Abby blinked. Let out a long breath.
If Mr. Just-Sloan did have a wife, he had no business making new neighbors feel breathless like that.
“Come on, Abby,” Dillon said behind her. “I wanna play ‘White Hats.’”
“I know. I know.”
And if he doesn’t have a wife?
She ignored the voice inside her head and pulled the television out of the box.
Whether the man was married or not didn’t matter.
All she wanted to do was start her new job at the elementary school and raise Dillon with as much love as her grandparents had raised her.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
So she carried the new television over to the cabinet and began hooking it up. In minutes, the distinctive music from Dillon’s video game was blasting through the speakers. He handed her a controller and she sat cross-legged on the carpet next to him as she set about trying not to be bested yet again by a seven-year-old.
She was no more successful at that than she was at not thinking about the man next door.
CHAPTER TWO
“Sloan, it’s New Year’s Eve. You shouldn’t be spending it alone,” his sister, the voice of reason, said through the phone at his ear.
“I’m not interested in crashing your evening with Axel.” Even though Tara had been married to the man for a few years now—had two kids with him, even—it was still hard for Sloan to say his brother-in-law’s name without feeling a healthy dose of dislike. Axel Clay was part of the darkest time of Sloan’s life. His sister being happily married to him made the situation tolerable. Barely. If not for that, Sloan could have gone the rest of his life hating the man. No more than he hated himself, though.
“You wouldn’t be crashing anything, Bean.” Tara laughed. “Most of the family’s going to be here. It’s not like Axel and I will have a chance to be romantic while there’s a half-dozen kids chasing each other around.”
Bean. The nickname she’d called him when they were kids. Considering everything that Sloan had put her through—the disruption he’d caused in her life by the choices he’d made in his—it was a wonder that she could even recall the days when he’d been her Bean and she’d been his Goober.
They were twins. And they’d grown up in a family that never stayed in one place for more than a few months at a time. As an adult, all Tara had ever wanted was a stable place to call her own. While Sloan had kept right on with the rootless lifestyle.
Which was why he was living here in Weaver at all. Trying to make up for the acts of his past. Trying to make things right with the only female left in his life that he loved.
“Fine,” he said. “I also don’t want to crash your evening with the entire Clay clan.” He looked out the front window of his house again. Abby had finally moved her car into the driveway. “Maybe I have plans of my own.”
He could almost hear Tara’s ears perk. “What plans would those be? Sitting in the dark, staring morosely into a beer while you dwell on the past?”
Almost guiltily, he set aside the frosted beer mug he was holding. “You don’t know everything, Goob.”
She sighed noisily. “Oh, all right. But you’re not getting off the hook tomorrow. Dinner at the big house. You’ve already agreed, and if you try to back out, I’ll call Max and sic him on you.”
“My boss may be your cousin-in-law, but that doesn’t mean he’s gonna let you tell him what to do.” In Sloan’s estimation, nobody told Max Scalise what to do, not even the voters who put him in office term after term.
“We’ll see,” Tara countered. “Squire’s expecting everyone for New Year’s dinner, and nobody wants to cross him. Not even the mighty sheriff.”
Squire Clay was Tara’s grandfather-in-law and the patriarch of the large Clay family. He was older than dirt. Cantankerous as hell. And one of a few people in Weaver that Sloan could say he genuinely liked.
“I said I’d be there tomorrow and I will.” A flash of red caught his eye, and he watched Abby bounce down the porch steps. But instead of heading toward her car, she started crossing the snow separating their houses.
“But tonight is mine,” he finished. Up close, Abby had looked even younger than he’d expected, but she’d also had the prettiest gray eyes he’d ever seen.
“Okay. Happy New Year, Sloan,” his sister said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He wished he could say the same, but he didn’t know what he felt. If anything. “Happy New Year, kiddo.”
Then he hung up and watched Abby cross in front of the window where he was standing. A second later, she knocked on his front door.
He left his beer on the table and answered the door.
“Hi.” Those gray eyes of hers looked up at him, carrying the same cheerfulness that infused the smile on her soft, pink lips. “Sorry to bother you.”
“You’re not.” He leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb. He ought to feel like a letch, admiring her the way he was. But he didn’t. He felt...interested.
The first time he’d felt interested in longer than he cared to remember.
“What d’you need?”
“Wood, actually.”
The devil on his shoulder laughed at that one. No problem there. The angel on his other shoulder had him straightening away from the doorjamb. “It’s back behind the house.” He pushed the door open wide. “Come on in.”
The tip of her tongue peeked out to flick over her upper lip. “Thanks.” She stepped past him into the house, and he saw the way her gaze took in the sparsely furnished living room. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nope.” He led the way through the room to the kitchen at the back of the house and outside again. He gestured at the woodpile stacked next to the back steps, protected from the weather by the overhang of the roof. “Help yourself.”
She went down the steps, her shiny hair swaying around her shoulders. He shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans and tried not to think how silky her hair would feel.
“Thanks again.” She stacked several pieces of wood in her arms. “I’ll restock as soon as I can.”
“No need.” Thanks to his connection to the Clay family and their gigantic cattle ranch, the Double-C, he had a ready supply of firewood, whether he wanted it or not. “House warming up okay over there?”
She nodded. Her hair bounced. Her eyes smiled.
She’d have the boys at the elementary and junior high schools sticking their fingers down their throats just to have a chance to visit her in the nurse’s office.
The devil on his shoulder laughed at him again. Wouldn’t you do the same?
“Your brother live with you all the time?” Sloan was betting the “brother” story was just that. The boy looked just like her. He was probably her son. Which would mean she’d had him very, very young.
“Yes.” She lifted the load in her arms and started backing away, making fresh tracks in the snow. “Thanks for this. Hope you and your wife enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Interesting. “Who said there’s a wife?”
Her gaze skipped away. “Just assuming.” She smiled again. Kept backing away. Right until she bumped into the side of her house. She laughed and began sidestepping instead.
“Assuming wrong.”
She hesitated. Just for a moment, before continuing right along. But it had been long enough for him to notice.
Definitely interesting.
“Ah. Well.” She clutched the logs to her chest. “Hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, then.” Her smile never faltered.
He wondered if it ever did. She had a face made for smiles.
“You, too.”
She reached the end of the fence and finally turned away, crossing into her front yard.
<
br /> Her hair swayed and bounced.
Sloan shook his head and went back inside. Whether or not the boy was her brother or her son, a young woman like Abby Marcum didn’t need something temporary in her life.
And temporary was all he had to offer.
* * *
The car was unloaded. Most of the boxes unpacked.
Abby sat on the wooden barstool at her breakfast bar and looked at Dillon. He was sprawled on the couch, a fleecy blanket pulled up to his chin, sound asleep. He’d had his triumph at ‘White Hats.’ Had his popcorn. Had the casserole she’d managed to throw together.
It was nearly midnight. She could have gone to bed herself.
She sighed and poked through the box of chocolates, selected one and followed it up with a chaser of milk. She doubted her girlfriends would approve. They’d also sent her away with a bottle of champagne. It was sitting, unopened, in the refrigerator.
No champagne and no horizontal entertainment for her, both of which they’d insisted it was high time she finally experience.
She held up her grandmother’s delicate crystal flute and stared at the milk. “Happy New Year,” she murmured just as the lights flickered twice then went out completely.
With the television silent, all she could hear was the ticking of the clock that she’d hung on the kitchen wall and the faint hiss from the log burning in the fireplace.
By firelight, she leisurely finished her milk and waited for the electricity to come back on. When it didn’t, she retrieved the lighter from the mantel where Sloan had left it and lit several candles.
Then she headed back to the barstool and the chocolates.
There was a loud knock on her door as she picked up the gold box. And at that hour it was certainly unexpected. But it wasn’t alarm that had her hurrying to the door; it was the fact that she didn’t want Dillon waking up. He was sleeping so soundly, and she didn’t want to ruin it. It was a rare night that passed without him waking out of a bad dream.
She cracked open the door and looked out. Sloan stood there, a sturdy flashlight in his hand, and she opened the door wider. The air outside felt bracingly cold in comparison to the warmth slipping through her at the sight of him.
“Everything okay here?”
“Fine.” She poked her head out the door, looking up and down the darkened street. “Why?”
“Just making sure.”
“It’s only a power outage.” She smiled. “Did you think I’d be over here shaking in my boots?”
The beam of his flashlight shifted, moving across her bare feet. “You’re not wearing boots.”
She curled her toes against the carpet. “You caught me.” She realized she was still holding the gold box and extended it. “Care for one?”
“I don’t know.” His deep voice was amused. “There was a time when my mother told me not to take candy from strangers.”
Abby grinned. “Wise woman. But it’s your loss. These aren’t just ordinary chocolates.” She held the box up a little higher. In the glow from the flashlight, he couldn’t fail to notice the distinctive box. “You sure? I promised the friends who gave them to me that I’d share them with someone other than Dillon.”
“I see. Can’t have you breaking a promise, then.” He raised his flashlight and took one.
“No point in standing out in the cold. Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink.” And then she held her breath, because she was pretty sure that he wouldn’t accept her invitation.
But he stepped past her.
Her stomach swooped.
She noticed that Dillon still hadn’t moved as she quietly closed the door before crossing to the bar again. “Have a seat.” She waved at the second barstool and set the chocolates on the counter.
He shut off his flashlight and shrugged out of his jacket. “Looks like you’re putting your grandmother’s crystal to good use.”
“Trying.” She got a second flute from the cupboard then pulled open the refrigerator and snatched the champagne. She set the glass and the bottle in front of him. “You’ll need to open it, I’m afraid.” She didn’t even know how.
He tilted his head slightly as he picked up the crystal flute she’d been using. Candlelight danced over it. “Definitely doesn’t look like you’re drinking champagne.”
She felt silly. Grown women didn’t drink milk out of champagne glasses. “I’m not.”
He lifted her glass to his nose. The old crystal looked shockingly delicate in his long fingers. “You mind?” But he didn’t wait to see if she did; he simply took a sip. Right from her glass.
Her mouth suddenly felt very dry, and she sat down weakly on her own barstool. The width of the counter separated them, but she still felt dwarfed by him. It wasn’t just that he was tall. His shoulders were massive. And up close like this, she was pretty sure she could make out a tattoo of some sort on his neck, not quite hidden by the neckline of his long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Milk always goes well with chocolate,” he murmured. He set her glass down on the counter and slid it toward her. “That’s what I’ll have if you’ve got enough to share.”
She nodded, afraid that if she tried to speak, her voice would just come out as one long squeak. She went back to the fridge, blindly snatched the milk carton and filled his glass.
“Anything else your friends say you’re supposed to do besides share the chocolate?” He kept his voice low, and even though she knew it was because of Dillon, it still felt unbearably intimate.
She picked up her own glass. She couldn’t lie to save her soul, and there was no way she’d share what they’d told her about finally having sex, so she just grazed the side of her glass against his. “Cheers,” she whispered instead.
“Not exactly an answer, Abby.”
“I guess it isn’t. What’d you say your name was?”
His teeth flashed in the dim light. “Sloan McCray,” he finally offered.
And just like that, she realized why he’d seemed familiar. Because she’d seen his face before in the newspapers. On the television news. On the internet.
He looked different from the clean-cut man in the snapshots she remembered, but she was certain he was the undercover ATF agent who’d brought down the horrendous Deuce’s Cross gang a few years ago. She remembered watching the news stories on the television in her grandfather’s hospital room. Sloan had succeeded at something no one before him had been able to do. He was a hero.
And he was sitting right here, watching her with narrowed eyes, as if he were waiting for some reaction.
She got the sense that if she gave one, he’d bolt.
So she didn’t.
“So, Sloan McCray,” she said softly. “Why aren’t you out celebrating New Year’s Eve somewhere?”
“I am out celebrating.” He tilted the glass and drank down half of the milk.
She couldn’t help grinning, even though she was afraid it made her look like a cartoon character.
He set the glass down again and pulled the gold box closer so he could study the contents. He’d folded one arm on the counter and was leaning toward her. “Anything besides the job bringing you and Dillon to Weaver?”
“No.” She realized she’d mirrored his position when he looked up from the box and their heads were only inches apart. Her heart raced around fiendishly inside her chest. “We lived in Braden, but working at the school here was too good an opportunity to pass up. I’ll have essentially the same hours as Dillon.” Her grandfather had planned well, but that didn’t mean Abby could afford to spend money on after-school care if she didn’t need to.
“And you want to stay close to Braden,” Sloan concluded. “For your grandmother.”
“You did overhear that.”
He nodded once. Took another sip of milk, watching her over the rim of
the flute.
“What about you? What brings you to Weaver?”
“Maybe I come from here.”
If she recalled correctly, the news stories had said he’d hailed from Chicago. “Do you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. He selected a chocolate. Studied it. “My sister lives here,” he finally said. Then he turned his back to her and stood.
Disappointment flooded her, but all he did was walk across to the fireplace and quietly place another piece of wood on the dying embers. Then he returned to his barstool. He held up his nearly empty glass. “Unless you’ve got more, we might need to open that champagne after all.”
“I have more,” she said quickly and retrieved the milk carton. She filled his glass, emptying the carton.
“You’re not going to have any left for Dillon in the morning.”
She curled her toes around the wooden ring near the base of her barstool. “He likes brown sugar and raisins on his oatmeal anyway.”
His lips twitched. “That’s the way my mother used to fix oatmeal for us. What else did you leave behind in Braden?”
Her mouth went dry all over again at the way he was looking at her, his eyes so dark and hooded. “I tried to bring everything that mattered.”
“Grandma’s crystal.” He held up his glass.
“And Grandpa’s shotgun.” She smiled. “Safely stowed away in a cabinet, well out of Dillon’s reach. Plus his video games. Dillon’s that is, not my grandfather’s.” She was babbling but couldn’t help herself. “Photographs. Clothes.”
“You’re not answering my real question. You have a boyfriend waiting for you in Braden? Some nice kid as fresh-faced and wet behind the ears as you?”
She didn’t know whether to be charmed or insulted. “I’m neither a kid nor wet behind the ears.”
He gave that slight half smile again. “How old are you?”
She moistened her lips. “Twenty-three.”
He made a face. “I’ve got ten years on you.”
She managed to hide her surprise. He was ungodly handsome, but his face held far more wear than any man in his early thirties should. She guessed that was the price for the kind of work he’d done. “In any case, no, there is no one waiting for me to come home to Braden.” She plucked a chocolate from the box and shoved it into her mouth with no regard for its fineness. “No boyfriend. No husband. No nothing,” she said around its melting sweetness. “Been too busy raising Dillon for the past two years. Even if there had been time, I’m still a package deal.”
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