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I slumped onto the couch.
And Blake.
If I thought somehow I could right that wrong, I was hopeless.
The cruises. The drinks. The day at the beach—it was all to get in my pants for some kind of final goodbye vengeance sex.
My skin tingled. My core ached.
Why did it sound like the hottest night of my life?
I picked up the phone and waited for Brody to answer.
“Sierra, hey girl. Glad you called me back. When are you coming back?”
“I still have two weeks. I was planning on using them,” I replied.
“Right. You got my message about Wendy, right? She has to go on bed rest next week.”
“Bed rest? Is it that serious?”
“Uhh. I don’t think so.”
“Did you ask her?” I wasn’t surprised he didn’t know any details.
“Look, it isn’t my business. I just work the schedule.”
I sighed. “So you need me back a week early?”
“We do, babe. Can you come home?”
Home. It was a funny word lately. Dallas was where my apartment was. Where I kept my massive shoe collection and my journalism school diploma. The island wasn’t home anymore. But the memories had started to seep in in surprising wa
ys. Familiar scents. Comfortable accents. Views that soothed my soul.
“Yeah, of course.” I tried to smile. “Tell Wendy not to worry about it.”
“Good. I knew you’d come through. We’ve missed you around here.”
“Thanks. I’ve missed it too.”
“See you next week.”
“Yep. See you soon.”
I hung up and realized my job of going through Aunt Lindy’s house had just become unsurmountable. There was no way I was going to get everything done in a week. I was crazy to think it would have been done in two.
That meant I was going to have to come back.
16
Blake
I pressed my palms into the sawhorses and closed my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was in here.
All I could smell was sawdust and turpentine. Everywhere I looked I saw him. Climbing the ladder with a bucket of paint. Arguing in the office about a bill someone refused to pay. But they were only memories. Dad was gone. He wasn’t going to barge in here and tell me I was doing this all wrong. He would know a better way to do it. He always had a better way than I did.
I picked up a tattered piece of sand paper and braced it between my hand and a piece of juniper. I smoothed the wood with the rough surface. The more I moved it back and forth, the sleeker the wood looked. I ground it harder, repeating the motion.
