He stood there on the porch, framed by the last gold light of the evening, holding a paper sack from the local bakery.Thesmell of fresh yeast rolls drifted up as soon as he shifted the bag.
“Peace offering?”she asked, arching a brow, fighting for casual when her heart had already leapt into her throat.
“Bribe,” he said with that grin that had once undone every bit of sense in her.“Iwasn’t sure what the dress code was, butIfigured carbs were always safe.”
“You’re not wrong,” she said, stepping back and pulling the screen door wide to let him in.
Acen paused on the threshold, eyes roaming the room.Hisgaze softened like he’d walked straight into a memory.“Ithasn’t changed much since we were kids.”
“I’m grateful my parents left it to me,”Rosesaid, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.“Lotof memories floating around these walls.AndwithRileyout of it, it’s cleaner.He’snot here to leave wet towels and stinky shoes everywhere.”
That earned a chuckle.“Ido kind of miss his terrible taste in posters, though.Rememberthat one with the muscle car and the girl in a bikini—what was her name?”
“Trina,”Rosedeadpanned.
Acen snapped his fingers.“Right.Ibet she’s a realtor now.”
“She’s mayor ofMcNairyCounty.”
He nearly choked on the sip of tea she’d just handed him.“You’rekidding.”
“Nope.”Rosesmirked, enjoying his shock.“Smalltowns: where your high school sins are just résumé bullet points.”
The ease between them startled her, like no time at all had passed.Sheled him into the kitchen, the heart of her home, where the walls were lined with pale blue beadboard and her mama’s cast-iron skillet still hung above the stove.
Acen set the bakery bag down, then, without asking, began pulling plates from the cabinet, silverware from the drawer, setting the table with a comfort that madeRose’schest ache.Hemoved through her kitchen as though he belonged there.
And it felt natural.Toonatural.Thesort of natural that could trick a lonely heart into forgetting history, forgetting scars.
And that scared her.
The casserole came out bubbling and golden, filling the room with the smell of cheese and herbs.Theysat, ate the casserole, and for a while it was like nothing had ever gone wrong.Theylaughed aboutRiley’sfailed attempt at cutting his own hair before prom, about the year the marching band’s tuba player had fainted in theFourthofJulyparade from the heat.Theytiptoed around the one summer they both remembered too well, the summer that had ended withBriana’striumphant smile andRose’sheart shattered.
When the plates were scraped clean and the candles she’d lit had burned low,Rosepoured the two of them a glass of wine.Acensipped his, leaning back in his chair, watching her in a way that made her skin warm.
“So,” she said at last, her voice steadier than she felt.“Whynow?”
He blinked.“Whywhat now?”
“Why come back?Youcould’ve stayed gone.Evenwith a blown-out knee, the pros could use a guy with your talent as a coach.Youcould’ve been anywhere.SowhyPickwickBend?”
Her words hung between them, heavy asJunehumidity.
Acen looked down at his hands, then back at her.Hedidn’t answer right away.
Finally, softly: “BecauseIcouldn’t shake the feeling thatIleft the best parts of myself here.BecauseI’vebuilt a good life,Rose, a respectable one.ButInever stopped wondering if the real life—the one that felt like mine—got away from me.Andbecause…”Heswallowed.“BecauseIhoped that maybeIstill had a chance to make things right.”
She stared at him, her heart thudding so loudly she swore he could hear it.
“Don’t screw it up,” she whispered.
“I won’t,” he promised.
And when he reached across the table and laid his hand over hers, she didn’t pull away.
ThePickwickInnbar was dimly lit, all knotty pine walls and brass fixtures that had seen better days.Brianasat on a red leather stool, swirling the ice in her vodka soda, glaring at the wood-paneled wall as though it had personally betrayed her.Herreflection in the backbar mirror showed perfect makeup, perfectly styled hair, but her eyes glittered with something sharp.
DeclanRowe, seated slightly back in the corner near the big stone fireplace, had been watching her since she walked in.Notbecause he made a habit of watching beautiful women, thoughBrianawas nothing if not striking, but because she radiated a kind of storm energy that drew the eye.Dangerous.Electric.Likeshe was plotting something.
