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“Fine, Pinkerton.” Shane stepped up, too, and Ricky immediately retreated a half step. “Don’t fortify the creek banks. Roll the dice. See what happens. I’m sure your personal opinion will satisfy the planning commission, and the other investors. They probably don’t even care what a certified water resources engineer has to say on the matter.”
Silence ruled for a full ten seconds. Then one of the cohorts cleared his throat and mumbled, “Ricky, we’re gonna miss our tee time if we don’t shake a leg.”
“Don’t let us hold you up,” she said. The closest course was at the country club two towns over and thirty minutes away. “Enjoy your drive. Better not cancel that membership any time soon,” she added under her breath as Ricky passed.
“Sinclair, kiss my—”
“Watch it.” Shane directed the warning to Ricky and held the Tahoe’s driver’s side door open for her.
She laughed as she climbed in. Then, just to remind Ricky who really called the shots, she taunted, “Give my regards to your grandma.”
The slam of the door didn’t quite cover Ricky’s response.
“Go on and go, Maguire. You don’t belong here. You didn’t belong ten years ago when we kicked your ass out, and you don’t belong here now.”
…
Shane sat in Sinclair’s passenger seat, watching the scenery pass by without really seeing it. Ricky rubbed him the wrong way just by breathing, but the motherfucker had taken irritation to a whole new level in less than three minutes, simultaneously cockblocking him, insinuating he had personal motives for bringing up the flood risk created by the golf course, and being a prick to Sinclair. If Pinkerton had half a brain in his inflated head, he’d be helping find a solution to the situation instead of pretending no problem existed. Instead, Shane was going back and forth wit
h an architect, a structural engineer, and a contractor about how to retrofit a two-hundred-year-old foundation to raise the barn to an appropriate flood-protection elevation.
“It’s good to see you, too,” a voice said softly from beside him.
Well, there was that. Irritation faded. He turned and regarded her, taking in her perfect profile and the pretty blush decorating her cheek. He decided to push his luck. “And exactly why is it good to see me, Sinclair?”
“Because of the sex.”
He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. Stubborn woman. “I don’t buy it. We could be back at the inn, scratching that itch, but you refused my personal invitation. Try again. Why are you happy to see me?”
“Um…” She bit her lip and stared through the windshield. “It might have something to do with the fact that I missed you.”
Irritation gone. But now he regretted more than ever that they weren’t back at his room, where he could reward her lavishly for volunteering the words he knew scared the crap out of her. He slid his hand over her leg, squeezing her thigh through the baggy jeans she wore. How quickly could he have them undone? Pooled around her ankles? All he needed to do was get her to stop the car.
He leaned in and nuzzled behind her ear. “I missed you, too.” He swept his palm up her leg, to her hip, and then fiddled with the tab of her zipper. “Pull over.”
Surprisingly, she slowed the car. He’d figured on this requiring more effort on his part, because back at the inn she’d been so dead set on taking the tour she’d arranged. He skimmed his tongue along the rim of her ear. She shivered and applied the brake.
“We’re here.”
A distinctly cautious tone had crept into her voice. He lifted his head to see how secluded a spot she’d chosen…and froze. The heat licking along his veins fizzled. “Here?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“This place doesn’t have anything to do with us.”
“Of course, it does, Shane. This place helped shape you.” With that, she opened her door and hopped out.
He sat still for another moment, inspecting the small post-war house where he’d grown up, with its sagging porch, faded paint, and cracked asphalt driveway. Ten years hadn’t altered much. Someone had planted a raggedy-looking pine tree in the front yard at some point, and the screen door was different, but otherwise, no big changes. Certainly no big improvements.
But apparently, that was about to change. Mayor Campbell’s wife, Deanne, came down the drive to greet Sinclair. A realtor by trade, the mayor’s other half had leveraged the collective Campbell talents and created a healthy side business buying, remodeling, and flipping underappreciated properties. He opened his door and unfolded himself from the passenger seat.
“Shane, sweetie,” she called to him when he started up the drive, “it’s good to see you outside of city hall.” He took the hand she offered and accepted the encouraging little squeeze she gave him. “When Sinclair called me and said y’all would like to swing by and take a look around, I was surprised at first, but then she reminded me your family lived here.”
He nodded. “About twenty years, I think. They moved in when Derek was a baby.”
“Well, I can understand you wanting to look the place over before Jim and I whip it into shape. Not much has been done yet.” She turned and led the way along the narrow concrete walkway to the front door. “The guys have mostly just hauled junk out. Old Roy Hamilton’s family rented it after your parents left, and he spent about eight years here, hoarding away, before he passed on—God rest his soul. Watch yourselves here,” she interjected and pointed at the bowing porch steps. “Then it sat empty for a couple years before I finally convinced Ethel Finch to sell it to me because its days as a rental were O-V-E-R. So, anyway”—she swung the front door open—“I warn you two, it’s a dingy mess in here.”
Sinclair took his hand and cast a careful look at him as they followed Deanne inside.
