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She shrugged as if she didn’t care, but she was tense. He saw the way the cords in her neck tightened. She glanced over his shoulder, and he wondered what she saw when she looked at this sparse, empty place she called home.
She didn’t say anything, and the silence dragged on for several long moments. Nash watched her closely and then shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He thought of his mom barking orders in her kitchen and of his family jumping to get things done. He thought of the turkey and gravy and stuffing. The ham and mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots and turnip. The pumpkin pie and the brownies she always made especially for him. The house would be a zoo, the complete opposite of this apartment, and it was what Thanksgiving should be.
Loud. Messy. Crazy. Warm and comforting.
No one should spend the day alone, staring at a pot of burnt Kraft dinner. He nailed Honey with a look that brooked no argument.
“You’re going to need to change.”
That arched eyebrow shot up even higher. “What?”
“Mom has a dress code. No jeans. No food.”
“Have you been drinking, Booker?”
“Nope. I’m as sober as a church mouse.”
“Quiet, you mean.”
“What’s that?”
“The saying is quiet as a…”
“I know what the saying is.” Irritated, he glanced at his watch. Shit. “Hop to it, Honey Bee, or we’re going to be late.”
Her eyes narrowed to small slits, and she turned from him, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“You got better plans than burnt crap and this place?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Why do you always make things hard? Why can’t you just live in the moment and go with the flow for once?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but he took a step toward her and held up his hand. “Look. It’s Thanksgiving. My mother will kick my ass if she knows you’re here by yourself.”
“Then don’t tell her.” Honey had met Lisa Booker, so he knew she knew how relentless the woman could be.
“Don’t make this a thing, okay? It’s dinner. Nothing more. Go put on a dress or something, and let’s go.” He looked directly into her eyes so she would know he wasn’t bullshitting. “I’m not leaving without you.” Nash turned around and headed for the door. “I’ll be downstairs waiting, so don’t make me later than I already am.”
Once he was back in the bar, he grabbed the wine from his office and his coat. Less than five minutes later, Honey appeared. She’d pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and her lips glistened with pale gloss. Black boots peeked out from under a three-quarter-length black jacket that looked as if it were meant for the South, not winter in Michigan. He wasn’t exactly sure what she’d pulled on clothes wise, but hoped she’d taken his no-jeans, no-food warning to heart.
Honey wrapped a thick black scarf around her neck and pulled on purple gloves as she sailed by him and headed for the door. By the time he locked up and got his butt in gear, she was standing beside his Jeep. There were no words, and Nash hopped inside, the engine roaring to life as Honey slipped on her seat belt.
She cleared her throat and looked at him. “Don’t ever call me that again.” She paused, that whiskey-soaked voice of hers dead serious as he glanced her way, a questioning look in his eyes. “Honey Bee.” She settled back in her seat and looked ahead. “Never again.”
Nash wasn’t sure what to make of her request, but there was no denying the name had struck a chord with her and not a good one. He slowly nodded and put the truck in gear. “Okay.” He put on some music, and as the snow began to fall in big flakes that drifted on a lazy breeze, the two of them headed to his parent’s place.
3
Honey regretted her decision to join Nash and his family about three seconds after she got into his vehicle. Family dinners weren’t her thing, so why in hell had she agreed to come? Lack of sleep? Temporary insanity? She didn’t mind doing something out of her comfort zone as long as the end game got her closer to the reason she’d come to Crystal Lake in the first place. But dinner with the Bookers? Nowhere near the end game. Reluctantly she stayed silent, even though she wished she had the balls to tell him to turn around and take her back to the bar.
Eventually, they pulled up in front of a large all-brick family home boasting a wraparound porch and an elegance that belonged to another era. The trim was classic gingerbread, painted crisp white with shutters to match, which looked sharp against the deep red-orange brick. The additional walkout from the upper level was lit with white lights, and they cast a warm glow that twinkled in the early evening gloom. A detached garage could be seen in the backyard, and a swing hung from the large oak tree to the right. Mature shrubs were trimmed expertly, and the flower boxes under the windows sported pine arrangements that were perfect for the season. She hid a grimace. The place looked like a damn Norman Rockwell painting.
She glanced up the tree-lined street. It looked the same, each driveway leading to an elegant family home where pride was king. This area of Crystal Lake was a throwback to old Americana and the kind of place anybody would love to live.
She used to dream of living in a place like this. But that dream was long gone, replaced with an awareness that homes like these hid secrets and not everything was as it seemed. She much preferred to know the score from the get-go. And living in a run-down trailer park like the one she’d grown up in did just that. Sunset Park held no grand illusions. It was a place where dreams went to die. A place most folks didn’t escape.
