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The moment he could make his escape, he’d done it. Gladly. His mother had cried when he’d told her his promotion involved a transfer. She cried more because he’d told her about it at the last minute, right before he left. He couldn’t help but think that was a total jackass move. But then his father had told him he’d be back in a knowing tone. That one remark had stung. Had driven West to prove that he would never, ever come back.
Someone should’ve told him a long time ago, never say never.
So here he was, back in his hometown, all because of another transfer. When he went to the interview for the permanent engineer position in the ranger unit he’d started in, he’d known what he was doing. He knew what it looked like when they asked him about returning to Wildwood and the outlying area. Everyone probably figured he was purposely trying to come back home.
That wasn’t West’s plan though. This was a pit stop, nothing more. He’d work at the Wildwood Lake station for a few years before transferring out at his first chance to be promoted to captain. He was all about climbing the promotional ladder as fast as he could. He loved what he did. He was good at his job too. But the better the position, the more people would respect him—like his father. If that meant coming home for a few years, then so be it.
If he could prove to everyone that he wasn’t the fuck-up they all thought he was, even better. He’d rather leave in a blaze of glory, unlike last time when he’d fled Wildwood like the unwanted son.
“When’s your first shift start?” Lane asked him.
West glanced at him over his shoulder. “Two days.” Though he was going in tomorrow to meet everyone, get his bearings.
“Hey, I go back to work in two days,” Holden added, amusement filling his voice. “Too bad we’re not at the same station.”
Thank Christ they weren’t at the same station. West didn’t think he could handle it. Bossing around his little brother didn’t sound like fun. Holden had never done well with authority, and that was putting it mildly.
Like West had any room to judge. He’d fought against authority—namely their father—since he was a little kid.
“Your condo is nice,” Lane said, changing the subject when West still hadn’t acknowledged Holden’s comment. “I assume you’re renting it?”
“Yeah, didn’t want to bother buying because I don’t know how long I’m going to stay here,” West explained.
“You don’t want to stay?” Holden sounded incredulous. And why wouldn’t he? He had all the comforts of home here in Wildwood. Mom and Dad doted on him. His girlfriend, Kirsten, whom he’d been dating since they were in high school, was loyal and sweet. Everyone assumed Holden would marry her eventually. They were what everyone called the perfect couple.
That sounded like a total trap to West. Oh, Kirsten was a nice girl and all, but marriage? Holden was only twenty-three, just a baby in West’s eyes.
“You gonna give us a tour after dinner?” Lane asked, his eyebrows raised.
“Absolutely.” West could admit that he wanted to show off his place. The older three-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath condominium was close to the lake, perfect rental property for tourists. He’d struck a deal with the owner, thankful for once that he was from Wildwood and still knew how to pull a few strings.
After all, the owner was none other than Rebecca Hill—Harper’s grandmother.
“Saw Harper Hill at the supermarket, too,” West said as he turned off the burners on the barbecue. He scooped the burgers off the grill with his new spatula and set them on a paper plate, then brought them over to the table where they were going to eat. “She’s looking . . . good too.”
That sounded awkward as hell and he braced himself, waiting for them to say something, anything to give him endless shit. He shouldn’t have mentioned her, but he was digging. Looking for any bit of information he could get on Harper.
But they didn’t say a word. Lane looked at West’s pitiful offerings of mustard and ketchup before lifting his gaze. “You went to the fancy supermarket and this is all you got for our burgers?”
“And some chips.” West waved an unopened bag of potato chips at Lane.
“You need some serious domestication,” Holden declared as he put together his hamburger and took a big bite out of it. “You live too much like a bachelor,” he said, his mouth full.
“Aren’t we all bachelors?” West asked. Lane lived alone. Supposedly so did Holden though everyone knew Kirsten spent most of her time at his apartment in town.
“Well, I’ve got Kirsten, and Lane is like an old man, so I would say we’ve got this eating properly thing down,” Holden teased. “You, on the other hand, probably only have a twelve-pack and those condiments filling your fridge.”
West grimaced but said nothing. Whatever. So Holden was right, so what? He didn’t need to be domesticated, to have some woman always telling him what to do. He liked living on his own, not needing anyone. He was perfectly content. If he wanted female company, he went out and found it. It wasn’t that hard.
They ate in silence, but West wasn’t uncomfortable. This was normal for them growing up. Their parents had civilized conversation—if Dad was even home. He’d worked long hours, and when he was off, he rarely made an appearance, even during mealtime, especially when he and Lane were teenagers. The boys had shoveled food in their faces while Wren did all the gabbing. She was good at it. As they got older, she usually had a friend accompanying her at the dinner table too, resulting in endless, loud female chatter.
Usually that friend was Harper.
Since arriving in Wildwood, his mind seemed to keep circling back to her, and he wondered at that. Wondered too, at the way he’d caught her staring at him just before he left the store earlier today. The look in her eyes had been downright . . . hungry, which had surprised him. And he’d immediately felt an answering hunger deep inside. One borne of curiosity and familiarity, one he wanted to explore further, even though he knew it was a huge mistake.
He blamed it on the kiss they’d shared. Well, kisses. Why else would he be so hung up on a girl he’d
known most of his life? Fine, that one summer when he’d gone for it, when he’d been a little drunk and full of liquid courage and basically attacked her—in a good way, not a creeper way—it had been hot as hell. She was hot as hell. So damn responsive and soft in all the right places, with those warm, damp lips and sweet sighs and the way she said his name . . .
