“Something
,” he protested.
She drew her gaze away and said, “Just not feeling well.”
That’s when it hit Lucky. “Is it your Crohn’s disease?” He was aware of her limited diet because they’d eaten plenty of meals together, but he’d never seen her appear ill and had nearly forgotten about that part of her condition.
She looked uncomfortable with the question. “Yeah, but no biggie. I’ll call you when I feel better,” she told him—then actually moved to shut the door in his face.
He raised a hand to stop her. “I hope you don’t think you’re getting rid of me
that
easy, hot stuff.”
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I’m coming in,” he told her. It wasn’t a decision so much as an instinct.
And it came as a pretty damn big shock when she answered with a surprisingly adamant, “No.”
What the hell?
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you here.”
. . . a solemn passion is conceived in my heart;
it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life . . .
Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre
T
essa didn’t mean to be cruel, but she hadn’t expected Lucky to show up at her door, and she preferred being alone when a flare-up occurred. And she felt too yucky at the moment to mince words.
Lucky just looked at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Geez. She hardly felt like explaining her feelings right now, but tried anyway. “Look, I just . . . don’t want you to see me like this.”
He gave his head a short shake. “I don’t care how you look right now, babe.”
But it was more than that. And it wasn’t just him—it was everybody, the whole world. She let out a sigh, trying to find the words that would make him understand. “It’s easier for me to be alone right now, okay? And I don’t like
anyone
seeing me this way. I don’t like . . . being the sick girl. I don’t like it being this big part of who I am. I don’t want people to start thinking of me like it’s the most important thing about me.”
Lucky just lowered his chin, staring at her like she was off her rocker. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”
Another sigh left her as she tried to fight off a wave of nausea. “Well, yeah. In the beginning, I had far more bad days than good. I lost weight, I got weak, and . . . I
was
the sick girl for a while. It
was
the biggest part of me.” God, she hated saying that, remembering it.
“I’m real sorry about that, hot stuff—I really am. But if you think it’s possible for me to see this as the most important thing about you, you’re fucking crazy.”
Tessa blinked, taken aback. In Cincinnati, at Posh, she
had
come to be seen that way—as a liability, and as someone to be pitied. It had been as if everyone she knew forgot everything else about her: that she designed great spaces, that she loved colorful clothes, that she was smart, or funny, or kind. She’d just been struggling to survive and that had been all anyone could see. It had been the worst, most trivializing feeling of her life. Finally, she said to Lucky, “I am?”
He still looked at her like she’d lost her marbles. “Of course. You’re just feeling bad right now, for God’s sake. So I’m coming inside and taking care of you.”
His words settled somewhere deep and warm inside her. Yet old habits—and feelings—died hard. “That’s nice, Lucky, but . . .” She shook her head again, woozy. “I’m just not good at being with someone when I feel this way. I’m not very good company.”
“You’re not
supposed
to be good company when you’re sick, dummy,” he pointed out.
“Still . . .” she began, ready to argue it. But then—whoa—a thick wave of nausea passed through her, forcing her to reach out and grab the doorframe for balance.
“Still
nothing
,” Lucky growled. Then he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to her sofa before she could utter another protest.
“Ugh,” she said, happy to be lying down again, then muttered to herself, “Good thing I didn’t adopt that cat.” Since right now it was all she could do to occasionally walk from the bed to the kitchen to the couch.
“What cat?”
Her eyes had fallen shut, but now she opened them to see Lucky’s handsome face hovering over hers. He knelt next to the sofa.
She spoke softly as the nausea faded a bit. “A cat at the bookstore. She’s really sweet, but kind of skittish. I sort of considered adopting her but figured that would be a bad idea, and I was right. I wouldn’t be able to take care of her at times like this.”
Lucky arched one brow, grimacing slightly. “A
cat
, huh? I didn’t know you
liked
cats.”
She shifted her head slightly on the couch pillow. What was it with guys? Every guy she’d ever known had either loved cats or hated them—no in between. “So being sick won’t change how you see me, but if I like cats you’re calling it quits?”
He met her gaze, his expression laced with dry amusement. “I guess I’ll let it slide, but . . . what’s so great about cats anyway?”
“It’s not cats in general so much as this particular one,” she said. “She’s just nice to pet and cuddle with.”
The tilt of his head came with a cocky look. “If you want something to pet and cuddle with, babe, you got me.”
She couldn’t hold back a small grin, but ignored his arrogance to add, “Brontë’s very affectionate. I just . . . like being around her.”
Yet Lucky still looked doubtful. “If you ask me, cats are . . . sneaky-looking. Like they’re out to get you. That cat at Mike’s house kept staring at me and I didn’t like it.”
His words made Tessa laugh out loud. “Oooh—big, bad Lucky Romo’s afraid of a little kitty cat.”
He lowered his chin, eyes chiding. “Funny, hot stuff. You should take that on the road.”
“I can’t,” she said sardonically. “I’m sick.”
“You gonna quit being silly and let me take care of you now?”
Tessa peered up at him. She couldn’t have imagined a few weeks ago that her brawny neighbor would be bending over backward, insistent on caring for her. And the truth was, she still didn’t like the idea of him seeing her at her worst—she wanted him to keep seeing her as his hot, sexy girlfriend. But even though he was asking her, she suspected Lucky wasn’t really giving her a choice in the matter. “What if I say no?”
He shrugged. “You’re stuck with me anyway.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He gave a short nod, apparently taking that as surrender. “Now—how can I help?”
Tessa sighed, finally accepting her defeat, then glanced toward the TV. “Hand me the remote and sit down. We’re watching
Ellen
.”
B
eing a small town cop gave a man a lot of time to think. Mike figured that could be a good thing or a bad one depending upon how you looked at it. Most of the time, as he patrolled the streets of Destiny and the surrounding highways in his cruiser, he appreciated that gift of time. God knew he’d spent a hell of a lot of time thinking about Rachel behind the wheel of this car, especially when they’d first met. It had given him a chance to sort through all the complexities of their relationship, time to decipher his feelings for her.
But lately, he was thinking too much. About Lucky. About times when they were kids, and times when they were teenagers. And about more recent times, too. It was the damnedest thing. For the past fifteen years, he’d been sure that if Lucky walked through the door one day, he’d be glad to see him. And he
was
glad to finally find out Lucky was alive, and healthy—all that. But Mike never could have dreamed Lucky would come rolling back into their lives and that he wouldn’t want anything to do with his little brother.
Even now, as he drove slowly up and down the small grid of residential streets that flanked Destiny’s town square, his chest tightened over thoughts of Lucky.
Lucky acted decent to everyone. And hell, he had a kid, which meant Mike was an uncle now. And he truly hadn’t seen his mother this happy in many years. Everybody but him, it seemed, was downright giddy about his wayward brother’s homecoming.
But there was a lot Mike just couldn’t get over.
The betrayal of being left alone when Lucky had taken off, for instance. One night, the summer after Lucky’s high school graduation, he simply hadn’t come home. So they’d called all over town, driven around all night trying to find him—but they’d figured he was raising hell somewhere and that he’d turn up the next day. And then they’d realized his clothes were gone, his underwear, his shoes. And then Mike had developed that same lump of dread in his stomach as when Anna had disappeared.
Later, old Willie Hargis had told Police Chief Tolliver that he’d seen Lucky’s car leave town the day he’d gone missing. And they finally accepted that all the fights Lucky had had with his parents and the threats he’d made about “getting the hell outta here” were coming to bear. And the rest, always, had been a painful mystery.
Then there was the fact that Lucky’s story had some big holes in it, and Mike wasn’t finding it difficult to believe the rumor of an outlaw motorcycle gang in California was true. Now, he could barely sleep nights for wondering what sort of bad shit Lucky had been involved in. Even if it was a long time ago. Mike knew enough about MCs to know “bad shit” was a mild way of describing gang behavior. Outlaw gangs were made up of two kinds of people: the ones with no morals, and the ones who followed along. He could easily see Lucky being one of those followers, especially when he was younger, more rebellious, maybe looking for someplace to act tough and feel powerful. What kinds of heinous things might his brother have done?
And then there was the bullshit of blaming his family for the way he’d turned out. Why the hell couldn’t Lucky man up and take responsibility for his actions? Mike couldn’t believe Lucky had the gall to walk back into their lives and lay the blame for his troubled existence at the feet of his parents, who’d already suffered more than enough. And they’d acted like they agreed with him on it all, but he didn’t remember things that way. And he figured his mom and dad were just so happy to have one of their missing kids suddenly back, grim reaper tattoo and all, that they’d have agreed with
anything
.
Rachel had been giving him a hard time for not cutting Lucky any slack, and it was true, he hadn’t. The truth he hadn’t admitted to anyone, though, was that he was impressed with Lucky’s willingness to step up for his kid. And he was equally impressed with Lucky having built his own business. Both were more than he might have expected.
Lucky had taken their parents to his house during their visit, but Mike had conveniently had to work that night and he wouldn’t have gone anyway. Yeah, he was mildly curious to see where Lucky lived, and even see the work he did—but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t get past the granite wall that materialized inside him every time Lucky came to mind.
“Mike, you should see what an artist your brother is,” his mom had told him afterward. “And he’s put together a nice home for little Johnny.”
Mike had merely grumbled something in reply.
And then his dad had spoken up. “Son, I know this is hard for you—it’s a strange time for all of us. But your mother and I would appreciate it if you’d make an effort with Lucky. We all have to put the past behind us now.”
Yeah, that made sense. There was no other way to move on. So, for the sake of his mom and dad, he’d said he’d try.
But he hadn’t.
He’d just kept thinking, and thinking. About all the times it would have been nice to have a brother in his life over the past fifteen years. About what a hard man he’d become, and still was to many degrees, because of all the loss he’d suffered—and Lucky was a big part of that. Rachel had . . . hell, she’d softened him more than he’d have believed possible, but he supposed the way he felt about Lucky now was proof that he was still a hard-ass and probably always would be. He just didn’t know how to forgive.
Just then his cell phone rang and he glanced down at the screen. Rachel. He picked it up. “Hey, baby,” he said easily.
“Oh good, you’re in range.” His phone, she meant. “Up for late dinner?”
Sometimes, when he worked the night shift, Rachel met him at Dolly’s Café on his break. It was almost that time, and he could
use
a break. Not from his work, but from the thoughts swirling in his head. Hell, it was almost enough to make him wish someone would commit a damn crime so he’d have something else to focus on. “Yeah, that sounds good. Half an hour?”
“See you then, Officer Romo.”
After Mike hung up, he drove slowly around the town square—quiet at this hour, but the warmer weather was keeping people out a little later. He saw Amy watering the flowerboxes outside the bookshop, probably getting ready to close for the night, and lifted his hand in a wave.
A minute later, he turned onto Stone School Road and found himself driving past the town’s old elementary school. It was no longer in use—a new school had been built in the nineties not far from Destiny High, and now the old one housed the board of education and the small community ed program. But it was where Mike and Lucky had gone to school as boys, and it conjured up a lot of memories, many of them good.
Even being two years apart, he and Lucky had been close then. Their Boy Scout troop had met in the room at the front right corner of the building, which he braked to look at now. Their classes had played kickball in the large yard out back. Lucky had once fallen down while playing tag in the gravel lot outside the small gymnasium, ripping his pants and tearing up his knee pretty bad, and Mike had come running, eventually helping Lucky limp inside to the office for first aid while he tried not to cry in front of the other kids. Something about that, the mere fact that Lucky had once been a child who cried, made a lump rise to Mike’s throat as he sat in his car on the quiet road in front of the school.
And then other memories came flooding back. An art teacher—Miss Bailey. She’d been pretty, with red hair, and she’d come to Destiny Elementary one day a week, spending an hour with each grade. Lucky had had a crush on her. He’d never said so, but Mike had been able to tell and he’d teased Lucky mercilessly for it—yet he’d never mentioned it to anyone else, keeping it just between the two of them.
Mike almost smiled remembering the awe on Lucky’s face one day when . . . how old were they then? It was soon after Anna was gone, so Lucky had probably been ten or eleven, Mike twelve or thirteen. And Lucky had climbed on the school bus trying to act cool but not doing a very good job of it—happy as hell because of a note Miss Bailey had written on an assigned drawing he’d done of their family, copied from a photo that hung on the wall above the TV. Mike remembered it saying in red capital letters,
excellent
—A
+
. And the note had said Lucky had real talent and should continue to develop it. It had been one of the first nice things to happen to any of them after losing Anna, one of the first moments when anyone in the family had had a reason to smile.