No. Not voices. Voice. One voice. Alyssa’s.
Brought on by guilt, grief and loneliness, no doubt. And the alcohol probably didn’t help. So eventually he had hunted down every last drop of booze he had in his apartment and dumped it down the drain, hoping the imaginary voice of his wife would go quiet.
It didn’t happen.
Hoped that maybe the dreams would fade if he just worked himself into exhaustion.
That didn’t happen either.
Still, he kept away from the alcohol, made himself get through each day as it came.
Refused to think about anything beyond what he had to do to get through the days and nights.
But a day came when he found himself looking at a calendar and it hit him.
A year.
His wife had been gone almost a year. He’d walked away from his life almost a year ago. Though he didn’t much give a damn about his pathetic, empty life, it occurred to him that he did have some loose ends to wrap up. The house, for one.
Bree was another loose end, but not one he was all too anxious to deal with. All he needed to do was tell her goodbye, tell her thank you.
Hot, sweaty dreams aside, guilt aside, she’d been there for him, for Alyssa, and it would be nice if he could tell her thanks without falling apart in front of her.
But the house first. He’d face Bree in a day or two. Maybe. If he could get his head on straight.
If the place had been sold, he doubted he’d be able to get inside. But to his surprise, his key worked. He opened the door and the silence of the place hit him square in the chest.
Quiet. Way too quiet.
There’d always been music playing or the TV on. Alyssa talking on the phone with Bree— Shit, don’t go down that road.
But it was too late. His eyes closed as he thought of her and a stab of guilt hit him anew. Even a year later, he could recall how he’d almost done the unforgiveable. How close he’d been to kissing her, how close he’d been to reaching out and grabbing whatever comfort she might have been willing to give him.
But it wasn’t guilt alone. It came with desire and he swore, passed a hand over his eyes, and tried to pretend he wasn’t having a flashback to puberty when his dick got hard out of the blue and stayed that way until he locked himself in the bathroom and jacked off.
This was worse than puberty though, and the damn dreams that haunted him at night didn’t help. He needed to stop this, stop thinking about Bree like that, stop thinking about her…period. It was messed up.
Why?
The whisper slid past him, a kiss of air against his ear.
If he let himself think about it, he just might admit his wife was haunting him.
Too many dreams plagued him and very few of them made sense. Well, the ones where he got his hands on Bree—those made sense. The dreams where he stripped her long, sexy body naked, dreams where she wrapped those strong, sleek thighs around his hips and took him inside. Those made plenty of sense.
There was something exotic about Bree, but there always had been, even back in school. He hadn’t ever told Alyssa, but there had been a couple of months in high school where quite a few of his wet dreams had been centered on her best friend.
Bree was built—1940s movie-starlet built—with round, ripe breasts, hips, a tight, sweetly curved ass and a mouth that always looked just a little bit swollen, as though some guy had just kissed her. The way Colby too often dreamed of doing. She had serious gray eyes that tilted up at the corners, glossy black hair—worn short and smooth—olive-toned skin, and long legs that would wrap around a man’s waist and ride until he begged for mercy.
Back in high school, he had quietly enjoyed those dreams without ever acting on them. Then, much like now, he was pretty much an introvert and the thought of asking Bree out would have been enough to have him stammering and tripping over his tongue. So he had dreamed about her, watched her, blushed when she looked his way, and that had been it.
But then Alyssa had started flirting with him, teasing him, and he’d been lost. The dreams about Bree faded and he’d been just fine and perfectly content to have Alyssa start taking the starring role.
The problem was that the dreams had started coming back and only hours after he’d buried his wife.
That was one serious problem.
Why is it such a problem?
A cold chill rushed over him and goose bumps broke out on his arms. Going crazy. He much preferred to think he was going crazy than being haunted.
Over the past month, it had steadily gotten worse. At first it was just early in the morning or late at night when he was exhausted, but now it happened almost around the clock and it didn’t matter if he was tired or not. He heard a voice and he didn’t need some shrink to explain why the voice sounded an awful lot like Alyssa’s. He missed her and he felt guilty because maybe he didn’t miss her enough—after all, he wasn’t dreaming about her at night.
Blocking the voice out, ignoring the questions, he moved through the quiet house. He frowned, finding the entire place spotless. There was no dust, no stacks of mail, nothing. He hit the kitchen for a glass of water and automatically, he stopped in front of the refrigerator and opened it. It wasn’t exactly stocked. Most of what was in there were staples—a carton of eggs, soft drinks and bottled water, a half-empty gallon jug of water.
The sight of the jug had him frowning. It was the same kind of water that Bree took with her while she worked. He glanced out the window toward the gardens.
They were pristine. Perfect. They looked better now than they had the entire time he had lived here and that was what clued him in. One look at the blooming flowers and carefully cultivated shrubs and trees, and Colby knew why the house looked so damn good. Why there wasn’t any dust, why the house was clean, the grass was cut and the mail wasn’t piled up to the ceiling and back.
Bree had been taking care of everything.
Everything—well, maybe not everything. She couldn’t be paying the bills. But he realized, less than ten minutes later, that she had been doing that too.
Not just taking care of the house, the mail, the gardens. She’d taken up accounting too. Skimming his accounts, he saw that regular mortgage and utility payments had all been set up to automatic payments and his royalty checks were being deposited into his account. Bree was the only person who could be doing it. He couldn’t think of another soul who would take care of the landscaping, the house…and his bills. Not to mention that there were only two people who had a key to his house—Bree and Callie Watkins, the lady who came in a couple of times a month to clean. And he couldn’t quite see Callie doing all of this.
Something heavy weighed on his chest. Shit. Yet another reason to talk with her. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t avoid it.
He really didn’t want to see her or talk to her.
Not all of it had to do with the fact that seeing her was going to rub salt into open wounds. He could deal with reminders of Alyssa. Hell, sometimes he went out of his way to find things that reminded him of his dead wife.
What he had a harder time dealing with were all the guilty needs that punched through him on the rare occasion that he let himself think about Bree.
With the anniversary of Alyssa’s death coming up in less than a week, he definitely didn’t need his mental mess about Bree raining down on him.
But apparently fate had other plans.
He heard the truck coming just a little while later as he sat in his office going through his accounts. The records were meticulous, notes made in a neat ledger about each deposit, listing the amount, the payer and the date deposited. The checks had been from his two publishers and the check stubs had been filed accordingly.
Also filed away were several letters, some that had come via postal mail, others that had come through email and all of them were from either his agent or his editors. The last one was dated six months ago. He wondered briefly if they’d given up on him and then he paused to wonder if he even
cared. The answer to that was no. At least not now. He didn’t have a story in his head and he had no desire to try forcing one.
He’d finished up the books he had left on his contract a while back. He’d been ready to start discussing a new contract right about the time Alyssa found out she had cancer and he’d hadn’t been able to think about anything other than her at the time. At least he didn’t have to worry about breach of contract.
Colby blew out a breath as the truck headed up the drive, pulling up behind his beat-up old car. He’d sold the Lexus a few months ago when money had been really tight. The clunker in front of the house definitely didn’t seem to fit. Pushing back from the desk, he headed out of the office and saw Bree.
For one second, his heart all but stopped at the sight of her. Tall, her short hair tousled around her pretty face, her body clad in the simple, casual work uniform she wore—a green T-shirt and khaki shorts. Shit, the things that woman could do for clothes. Colby suspected she could wear sackcloth and ashes and he’d still feel his heart stutter in his chest at the sight of her.
Swallowing, he took a deep breath and hoped he could manage to speak around the knot in his throat. Moving closer, he watched her through the windows framing the front door.
Through the glass, he saw her reaction when she caught sight of him.
Her eyes widened and her mouth opened. She slicked her tongue across her lips as she slowed to a stop.
For a moment, neither of them moved and then he made himself take a step forward just as she did the same. She reached the door before he did, but instead of coming inside, she just waited. Frowning, Colby opened the door and stood to the side, studying her. “Since when don’t you just walk in?”
She swallowed. He could see her throat work under the smooth gold of her skin and he had the urge to bend down and press his lips to that soft, smooth skin. Her shoulders moved in a restless shrug. “I dunno.”
He gestured for her to come inside and finally, she did, but he got the impression she really didn’t want to. “You’ve been taking care of things for me.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him and shrugged. “Yeah.”
“Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
He opened his mouth to say something—he didn’t know what—but Bree took off down the hall, leaving him standing there with his jaw hanging open. He jerked it closed with a snap when he realized he was watching the slow, lazy sway of her hips as she headed away. She had a pair of work gloves tucked into her back pocket but nothing could detract from the absolute perfection of that ass.
“When did you get home?”
Forcing himself to uproot his feet, he followed her into the kitchen and watched as she poured herself a glass of water. “An hour ago.”
She paused in the middle of raising the glass to her lips. “An hour ago…” she repeated.
Then she shrugged and took a sip. “If you had let me know you were coming home, I could have bought some groceries and stuff for you.”
He shook his head and settled on one of the scoop chairs nestled up against the breakfast bar. “I can’t really say I’ve come home. But it’s time I figure out what I’m going to do.”
“Did the lawyer finally catch up with you?”
Colby blinked. “Lawyer?”
“Fred What his name? Whoever was taking care of things for Alyssa. He keeps calling me and reminding me…” her voice trailed off.
“About the will?” Colby asked.
She nodded, focused intently on her glass. As though sensing his scrutiny, she looked up and lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “I know he’s got a job to do, but I really don’t want to keep hearing about her will, ya know?”
“Yeah.” Grimacing, Colby dragged a hand through his hair. The thick, black strands of it had gotten so long, they hung in his eyes. He desperately needed a haircut, but he just didn’t care enough to mess with it. “Shit. You know, I never even thought about that. I just wanted to get things settled with the house.”
He blew out a sigh and lifted his gaze, studied the kitchen. It was bright and cheerful, full of little touches that Alyssa claimed would make it a fun place to cook, though Colby had suspected she had more fun thinking about cooking than she would actually doing it. “I came back to sell the place. I just don’t think I can live here.”
She was quiet for a minute. She licked her lips and Colby found himself following the path she took, eying the plump, wet curve of her lip. When she finally spoke, he cursed silently and made himself focus on her words. “So where do you want to live?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
Finally, the somber look fell away from her lips and she drawled, “Well, it might be wise to think about that before you do much else.”
Colby shrugged. “I dunno. I’ve been doing all sorts of things the past year without thinking them through in advance. It’s actually not too bad.”
She lifted her brows. “Colby being impulsive. Now that’s a switch.”
He had another impulsive urge just then, to go around the bar and corner her against the counter, press his lips to hers. See if that body of hers felt as good as it had in his dreams. See if she tasted half as sweet. Instead, he pushed away from the counter and went to get a bottle of water from the fridge. Taking his time to open it, he said, “I’m sorry I just disappeared like that. I’m sorry you felt like you had to step in, the way you did.”
“Colby.”
He didn’t want to look at her.
Every time he did, those guilty needs of his reared their ugly heads and he wanted nothing more than to grab her and haul her close. Then do it. He hunched his shoulder defensively as the whisper sounded right in his ear. Turning away from it, he faced Bree and wondered if she’d heard.
No. The look on her face was one of calm patience, not confusion or fear.
Besides, he reminded himself, why would she hear it? The voice was just a guilt-induced hallucination. Just guilt—not actually the voice of his wife. No reason for anybody else to hear it.
“Colby, I did it because I wanted to, not because I felt like I had to.”
Then she lowered her glass and slipped out the back door. Moving to stand at the door, he watched as she jogged down the steps and drew a pair of gloves from her back pocket. Colby stared at the perfect, round curve under the faded denim and swore. Thunking his head against the glass door, he muttered under his breath, “You’re fucked up, Hutchins. Seriously.”
Colby…
Shit, she couldn’t believe he was here. That he was back. Her heart had yet to settle back to normal and it was a miracle she hadn’t stuttered every time she had tried to speak to him.
Even now, she couldn’t get herself under control.
Of course, it didn’t help that she knew he was watching her. She could feel it, feel his eyes on her as she worked in the flowerbeds, pulling up stubborn weeds, thinning out the day lilies that were already blooming in a riot of yellows and pinks. She’d thought maybe she was just imagining the weight of his stare but as she finished up in one flower bed and moved to another, she saw him standing at the window.
Staring.
It was a weird look, intense, probing, as though he was trying to see clear through to her soul, but at the same time, it was almost like he didn’t really see her. Bree started to wave to him but then he turned on his heel and moved away from the window.
Finally, she thought. Maybe now she could focus on the job at hand instead of thinking about him, worrying about him…dreaming about him. All of that could happen later, when she was home, safe and alone. Where she didn’t have to worry somebody might look at her and see all the secrets she tried to keep hidden.
Bit by bit, she relaxed, losing herself in the pleasure of the job. Hers wasn’t an easy job—it was hard, manual labor, very often of the back-breaking kind. But she loved it. Loved planting things and watching them grow.
Sweat trickled down her forehead as she finish
ed the particular flowerbed she had been working on. Absently, she swiped the back of one gloved hand across her brow, inadvertently leaving a streak of dirt. She blew out a satisfied sigh and then looked back at the flower beds she had yet to do.
And found herself staring at Alyssa, or rather, through her.
After a year, she’d finally learned to stop jumping when she saw Alyssa’s ghost. But today wasn’t a normal day and she just barely muffled her yelp. “Damn it, Lys.”
Alyssa smiled. “Girl, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Bree, you really do need to lighten up. Live a little.” Her voice had a weird echo to it, rather like she was talking from the bottom of a well.
“So says the ghost,” Bree muttered, shaking her head. Grabbing her work tools, she headed to the next flowerbed. Sinking to her knees, she started weeding with a vengeance and hoping that if she ignored her, Alyssa might go away.
But it hadn’t ever worked before—wasn’t going to start working now. Alyssa plopped down right in front of Bree, so suddenly that Bree ended up sticking a hand right through her as she grabbed a pair of pruning shears from the bucket she kept her tools in.
Hissing, she jerked her hand back and glared. “Don’t you have some harp-song-on-a-cloud date to keep?”
Setting her jaw, she started pruning a Knock Out Rose bush. Alyssa snickered. “Harp song. How boring. You really think dying is about playing harps?”
“Oh, geez.” Since Alyssa didn’t seem interested in moving her transparent tail away from the rose bushes, Bree abandoned her pruning shears and moved on to thin out the pansies that were threatening to overtake one of the many small flowerbeds.
“He missed you.”
The sad honesty in Alyssa’s voice caused a knot to form in Bree’s throat.
“I know you missed him.”
“Him missing me doesn’t account for much.” Sighing, Bree tugged off her gloves and stared down at her hands. They weren’t a lady’s hands. Strong, capable, with palms calloused from her work and nails she kept cut brutally short. Her skin was a smooth shade of soft, mellow gold, a gift from the mother she’d lost back when she was a baby. Her gray eyes came from her father—though she didn’t know him either. He’d dumped her on his sister within a few months of having her dumped at his doorstep and he hadn’t ever looked back.
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