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“Mine’s fried hot dogs.”
That brought her upright.
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
“You northerners are so judgmental.”
“I’m afraid to ask what Caleb contributes to these feasts.”
“Marshmallows. Not fried,” he added quickly. “Charred. You know. In a fire. Crispy on the outside, melted on the inside.”
“Actually, I don’t know.”
“What? You never sat around a campfire and toasted marshmallows?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, honey,” Jake said, with genuine regret, “you missed a lot.”
“Charlie used to say the same thing.” And even as she asked herself why she’d mentioned Charlie, the answer came to her.
It was time to know how Jake felt about Charlie and the ugly gossip.
“Charlie,” Jake said—and he wondered how he’d sounded, saying the name.
Curious? Well, he was.
Any man would be, when a rich guy left a woman a couple of hundred thousand acres of good Texas land, no matter how tumbledown its condition.
Jealous? No. Of course not …
“That’s it? Just ‘Charlie’?”
Addison shut the refrigerator door and turned toward him.
“Charles Hilton.”
Her tone was wary, maybe even defiant. So was the look in her eyes.
Okay. Now Jake knew exactly how he’d sounded.
Like a man biting back a mouthful of jealousy.
“He was my friend.” She waited. “I told you that, remember?”
“Hey. I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Addison. Honey. That’s not fair. I only meant—”
He frowned. Why was he explaining himself? They’d met, what, two days ago? One day ago? He was losing track. She had her own life, just as he had his.
Hell. Be honest, Wilde.
Plain and simple, he wanted to know if she was carrying the torch for a dead guy.
“I meant,” he said slowly, “did you love him?”
