His cousin JD dropped a plastic fork onto his plate as she carried two plates to the couch closest to him. She handed one to her husband, Jake, then sat down on the floor in front of him, her legs stretched out. Justin knew she’d have sat on Jake’s knee if it hadn’t already been occupied by their sleeping little boy, Tucker.

Justin jerked his chin toward her. “When does Tuck start kindergarten?”

“Next fall.” She looked over her shoulder at the little boy and gently swiped his messy brown hair off his forehead. “He was upset that he didn’t get to go this year.”

“Gonna have any more?”

She and Jake shared a look.

“Yes,” she said.

“No,” he said.

Justin hid his smile around a bite of his grandma’s delicious pie. Tucker had been born very prematurely. Though it looked like JD had gotten over it and was ready to go again, her husband had not.

“When’re you gonna get yourself a wife?” Squire’s voice carried across the room, and there was no question he’d directed his words to Justin. The old man was looking straight at him.

For some reason, Justin found himself glancing toward Tabby across the room.

“Justin’s never gonna get married,” Axel—yet another cousin—drawled before he could answer. “He told us all that when he graduated from high school. He was gonna go off and cure disease and save the world. Remember?”

Justin grimaced.

“He’d just had his heart broken by—what was her name?” His dad’s eyes narrowed as he thought back. “Pretty girl. Short blond hair.”

“Colleen,” his mother called out from the dining room.

“Collette,” Tabby corrected. “Summers. Her dad worked for the electric company.”

“Collette Summers,” Caleb repeated. “She was so hot.”

“What do you know about hot? You were dating Kelly Rasmussen,” Justin reminded.

“Whatever happened to Kelly,” someone asked.

“Can I tell ’em now?”

Everyone looked toward Murphy, who’d loudly interrupted the conversation.

Erik grinned. “Go for it, Murph.”

The boy uncoiled from his seat on the floor, standing up to his full height. “We’re getting a baby,” he announced, his cheeks red, his eyes beaming.

Isabella laughed and reached out to squeeze his hand. “I don’t know about getting,” she said humorously. “But we’re definitely having one. Should be making his or her arrival sometime next April.”

Justin’s mother had finally finished cutting pies. She stared at them slack jawed for a moment before virtually vaulting over people and furniture to grab Izzy in a hug. “Another grandbaby.” She looped her other arm around Murphy and kissed his forehead. “A grandson has been wonderful, and this baby is going to be fabulous!”

Hope had about a half second before the rest of the crew started climbing around them to give their own hugs.

When Justin got the third elbow in the head during the process, he gave up his corner spot and found refuge across the room in one of the vacated chairs.

Which happened to be next to Tabby’s spot on the floor. “If you get up and move now, someone’s gonna notice,” he told her under his breath.

Her lips tightened, but she stayed where she was, recrossing her denim-covered legs again just as she’d done when they were little kids. Only difference now was that the legs those jeans covered were long and shapely, instead of skinny with scrapes all over ’em.

At least, he was assuming they weren’t all scraped up anymore. He hoped not, anyway. Because her skin was smooth and creamy—

He pinched the bridge of his nose, cutting off the memory. It was as unwanted as the envy he’d felt at his own brother’s happiness.

He just wanted things the way they used to be.

Easy. Comfortable and familiar as a pair of old, beloved boots.

He dropped his hand and looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “If I let you punch me in the nose, would you finally get over your mad?”

She stabbed her fork into her pie, seeming to focus fiercely on it. “We’re not five.”

“We were nine.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I remember it vividly, since you managed to break it.”

She huffed out a breath. “I never intended to break your nose,” she muttered.

“I know.” He waited a beat. “We survived that. So can’t we survive another kiss, even one—I hate to admit—as badly executed as it was?” It had been a helluva lot more than a kiss, but he didn’t figure she wanted to get into that territory any more than he did.

He was right. “It doesn’t matter. It was years ago.”

He leaned over the arm of his chair toward her. His gaze caught on the wedge of creamy skin showing between the unbuttoned edges of her shirt. And he couldn’t look away. Which was stupid, because there wasn’t anything like that between him and Tabby.

Except that one time they were both trying not to think about.

“And things haven’t been right between us since,” he said.

She slowly sucked a smear of chocolate from her thumb, taking long enough for him to get his eyes off her chest and onto her lips.

Now he was focused on her soft pink lips pursed around her thumb. How freaking stupid was that.

She finally lowered her hand, wiping it on her crumpled paper napkin. Then she rose to her feet with as much agility as she’d had when they were nine. “You’re gonna leave again before any of us can blink, so why does it even matter?”

Slipping his empty plate out of his fingers, she worked her way around the horde of people blocking the way and left the room.

Chapter Three

“Stupid. Stupid, stupid, freaking stupid.” Tabby was still kicking herself an hour later when she got home to the triplex she’d bought the previous year.

If she’d wanted to prove that she wasn’t affected by Justin Clay, she’d failed.

Monumentally.

Running out the way she had while everyone was still congratulating Izzy and Erik over the baby?

“Stupid,” she muttered for the fiftieth time while she made her way through the apartment, flipping on lights as she went until she reached her bedroom at the back.

She tugged the tails of her white shirt free from her jeans and yanked it over her head, not bothering with the buttons. Her bra—a glorified name for the hank of lace and elastic that was all her meager bust had ever required—followed. She’d ditched her cowboy boots at the front door already; now she kicked off her jeans, pitching all of the clothing in the general direction of her closet before pulling a football jersey over her head.

“Stupid,” she said again. Just for good measure and because she evidently liked punishing herself.

In stocking feet, she went back to the living room and flipped on the television to watch the football game she’d recorded.

“He’ll be gone tomorrow,” she said to herself. “You won’t have to think about him for another six months.” The sounds of the football game followed her into her kitchen, but it didn’t drown out the cackle of laughter inside her head.

Since when had Justin’s absence ever stopped her from thinking about him?

She shoved a glass under the refrigerator’s ice dispenser, but not even that racket outdid the cackle.

Which just annoyed her all the more.

She thought she’d prepared herself for seeing him.

Every year, she thought she’d prepared herself for seeing him.

And every year, she failed.

The phone hanging on the wall next to the fridge suddenly rang, and she snatched up the receiver. “What?”

A brief hesitation, then female laughter greeted her. “Criminy, Tab. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.”

Tabby forced her shoulders to relax. “Sam,” she greeted. “Aren’t you still on duty?” Samantha Dawson was the only female officer with the local sheriff’s department.

“Taking my supper break.”

“Too bad you have to work on a holiday.”

“Not for my bank account. Double-time pay. How was the big get-together over at the Clays’?”

Even though Tabby had gotten pretty friendly with Sam over the past few years, the other woman wasn’t privy to the history between Tabby and Justin.

Nobody was.

“It was fine.” She shook herself. “A lot of fun. Always is. Have you heard how Hayley’s day went?”

Hayley Banyon was a good friend of Sam’s. She was also a Templeton, and as such, would have had as much reason or more to be at the Clay family fete as Tabby, since she was one of the relations the Clays had recently learned about.

“I saw her, actually,” Sam said. “Needed her professional help on a family dispute call that came in. She said she was grateful for the call, if that gives you any hint.”

It did. “That’s too bad.” If there was dissension between Vivian Templeton and Squire, according to Hayley there was even more between Vivian and her own sons. One of whom was Hayley’s father. “So did you call to shoot the breeze, or what’s up?”

“Just checking whether you’re opening the diner tomorrow.”

“Yup.” She’d be there before 4:00 a.m. as usual to get the cinnamon rolls going. “Pool tournament at Colbys kicks off tomorrow and I’m figuring I’ll get overflow business from it like I did last year. Why?”

“Promised a dozen to Dave Ruiz if he covers a shift for me next week.”

“They’ll be hot and fresh by six, same as always.”

“Good enough. See you then.”

Tabby was still smiling when she hung up. The phone rang again before she had a chance to take her hand off the receiver, and she picked it up again. “Let me guess,” she said on a laugh. “Two dozen?”

“Two dozen what?”

Her nerves tightened right back up at the sound of Justin’s voice. “I thought you were somebody else. What do you want?”

“I want you to get over the damn stick you got up your—”

She hung up on him.

It took only a second before the phone rang again.

She disconnected the phone line, and it went silent.

Then she turned back to the refrigerator and poured cold tea over the ice in her glass, flicked off the light in the kitchen and went back to the living room to watch her recorded football game.

She fell asleep on the couch before halftime and woke up around 3:00 a.m. to the fuzzy, bluish-white light from the blank television screen.

There was no point in going to bed when she needed to be at the diner soon, anyway.

Rubbing the sleep from her face, she went to shower and got dressed for the day.

Thirty minutes later, with her damp hair hidden beneath a bright blue knit cap and her gloved hands shoved deep in the pockets of her wool coat, she walked the three blocks from her triplex to the restaurant and let herself in the rear door. She didn’t need to turn on any lights to make her way through the back of the diner, because aside from updating an appliance here and there over the years, nothing significant had changed since she’d started working there as a teenager.

She went out to the front of the restaurant, where the glass windows overlooked Main Street, and started fresh coffee brewing. With that delicious aroma following her, she went back into the kitchen, turned on the lights and got down to work.

By the time she heard the back door open again, she had three baking sheets of cinnamon rolls cooling on the racks and was sliding two more into the oven. “Grab that third sheet from the counter, would you?”

She looked over her shoulder, expecting Bubba.

But it was Justin who picked up the large metal pan. “This one?”

Her lips tightened, and she took the sheet pan from him, sliding it into the oven along with the others and closing the door. “Come to check on your investment?”

She didn’t wait for an answer and went back out through the swinging door to the front, where she poured herself a cup of coffee. It wasn’t quite 6:00 a.m. yet, but she unlocked the door and flipped the Closed sign to Open, anyway.

When she turned back, Justin was sitting on one of the red vinyl–upholstered stools at the counter. He was wearing dark gray running pants and a zippered jacket with CNJ printed on the stand-up collar.

His clothes looked expensive. And darn it all, they fit his tall, exceptional physique as if they’d been tailored for him. Which, for all she knew, they had been. He’d admitted quite a few years ago that he not only had his suits tailored, but his shirts, as well. His precious Gillian had seen to that.

Since Tabby didn’t want to think about that, she focused on everything above his neck. His thick, short hair was damp, making the blond strands look brown. He’d obviously showered. Her nose was even prickling from the vaguely spicy scent of his soap. Or...whatever.

“You need a shave.” She flipped over a thick white mug, filled it with coffee and pushed it in front of him.

His long fingers circled the mug. “You should keep the door locked when you’re here by yourself.”

“Please. Be mighty hard for customers to come in to Ruby’s if I kept the doors locked whenever I happen to be alone.” Hard for customers. Hard for intruders.

She pushed aside the thought and went back through the swinging door, pulled on clean plastic gloves and turned out the first batch of rolls, deftly packing several up individually, then punched down the dough that was rising in an enormous steel bowl.

He hadn’t budged when she went back out to the front.

She deposited the pastry boxes next to the register, threw away the gloves, refilled her coffee and leaned back against the rear counter, studying him over the brim of her cup. His eyes were bloodshot. Which, annoyingly, just seemed to make the violet color stand out that much more. “Tie one on last night?”

His jaw canted to one side. He shook his head and squinted as he sipped the steaming-hot coffee. “Should have. Couldn’t sleep, anyway. At least then it would’ve been worthwhile.”

She smiled sweetly. “I slept like a baby.” On the couch. Plagued by dreams about him, only to wake with a crick in her neck that still made it hurt to turn her head too far to the left.

“Were you always this much of a witch, Tab?”

Despite everything, she felt a stab of some unidentified emotion. “Isn’t that how spinsters are supposed to act?”

He leaned on his elbows and looked at her through his lashes. “Twenty-eight is spinsterhood now?”

She sipped her coffee. It was to some old-fashioned folks around Weaver. But truthfully?

She felt that stab again. Regret, perhaps. Maybe loss.

It was hard to tell. When it came to Justin, things had started getting complicated long before they’d become adults. “Close enough to be a regular at Dee Crowder’s spinster poker night.”

“‘Spinster’ sounds like you’re seventy-five and still pining for your first kiss.” He gave her that through-the-lashes look again. “And I know you don’t qualify there. Hell.” His lips twitched suddenly. “I remember when Caleb kissed you when we were freshmen in high school.”

About the time when she’d wished Justin would have been interested in kissing her. But he’d never been interesting in kissing her for her. She’d always been a substitute on that score. A substitute he’d left behind the same way he’d left behind Weaver.

“Doesn’t count,” she said promptly. “It was a practice kiss. He was afraid he’d mess up when he planted his first one on Kelly Rasmussen.”

Justin’s head came up, his expression genuinely surprised. “I always figured you gave him the same response you gave me when we were nine. Without the broken nose.”

It was nearly six. She figured Sloan McCray, one of the deputy sheriffs, would be showing his face soon before he went on duty. And frankly, she would be grateful for the interruption.

She flipped on the radio and glanced over the stack of to-go cups she kept near the big brewer. “If he’d done it without permission in order to make Kelly jealous, I probably would have given him the same response.” She lifted her shoulder. “Apples and oranges, though.”

“I didn’t kiss you to make Sierra jealous.”

“And you didn’t sleep with me four years ago to make—what’s her name? Oh, right. Gillian.” The name was seared on her brain. “That wasn’t an attempt to get her to sit up and take notice of you?”

“How many times do you want me to apologize for that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a few million.” She looked past him when the front door opened, making the little bell on top jingle softly. “Good morning, Deputy. Get you the usual?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Tabby.” Sloan stepped up to the counter and handed her his insulated travel mug for the coffee. She turned and filled it while he greeted Justin. “How’s life in Boston?”

“Cold,” Justin admitted. “Not as cold as here—” he glanced at Tabby “—but still cold. How’s your wife?”

“Keeping me warm,” Sloan drawled. “Very warm.”

“And the boy—Dillon, right?”

“Growing like a weed,” Tabby said, turning to hand the deputy his coffee mug, along with one of the pastry boxes. “He and Abby came by last week. Dillon’s going to be a heartbreaker one of these days.”

“Fortunately, I think we’ve got a few years yet before we have to worry about that.” He pulled out his wallet.

She waggled her finger at him. “You know your money is no good here, Deputy.”

“And you know I’m gonna argue.”

“Justin’s half owner of this place. Tell him, Justin.”

“What Tabby said,” Justin said obediently, without moving a muscle. “Easier to go along with her than argue, because you’ll never win. Trust me.”

Sloan stuffed a few dollars in the empty tip jar by the register. “You won’t give that back, because I know it gets split among your crew.” He took a sip from his mug, turning his gaze to Justin again. “You in town for the long weekend? Going to play in Colbys’ pool tournament?”

Tabby busied herself restacking the pastry boxes. Justin would be gone by nightfall just like always. He never stayed the entire Thanksgiving weekend. At least on that score, she could relax a little.

“I’m here until January. But no, I leave the pool games to my brother.”

She accidentally dropped the boxes and they scattered. “January!”

As Sloan leaned over and picked up the boxes that had landed on the floor, the radio attached to his belt crackled. He adjusted the sound and set the boxes on the counter. “Sure I’ll be seeing more of you then,” he said. He gestured with his mug and picked up his own pastry box. “Thanks, Tabby.”

“You bet.” She waited until the deputy departed before she focused on Justin again. “January?”

“I know the thought’s horrifying to you, but try to dial it down a little.” He came around the counter and refilled his coffee mug.

And even though she wanted to tell him to get back on his own side of the counter, she couldn’t very well do so.

Like it or not, he was her boss. It didn’t matter that he’d always left the decision making to his brother when it came to Ruby’s. But Justin was still half owner. It wasn’t something she dwelled on, but when they were standing right there in Ruby’s, it was kind of hard to forget.

She mentally counted to ten and tried again. “You’re here until January?” Calmer or not, her voice had still gone a little hoarse at the end. But she held up her chin as if it hadn’t. “Why is that?”

“I’ll be working on a project here for CNJ. At the hospital, mostly. My aunt cleared it last night, though she’s going to have me jumping through a few more hoops than I expected because of it.”

Tabby let his answer roll around in her head a few times. “Why can’t you work on it in Boston at that big state-of-the-art laboratory you love?”

“Too many distractions there.”

“Gillian being one of them?”

“Yes, but not the way you th—” He went silent when the bell over the door jingled again, and Sam strolled in.

She hadn’t yet changed from her jogging gear into her uniform. Tabby waited for the usual male reaction to register in Justin’s expression as he took in the sight of Sam’s figure lovingly outlined from neck to ankle in vibrant, clinging purple fabric.

But he didn’t do the typical double take like all the other guys.

Instead, he nodded politely at Sam and turned back to stare into his coffee mug while Tabby rang up a dozen rolls.

If he was so crazy about Gillian that a beautiful woman like Samantha didn’t even merit a glance, what was he doing making Tabby’s life harder by sticking around Weaver for the next few months?

The thought was more than a little irritating. “Sam, you haven’t met Justin Clay yet, have you? He’s Erik’s brother.”

Sam turned her bright eyes back to Justin. “No kidding? You’re the genius scientist who works back East.” She stuck out her hand, cocking her blond head a little to one side. “I guess I see the resemblance to Erik,” she said with a smile. “Except you’re prettier.”

Tabby nearly choked on her amusement when Justin flushed.

“He’d argue that,” he said and nearly yanked back his hand from Sam’s.

“Sam’s one of Max’s deputies,” Tabby told him. “Like Sloan.”

“Well, I wear a badge like Sloan,” Sam allowed wryly. “But nobody calls me their boss like they do Sloan.” She picked up the box of rolls. “Still warm. Wonder if Ruiz will mind if one is missing before I get them to him?”

“I’d like to see the day when you actually indulge yourself for once,” Tabby challenged.

“Oh, I indulge.” Sam’s gaze sparkled as she glanced at Justin on her way toward the door.

“With a sweet roll,” Tabby called after her.

Sam just laughed and sketched a wave as she left.

“Heard there was a lady deputy now,” Justin said when the sound of the bell over the door faded. “She still the only one?”

“Max has been trying to recruit more women.” Tabby picked up a rag and started needlessly polishing the counter. “It’s hard. Small-town USA is bad enough. Small town in the middle of Wyoming—where the tumbleweeds often outnumber the residents—isn’t the life for everyone.” Her fingers clenched around the rag as she rubbed harder. “Not even when you’re born and raised in it. You ought to know that better than anyone.” He was the perfect example of getting out, after all. “So what’s this big project you’re doing? Curing the common cold?”

“Nothing that profitable. Just an R&D project that should’ve been wrapped up already, but—”

There was a loud bang from the back of the diner, followed by, “Yo, yo, yo!”

Justin shoved his fingers through his hair, looking impatient. “Now what?”

“Bubba,” Tabby said evenly. “If you want peace and quiet, Ruby’s Café isn’t the place to find it. Why do you think those profit checks you get have a decent number of zeros at the end? Not that you probably notice them much, anyway, with your gigantic pharmaceutical salary.” She pushed through the swinging door to greet her cook. “Morning, Bubba.”

“Hey, girl.” Bubba Bumble had a gentle soul that he hid behind a lumbering, rough-looking, hard-talking exterior. “Figured you’d have the hash browns going already.” He was wrapping a white apron over his white T-shirt and slouchy, black-and-white-striped pants. Next came a pristine red-and-black bandanna that he wrapped over his forehead and tied in the back over his neatly shaved salt-and-pepper hair.

“Sorry. I got—” Distracted by Justin. “Busy,” she said instead.

Bubba grunted and grabbed a knife to start peeling potatoes. Leaving him to it, she went back out front. The regular waitresses would begin arriving any minute, but until they did, she was on deck. Once they were there, though, she’d spend most of her morning in the kitchen with Bubba. She could man the grill when she had to, but he was the cook. She took care of the baking—he didn’t like the ancient oven Tabby still used—and did the books and serving or kitchen prep when the load was heavy. And considering the pool tournament being held down the street, she was crossing her fingers for a heavy day.

She topped up Justin’s coffee again without waiting for him to ask and began restocking the rack that held individual boxes of cold cereal.

“Does anyone still order those things?”

“Absolutely.” She gave the rack a whirl. “Or did you think these were the same boxes of Fruity Twirls that were here when your great-grandma ran the place?”

He ignored her sarcasm.

“Since you’re here, you might as well eat. Biscuits and gravy? Pancakes? Or have your tastes gotten fancier along with your running clothes?”

“If they had, I wouldn’t be sitting on this stool,” he replied with such an even tone that she felt guilty. “What’s the special?”

She kept a small chalkboard propped on a shelf behind the counter where she listed the daily specials. But she hadn’t gotten to writing them out yet today, and the board was still wiped clean, the way she’d left it two days earlier.

“Bubba,” she called without looking behind her toward the pass-through window to the kitchen. “What’s the special this morning?”

“Turkey hash,” he yelled back. “Turkey noodle soup and salad this afternoon.”

She retrieved the board and chalk and wrote everything out. She’d just set the board back in place when the front door opened and a couple she didn’t know came in. They were both carrying long, distinctive cases. “Good morning,” she greeted. “Looks like you’re in town for the tournament. Sit anywhere you like. I’ll be right over with menus.” Without waiting a beat, she looked at Justin again. “So? What’ll you have?”

“Scrambled eggs and wheat toast.”

He liked eggs now? Withholding comment, she turned and leaned closer to the pass-through. “Scrambled eggs and wheat for Justin, Bubba.”

Her cook looked up from the growing mountain of potatoes he’d shredded. “Justin’s here?” He immediately set down his knife and crossed the kitchen to look through the pass-through. “Justin! How’s life treating you, man?”

“It’s good, Bubba. You?”

Ignoring their conversation, Tabby carried two waters and menus over to the couple, who’d chosen a booth in the corner. “I’m Tabby. Can I get you coffee or anything else besides water while you have a chance to look over the menu?”

“Bloody Mary?” The young woman looked hopeful.

Tabby smiled and shook her head. “Sorry. No alcohol here. Colbys will be able to accommodate you on that, though, if you have your heart set. You’ll get a good breakfast there, too. Not as good as here—” she gave a quick wink “—but good all the same.”

“I suppose I can live without one.” The girl propped her chin on her hand. “What about you, honey?”

“Coffee’s good for me. And one of those pecan cinnamon rolls that I keep hearing about.” The man flipped open the menu.

“Oh, me, too.” The girl’s expression brightened. “And cream for my coffee if you’ve got it. It’s a holiday weekend. If I can’t splurge on a Bloody Mary just yet, I’ll splurge on that.”

Tabby’s smile turned into a grin. “Coming right up.” Infinitely comfortable with this particular role, she returned to the counter area, prepared a little white jug of cold cream, plated up two warm rolls and returned with them, along with the coffeepot, to the table. While she was serving the couple, the door jingled again, and two more parties of two came in. Everyone had pool cue cases.

She hid her delight and called out another cheerful “Good morning.”

She’d just gotten them situated with menus and drinks when Bubba called out that an order was up, and she went back to grab Justin’s plate. Which also had a side of biscuits and gravy.

Bubba figured he knew Justin pretty well, too, obviously.

Tabby set his plate in front of him, and Justin eyed the fat, fluffy biscuit that was mounded over with golden-brown gravy studded with chunks of sausage. She reached below the counter and came up with a bottle of hot sauce. She was tempted to hold it out of his reach, but she set it in front of him. “Anything else I can get for you?” She lifted her eyebrows, waiting. “More coffee?”

“No coffee. But there is something else.” He hesitated a moment, then suddenly dumped the biscuit and gravy on top of the eggs, completely hiding them, and grabbed the hot sauce.

She hid a smile as she pivoted on her heel to grab an order that Bubba set on the pass-through. “More gravy?”

“The key to the empty unit you’ve still got at the triplex,” he said. “I want to rent it.”

Chapter Four

Tabby turned and was staring at him as if he’d started speaking Swahili. “What’s that?”

“You still have an empty unit at your triplex, don’t you? Erik told me last night—”

“Yes,” she said, looking consternated. “I haven’t managed to rent out the third unit yet, but—”

“Well, now you have,” he said, content to do his own share of interrupting. “At least for six weeks or so.”

Her lips parted, and he knew she wanted to tell him no. He knew it. Just as he knew there was no way that she could. Their families were too close. Their moms were best friends. Her brother was married to one of his cousins.

She managed the diner he and his brother owned.

“I’ll pay twice what you were planning to charge,” he said in a low tone. “Just say okay, Tab, and neither one of us’ll have to go around explaining why we’re the only ones who don’t think it’s such a great idea. My family suggested it last night after you cut and ran.”

“I didn’t cut and run.” Her lips twisted, and she looked away. The bell over the door jingled twice more in rapid succession. “Fine,” she said abruptly. “Meet me over there at two this afternoon. I’ll give you the key.” Then she snatched two slick, laminated menus out of the slot next to the cash register and smiled almost maniacally at the newcomers. “Good morning!”

Justin wondered if he was the only one who heard the wealth of false cheer that had entered her voice.

He wished to hell he’d never admitted to Erik the night before that he wasn’t exactly anxious to move back home for the next several weeks.

Not because he didn’t love his folks. He did. But he’d been out on his own for a long time, and he was used to having his own space. One where his mother didn’t figure she ought to make up his bed every morning.

If he hadn’t made that admission to Erik, then Izzy wouldn’t have overheard, and then his mom wouldn’t have come in on the conversation. Hope hadn’t been insulted at all, either. In fact, she’d been the one to toss out ideas for places he might rent temporarily. Erik, though, had been the one to remember Tabby’s place.

And wasn’t that just the perfect solution?

Everyone knew Justin and Tabby were friends. Always had been. Thick as thieves. That’s how his mom had put it as she’d reminisced.

He wasn’t about to tell them those days were over. That Tabby would just as soon kick him to the edge of town than agree to rent one of her triplex units to him. And he definitely wasn’t about to tell them the reason why.

He dumped more hot sauce on the sausage gravy.

And when he was finished, it was one of the waitresses—a girl he didn’t know named Paulette—who took away his half-empty plate.

* * *

Tabby spotted the dusty black pickup truck parked in front of her triplex the second she rounded the corner of her street.

She wanted to turn on her heel and go back to the safety of the diner. Justin might be half owner, but at least there she figured she was safe from him showing up again that day.

Huffing out a breath, she tucked her chin inside the turned-up collar of her coat and trudged forward. When she got closer, she saw that he was sitting on her front porch. He’d changed into jeans and a light gray hoodie.

The cigarette dangling between his fingers wasn’t such a welcome sight. He stubbed it out when he spotted her and rubbed his hands down his thighs as he stood, waiting for her to walk closer. But the faint smell of smoke lingered.

“When’d you start smoking again?” He’d smoked for a few years in grad school. Never around his folks. And rarely around her. And she knew he’d worked like a dog to give up the habit. Because what good was a guy researching cancer cures who died of it himself?

He frowned. “I haven’t started up again.”

She pointedly pushed the toe of her boot against the cigarette butt sitting on the edge of her cement porch.

“I’ve been working on the same pack for weeks.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye as she passed him to unlock the front door of her unit. “Question is why you have a pack of cigarettes at all.”

“I know. Disgusting habit. Unhealthy as hell.”

All of which was true.

So why, darn it, had there been something so stupidly sexy about him sitting there with one?

It was insane.

Maybe it went along with that whole bad-boy appeal thing.

Not that Justin had ever been a bad boy.

He’d just been the boy who got away.

She pushed open the door. “You coming in or going to stand there and wait while I find the key for the empty unit?” It was pretty much an excuse. She knew where the key was. She just wasn’t all that anxious to hand it over to him.

But then, she wasn’t all that anxious to have him inside her home, either. As it was, she thought about him often enough without him ever having stepped foot inside.

He bent over and retrieved the crumpled cigarette butt and stepped through her doorway, pushing the door closed behind him. “Trash?”

She gestured to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by only a bat-wing-shaped breakfast bar. “Under the sink.” She chewed the inside of her cheek, watching him cross the room. “The empty unit is on the other end. Floor plan’s just like mine. Two bedrooms. Fireplace. One bath. Furnished, which I assume you heard. Minimally, though, so don’t expect all the comforts you’re used to. You’ve got a utility room, but no washer and dryer.” And she’d be hanged if she would offer the use of hers. He had plenty of family around Weaver he could ask, and if not them, then there was a brand-new Laundromat out on the other side of town by Shop-World.

“I don’t care what the floor plan is or whether there’s a washer and dryer. I don’t know what luxuries you figure I’ve got in Boston. I don’t have a washer and dryer there, either. Long as it has running water and electricity, I’m good. What prompted you to buy this place?”

She raised her shoulders, a little thrown by the abrupt question. “I don’t know.”

He gave her a look.

She pressed her lips together. “Fine. With all the new building going on at the other end of town, some of these old places are starting to go vacant. The original owner—do you remember Mr. Samuelson? He had that bait-and-tackle shack—” She made herself stop rambling. “Anyway, he died. Had no family. There was talk about an investor who wanted to buy this lot and the house next door, but only to raze them and put up a convenience store.”

He grimaced.

“Right. That was my reaction, too. Plenty of new building going on at the other end of town. But downtown here? It’s charming just the way it is. Anyway,” she hurried on, skipping the rest of her reasons, “it’s close enough to work that I can usually walk.”

“Like you did today.”

“Obviously.”

“Even though when you walk to work, it’s early. And pitch-dark.”

“So?”

He sighed. “Christ, Tabby. That’s practically the middle of the night. You shouldn’t be out walking—”

“—the three very short blocks in this town where nothing ever happens?”

“Why didn’t you charge Sloan McCray this morning for his coffee and roll? It’s not because he works for the sheriff’s department. You charged that blonde lady deputy for hers.”

Tabby clamped her lips shut. The fact that he’d asked told her that he already knew.

“He busted a guy who was trying to rob the diner, that’s why.” Justin pressed his hands flat on the granite-topped breakfast bar and stared at her. “Yeah, I asked and heard all about it. He busted in. While you were there. Alone before hours. With the damned door unlocked.”

“And for a year after it happened, I kept the door locked,” she snapped. “Until I got tired of having to stop what I was doing and go unlock it every time I turned around, because half this town knows I’m there long before six when the place officially opens and stops by, anyway!”

“You need to be more careful.”

“I locked my house door, didn’t I?” She realized she was yelling and let out a long breath. “I’ll get your key,” she muttered and hurried down the hall.

She used the spare room as a studio and office. She found the key in the bottom of an empty coffee can that also held her clean paintbrushes and returned to the living room.

He was still standing in the kitchen, and she set the key on the granite. “There you go. Rent’s due in advance.” She blamed the devil for prompting her to make that up right then and there.

He spread his hands. “Not exactly packing a checkbook here, Tab.”

“The bank’s open until five. But you’ll have to park a few blocks away because of the traffic in town for the pool tournament.”

He sighed a little and pocketed the key. “Who lives in the middle unit?”

“Mrs. Wachowski. She used to teach history at the high school—”

“I remember her. She was ancient when we were in school. Surprised she’s still around. She must be a hundred and twenty by now.”

Tabby didn’t want to feel amusement over anything he said, but the retired teacher had seemed ancient when they were teenagers. And she would have been totally displaced, just like Mr. Rowe, who was seventy and lived in the house next door, if someone hadn’t purchased the triplex. “She’s eighty-five. And she’s very nice, but she’s a light sleeper. So if you’re still prone to blasting old Van Halen when you can’t sleep, be aware.”

“I played it when I studied,” he corrected her. “And it was AC/DC. Not Van Halen.”

“Whatever.” She was blithely dismissive. As if she didn’t remember very well what it had actually been. She went to the door and opened it. “Don’t forget the bank.”

He crossed the room and stopped in front of her, so close she could see the faint lines radiating from his violet eyes. “I don’t forget anything.”

Her palm felt slippery clenched around the doorknob. “You forgot we were friends,” she said huskily.

“I didn’t forget that, either.”

Her throat went tight, and she damned the sudden burning she could feel behind her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” She just wanted him to go.

“Tabby—”

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