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A shitty one.
The answer popped into her mind, clear and adamant. And curiously, the voice sounded very similar to her mother’s.
Sydney shook her head, and a whisper of movement out of her peripheral vision snagged her attention. Surprise crackled through her as she spotted a lone, tall figure standing in the newer section of the graveyard. The leaves of a soaring, ancient red oak cast shadows over him, concealing his identity at this distance. Not that she would’ve called out if she recognized him. He was obviously here for solitude just like her.
With one last glance in the mourner’s direction, she continued climbing the rise, and when she reached the top, her breath puffed from between her lips, her heart tapping out a faster beat in her chest. The view before her stole any air left in her lungs. Clouds so fluffy and white they appeared like big cotton balls embraced the peaks of huge mountains. Lush, green hills rolled like emerald waves in the distance, and houses played hide’n’ seek among them.
Peace settled over her, like an old friend eagerly welcoming her back. As she’d known it would. The people here might not be the most receptive to her being back or ever accept her. But this place? It knew her heart. Closing her eyes, Sydney tipped her head back, allowing the fat sun sitting low in the sky to warm her skin with its last rays. This had been her special place after Carlin died. Here, she could be alone. Away from the censure and overwhelming grief she’d glimpsed in her parents’ eyes. Here, she could shed the I-don’t-give-a-fuck persona she’d adorned, becauseGod…she gave so many fucks.
Here, she could be Sydney and not sink in the shame of beingalive.
“Sydney?”
Well, damn.
Irritation flashed through her, but years of living in the South already had her lips curling into a polite smile. Until she turned her head and met a pair of stunning amber eyes. A very familiar pair of stunning amber eyes that she hadn’t forgotten in the eight years she’d been gone.
Astonishment ricocheted through her, robbing her of coherent speech.
“Cole?” The shallow rasp was all she could squeeze past her constricted lungs.
A full, sensual mouth curved at the corners, that bottom lip heavy, and for a moment, his smile briefly banished the shadows lurking in his gaze. And it was that smile that confirmed the tall, wide-shouldered, powerfully built man standing before her was indeed Coltrane “Cole” Dennison. The man she’d hopelessly crushed on so many years ago stared down at her now, that jeweled gaze filled with confusion, surprise and delight.
Delight.
Coltrane Dennison was delighted to see her. Then again, her childhood friend’s older brother had always been nice to the foolish and reckless teenager she’d been. Even though she and his sister Leontyne had gotten into some scrapes that could squarely be placed at Sydney’s feet. Now… some might still call her reckless. But at twenty-six, she’d learned discipline and restraint. The hard way.
“Itisyou,” he said in a voice that landed somewhere between the smooth glide of water over pebbles and thunder rolling across an inky sky.
Damn. Not only had pregnancy turned her into an emotional Tilt-a-Whirl and caused hair to sprout in places it really had no business growing, but it’d apparently transformed her from grant writer to poet. Cole shifted closer, effectively cutting off her scolding of herself. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to adopt a carefree smile that was a flat-out lie.
“It’s me,” she said, slipping her hands into the pockets of her billowy red-and-gold maxi dress. “Guilty,” she added with a chuckle that sounded way too self-deprecating for her comfort.
Seemed she was always on the verge of apologizing for something.
For not saving her older sister’s life.
For not being the perfect daughter.
For not giving her baby a two-parent home.
Yep. That was her. The Queen of I’m Sorry.
He moved forward again, and before she could brace herself, his arms encircled her, his wide, hard chest pressed against her cheek and his scent wrapped around her. Her lashes fluttered then lowered, her hands raising to flatten against the strong muscles of his back. She slowly released her pent-up breath, and for the shortest of moments, she caved. Yielded to the pleasure of his—of anyone’s—genuine joy in seeing her again. Capitulated to the thrill of being welcomed instead of scorned.
Surrendered to the need for human contact, for being close to someone, held by them. Touched by them.
She stiffened. Jesus, what was she doing?
Being a damn glutton for punishment, that’s what. Hadn’t it been giving in to that last need that had led to her current state of impending single motherhood? Yes, a bottle of Moscato and a boatload of being-up-in-her-feelings had guided the way to unwise sex with her ex-husband, but still… It’d been that desire for intimacy, for emotional and physical connection, that had greased it. And that desire, the fear of being alone, had kept her in her marriage long past its expiration date.
Hours and hours on a therapist’s couch had granted her insight into the whys. Distant parents. Lack of affirmation. Viewing her looks as her primary value. Validation. Yada, yada, yada.
It all boiled down to one thing: she needed to keep dicks out of her pants because it led to nothing but trouble.
Not that Cole, her best friend’s brother, wanted her… Good God. She was devolving.
Easing out of his arms, she dropped hers to her sides.
