Forbidden (Wildwood #1)

Chapter 8

8

Ethan let his truck coast through the gates of McClellan Farms toward what had been his light at the end of the tunnel—literally—until twenty-four hours ago. Until Delaney Hart had taken renovation of The Bad Seed seriously. Now the light in the barn signaled work for the day still wasn’t done. Which meant his grandfather was still working. In pain.

Almost eight o’clock now, the rich scent of earth wafted up from the soil beneath his tires on tendrils of cool early fall air, filling the cab. Ethan breathed deep, relishing the bone-deep contentment the scent still brought.

So many of his best boyhood memories lived here. And the man who had nurtured those memories appeared in silhouette, ambling toward Ethan’s truck from the direction of the farmhouse, his Labrador-shepherd mutt running ahead, barking at Ethan’s arrival.

Ethan put the truck into Park, and Homie planted his front paws on the driver’s door, tail wagging, tongue lolling. “Hey, boy.” He reached through the window to scratch Homie’s head. “Taking care of the old man?”

His grandfather’s familiar limp seemed worse tonight, and as he passed through the headlights on his path to the driver’s side, the beams illuminated a grimace on Harlan’s face.

“Get down,” Harlan told the dog. “You know better, Homie.” Then to Ethan, “Where the hell you been?”

“Nodding off already?”

“I was on the tractor at four a.m., kid. Where were you?”

Ethan couldn’t bring himself to tell his grandfather he’d been in a nice, toasty bed. “It’s not all that hot in the afternoons now. Why don’t you sleep in?”

“No point. Neither one of us is gonna be sleepin’ in when the pub opens.”

Worrying over the state of that pub—one Pops had sunk every last penny of his retirement into—pushed the knife in Ethan’s gut a little deeper. “I can’t stay, Pops. I?—”

“Got Sunday dinner. I know.”

And the knife twisted. That was a Sunday dinner Pops had attended every week as well—until Ian’s death. Until he’d voiced his opinion that Ian was responsible for his own death, not Ethan, dividing himself from the rest of the family. The bad blood over that event ran too deep to bridge.

“What wild card have you got for me tonight?” Ethan asked.

Pops held up a Ziploc and his expression transitioned from pain-etched to mischievous. “This here’s no wild card. This here’s magic.”

“Magic, huh?”

Ethan tapped the dome light on, reached for the bag, and held it under the light. The hops were bright moss green, fresh and plump and perfect. But then, all the hops his grandfather grew were perfect. They oughta be. He’d been farming them for decades.

“Which hybrid is this?” Ethan broke the seal and took a deep drag of the scent. Some men were excited by fishing or cars or weapons. For Ethan and Harlan, great hops made their hearts beat faster. And this blend had a rich, spicy scent, heavy on the wood and funk. “Holy shit, that’s amazing.”

“No, that’s magic.”

Ethan pulled one cone from the bag and rolled it between his fingers. The woodsy scent grew stronger, and the funky smell, one that marked this baby as something really unique, filled the cab. He breathed it in like a drug, then lifted the crumbled cone to his lips and tasted. The bitter tang hit first but mellowed quickly, leaving a floral aftertaste, and a hint of...

Ethan smacked his lips. “Is that mint?”

Pops chuckled in affirmation and crossed his arms on the window ledge, leaning into the cab. And for a moment, his grandfather looked ten years younger—closer to his midsixties than his midseventies.

Ethan knew that was what living out your passion and having someone to share that passion with could do for a man. It was one of the major factors that drove them both.

“It’s as mild as Willamette, but with more flavor and better scent. And it’s versatile.” Pops pointed to the bag, his muddy eyes brightening with excitement. “I bet you that’s going to be our signature hops for at least some of our Wildcard brews.”

Ethan had tried every one of his grandfather’s crazy cultivations over the years, many successfully. Harlan had done well for himself creating and selling unique hops varieties—even introduced three of the main types sold commercially. And he’d been trying to get Ethan to take over the business for decades.

But Ethan was no farmer. He’d learned that during the four long summers he’d worked the farm with his grandfather during high school. Pops’s passion may lay in creating and cultivating new hops, but Ethan’s lay in creating and cultivating new beers. As business partners, they were a perfect match.

Ethan just hoped there would be a business to partner in.

“The architect is going to have plans for us to look at in another week,” he said.

Pops nodded. “Amanda was asking for you down at the market today. She sure is a sweet thing. Why haven’t you asked her out?”

Ethan had to fight not to roll his eyes. “Amanda’s not my type, Pops.”

“Sweet? Pretty? Comes from a good family? What’s not to like?”

“That whole picket-fence look in her eyes, that’s what. My family ties are screwed up enough as it is. I don’t need to add any more knots to a fraying rope. Besides, do you want me at the warehouse brewing or out messing around with some chick?”

“I want you to learn to balance your life the way you balance your beer. Go talk to Amanda and stock up Caleb while you’re at the store. He’s completely out.”

“I’m out, too. Won’t have another batch ready for at least a week.”

His grandfather’s mouth pressed into an irritated frown. “You still runnin’ down your daddy’s every narcissistic whim?” He didn’t wait for an answer to the rhetorical question. “You’d better get your priorities straightened out right quick. You’ve got your own life to live, which, outside regular work hours, should be spent at the kettle or with a pretty lady, not working yourself ragged for Jack.”

Ethan hung his wrist over the steering wheel, searching Harlan’s face for insight into his crabbier-than-usual mood. “Weren’t you supposed to get your cortisone shot today?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re always crabbier when your leg’s hurting.”

“I got the damn shot. And I just told you why I’m crabby. Ain’t you listenin’, boy? My business partner just told me he ran out of supply because he’s wasting his time fulfilling hollow obligations for a selfish prick. When I’ve got all my liquid funds tied up in a proposed venture, yeah, that makes me crabby.”

Guilt pinched Ethan’s chest. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll focus.”

“You’re plenty focused, Ethan.” Harlan’s voice had lost its angry edge. “But you’re just one person, and there are only so many hours in one day. Until you can quit this damn job, you’ve gotta guard every moment of your spare time like gold at a mining camp. And Jack is that guy who will loot you while you sleep.”

Ethan didn’t like having to admit that about his own father, but he nodded. Not only was it true, but Pops wasn’t unearthing the half of it. “I hear you.”

Harlan harrumphed and turned toward the farmhouse with Homie on his heels, then paused to face Ethan. “And while you’re cookin’ tonight, check on your neighbor. There was talk at the market of movement ’round the Hart property today. That is one big fly we don’t need in our soup.”

Ethan pulled in a breath to call his grandfather back, but the slump of Harlan’s shoulders made Ethan swallow his words. He decided to let the man get a good night’s rest. News of Delaney Hart’s mission was something Ethan could tell Pops tomorrow.

He waited as his grandfather worked his way up the stairs and stepped into the house, providing a path with the truck’s headlights. Pops’s painfully slow movement tonight made discomfort rise in Ethan’s belly and a million what-ifs gnaw at the back of his mind.

“Soon, Pops,” he murmured as his grandfather disappeared inside. “You can rest soon.”

The living room light flipped on. One light in a sprawling farmhouse that had, in Ethan’s youth, been a hub of activity and happiness and more love than he’d been able to absorb.

Now, in the wake of his grandmother’s death and Ethan’s worst mistake, Pops lived alone, all but abandoned in the middle of acres and acres of land he farmed with unstable, seasonal hired help.

Ethan swung a U-turn and started back toward town along the quiet, dark country road. But instead of the calming effect the setting normally had on him, Ethan’s thoughts twisted through his mind, crisscrossing and turning until they returned to the original thought, just to start over again, like a crazy figure eight.

He stepped in the door of his parents’ home in the hills of Wildwood right about the time his family was starting dessert.

“There he is.”

His mother’s voice reached him in the foyer, where he unlaced and toed off his work boots before walking through the living area to the dining room. Judging by the other voices, his uncle and cousin Adam were also here. Which meant Aunt Ellen was here. Ethan winced internally before his mother came around the corner with bright eyes and a welcoming smile.

“I was just wondering if you were going to make it.”

“Hey, Mom.”

He gave her a hug and let her take his arm as he walked her back to her chair. As soon as he turned the corner into the dining room, he was hit with four pairs of eyes. His father, brother, uncle, and cousin all managed some form of hello. But the fifth person at the table, his aunt Ellen, was focused on making patterns in the whipped cream of her strawberry shortcake with a fork.

And here we go.

Ethan heaved a sigh, working to make it sound relieved rather than troubled. “The gang’s all here.”

“Hey, Ethan.” Uncle Wayne stood and reached across the table to shake Ethan’s hand. “Bring any of your newest creations with you?”

“Hi, Wayne. No, sorry. I didn’t know you and Aunt Ellen would be here. Next time.”

Wayne nodded. “It’s about time you started up your own brewery, kid. Say the word, and I’ll back you.”

Ethan smiled for his uncle, but if manipulation was something he wanted to get rid of in his life, Wayne and Jack were people that had to stay out of his business. “Nice offer. Thanks.”

Ethan would have to be blind to miss the bruised crescents beneath his uncle’s eyes. And if Wayne looked ragged around the edges, Ellen looked...ghostly, in body and spirit.

Most people thought Ellen and Ethan’s mother, Beth, were twins at first glance. They both had petite builds, delicate features, the same hazel eyes, and hair that had once been blonde now dyed and highlighted to a silvery gold. But Ellen was markedly pale. And the hollows in her cheeks were clear indications she’d dropped weight she couldn’t afford to lose.

He paused beside Ellen and bent to wrap his free arm around her shoulders in a gentle hug, then kissed her head. “Hey, Auntie.”

She didn’t respond, but she lifted a hand to pat his.

Ethan pulled out his mother’s chair and scooted it in for her as she sat, then pressed a hand to her shoulder and rested his chin on her head. “What’s for dinner?”

“There’s a plate for you in the oven, honey. Fried chicken, spicy roasted green beans with the candied bacon you love, and buttermilk cornbread waffles.”

“Damn, that sounds good.” He straightened and met his father’s gaze across the table. “Sorry I’m late. Dad loaned me out to the Fischers.”

One corner of Jack’s lips twitched in a dry smile, which translated into annoyance with Ethan’s subtle complaint.

He turned into the kitchen, grabbed a hot pad, and pulled his plate from the oven as his father asked, “How’s their pool house coming along?”

“Just fine,” he said, returning to the table. “Definitely not something I needed to look at on a Sunday.”

“Your schedule’s so full. He told me he’d have to wait three weeks for a routine inspection.”

“Jack,” his mother scolded softly. “Ethan deserves a day off, too.”

“He had one. Yesterday.”

Yes, he had, and it had been one of the longest damn days of his life. A day filled with thoughts of Delaney. Of how badly she could hurt him. Of how badly she could hurt his family—again. A day of minutes passing as slowly as hours as his thoughts turned to their night together, to how badly he wanted to feel her touch, her kiss, her body against his. When he shouldn’t have been thinking about her at all.

Ethan shook his head, lifting a drumstick to his mouth. “Forget it, Mom.” He deliberately took the spotlight away from his father in an attempt to actually enjoy his Sunday dinner with the family for a change. “How’s the investment world, Uncle Wayne?”

“Oh, depends.” He put down his fork, picked up his wine, and started talking about some type of stock being compromised by a merger. Ethan’s eyes glazed over within thirty seconds, but the way Wayne went on and on gave Ethan a chance to eat while the others finished their desserts. “Ethan, you should really look at real estate investment. Finish up that cottage of yours, sell it for a profit, and do something with that cash.”

“I was working on just that when I was called away. See, I’ve got two schedules, Uncle Wayne—my regular schedule and the mayor’s favor schedule.”

“And the best use of Ethan’s time,” Jack cut in, “is putting one hundred percent focus on those schedules. Do you have a demolition contractor lined up for the Hart property? I want them on-site at dawn with a wrecking ball the day their deadline runs out.”

Ethan looked at his mom. “This is amazing.” He traded the chicken bone for his napkin and wiped his hands, then his mouth. “You did something different—I can tell.”

His mother beamed, clasping her hands under her chin. “I didn’t think you’d notice. No one else did.”

“Oh, hell yeah. How could you not notice? It’s got deeper, richer flavor. The spices...I don’t know—they’re just perfectly balanced. The coating is crunchy but tender. The meat is juicy.” He picked up another piece. “What’d you do?”

She laughed. Giggled, actually. “You know that Octoberfest that you thought bombed, and I asked you to bring me some because I know you never?—”

“Make a bad beer.” He grinned. “Yes.”

“Well, I was reading about beer pairings and how the Octoberfest had all the perfect elements to balance with fried chicken, so I combined the brine and the buttermilk and added a few bottles of Octoberfest and marinated it overnight.”

He sat back, wiping his mouth again. “No way.”

“Yep.” She leaned her forearms on the table, her eyes twinkling with delight.

She was so proud of herself, and Ethan was touched that using his beer brought her such pleasure. She was the only one in the family who gave a damn about his deepest passion. A passion she used to share with Ethan and Pops before the tragedy split their family. The only one who still asked after Pops’s well-being.

Ethan covered her hand with his. “I want the recipe.”

“You haven’t even started renovating your kitchen,” Austin said. “You can barely cook macaroni and cheese in what you’ve got.”

Ethan didn’t look away from his mom as he batted the air at his ear. “Is there a gnat in here? There’s something whining in my?—”

Austin shoved Ethan’s shoulder. Adam laughed.

Ethan cut a look toward his brother, who was usually outfitted in his deputy’s uniform. “Why aren’t you on duty?”

He had that shit-eating grin on his face. “My day off.”

Ethan lifted his hands in a what’s-up-with-that gesture, then turned his gaze on his cousin. “What about you, Adam? The lumberyard ever give you a day off?”

His cousin grinned. “Two days. Every week.”

“Huh.” He challenged his father’s dry expression. “Funny how that works.”

He chanced a glance at Ellen. She’d given up on the patterns and set down her fork. Now she just sat there like a zombie, her arms crossed, staring at nothing.

An old, familiar guilt tore at Ethan’s heart. He couldn’t even imagine having children, let alone losing one, so he couldn’t even begin to conceive the depths of despair Ellen had suffered since Ian’s death.

He looked at Wayne, but his uncle didn’t have an answer to Ethan’s silent question of whether or not his aunt was okay. Instead, he brought up the last topic Ethan thought ought to be discussed, considering Ellen’s current state of distress.

“I heard you did a walk-through on the bar with Delaney Hart.”

Fuck. Word in this town traveled at freaking warp speed. He’d been half expecting Pops to bring it up earlier.

Ellen’s gaze flickered back to the present. Her watery hazel eyes darted to Ethan’s face, then away.

“Yeah.” Ethan picked up his waffle, but he’d suddenly lost his appetite. He tore at the bread to give his hands something to do. “Nothing official.”

“What are her plans?” Wayne asked.

“Her plans don’t matter,” Jack said. “That building is coming down. Ethan will see to it?—”

“Dad. Don’t make promises for me. I have rules—laws—I have to follow.”

“Bullshit.” His father sat forward, and the stare he leveled on Ethan was that you’ll-do-it-or-else look. “You have a lot of leeway in your position. A lot of power. And there is no place for that eyesore or that woman in this community.” He tapped the tabletop with a rigid index finger to emphasize his point. “That building has to come down, and she has to go.”

Ethan sighed and popped a piece of waffle in his mouth. Once he’d finished the bite, he said, “You know, it’s ironic if you think about it.”

“What is?”

“That you’re the reason Delaney Hart is back in town. And you’re the reason she’s looking at the bar. Yet you’re the person most interested in seeing them both gone. That’s called irony.”

Wayne’s gaze dropped to the table, but Ellen’s questioning frown turned on Jack.

God, his family was so screwed up.

Jack flashed an indignant look between Ellen and Ethan. “I didn’t?—”

“It was your visual nuisance ordinance that forced the Harts to do something with the property,” Ethan said. “If you’d never pushed that law, Delaney wouldn’t have come back, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be messing with that bar.”

“Jack,” his mother said, her voice troubled. “You told me the citizens brought that ordinance to the city council.”

“They did. That ordinance is a mandate for the people by the people.”

“Some people just have louder voices and bigger wallets.” Adam speared a strawberry, then looked at Wayne. “Ain’t that right, Dad?”

Ellen’s gaze snapped to her husband. “Wayne?”

He wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulling her close, and treated all the men at the table to a glare. “And to think we almost got through a normal outing. Thanks, guys.”

“Thank Jack.” If there was one thing Ethan had learned over the last few years, it was to place blame—or credit—where it belonged. “Someone reminded me recently that at the end of the day all roads lead to the mayor—right, Dad?”

“Shut your mouth,” his father bit out.

Ethan stuffed another piece of waffle in his mouth to keep himself from adding fuel to the fire.

His mother stood as Wayne helped Ellen to her feet and started toward the front door.

Adam heaved a sigh, stood, and fist-bumped Austin and Ethan. “Later, dudes.”

Once they were all out of the room, Austin pushed his plate back, crossed his arms on the table, and leaned forward, smirking at Ethan. “Way to clear a room, bro.”

Ethan shook his head. “Not me.” He pointed at Jack with the remainder of his waffle. “Him.”

One look at the fury stewing on his father’s face and Ethan grabbed his tea off the table. Jack’s fist slammed the wood, rattling all the silver and glassware like an earthquake.

“Whoa...” Austin shoved his chair back, but not quickly enough, and the liquid spilled into his lap. “Jesus Christ, Dad.”

Austin’s fumbling attempt to stop the spill of tea was just the comic relief needed to break the stress, and Ethan started laughing.

“Don’t ever talk to me like that in front of other people again.” Jack’s irate demand cut through the chaos, but it didn’t faze Ethan. He’d experienced every level of his father’s rage.

Ethan’s laugh at Austin eased into a chuckle. “Extend me the same courtesy, Mayor, and I’ll consider it.”

Jack shot to his feet, face scrunched in a furious scowl, lips pursed to form words—scathing, condescending, demanding words, Ethan knew from experience—just as his mother turned into the dining room.

“What in the hell?” She looked at the mess Austin was still mopping up with stress etched into her forehead and bracketing her mouth. Then her gaze shot right to her husband. “Really, Jack? I can’t leave you three alone for thirty seconds?”

Ethan’s father shoved his chair aside and marched out of the dining room in the direction of the den. His mother watched him go, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, as if she were thinking. In moments like this, Ethan wondered why she hadn’t ever left Jack. She deserved so much better.

“Later, bro,” Ethan said, pushing to his feet. He picked up his plate and paused beside his mother on the way to the kitchen. “Thanks for dinner. Sorry Dad’s pissed off.”

She shook her head. “Never mind him.” She patted his chest, and her expression softened. “Thanks for coming, honey. It’s really good to see you.”

“How about dinner next week? Just you and me.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead, then plucked the last waffle off his plate and grinned down at her. “I’ll treat you to Italian at DaVinci’s and a bottle of your favorite merlot.”

“That’s sweet, but maybe after all this has died down. It’s hard enough to live with your father as it is.”

Disappointed, he managed a nod and walked to his truck, wondering when his family had become such a mess—or if it had always been a mess and he just hadn’t been able to see it as a boy.

On his way home, Ethan stopped at the warehouse to check stock so he could put in an order for supplies. He saw the lights on over at The Bad Seed and Delaney’s Jeep sitting out front.

He parked and stared at the property for a long time, ticked that he couldn’t get Delaney off his mind. And twisted over the turmoil this situation had created in his family, which all stemmed from his father—the prick. He created chaos everywhere he turned.

Despite all that—or maybe because of it—Ethan made his way over to the bar. While things between him and Delaney might not be good, they still weren’t as backward and fucked up as things between him and his family.

With his hands in his pockets, head down so he didn’t trip over the uneven ground, he realized that he was headed toward the person whose presence in town had whipped up chaos in his life, because she was the one person who seemed to be able to quiet the chaos inside him.

He kept hearing her sweet voice saying, “As much as I would love to get another taste of what we had last night...” And it reminded him that despite the problems, she still wanted him.

Which made this visit even more asinine. But it didn’t stop him from climbing the front steps toward the bar’s open front door.

He paused at the new screen that had been installed—one of those removable, draping screens that kept bugs out, and scanned the interior, telling himself he was really just checking up on her. He was just about to call out her name when he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye, and his gaze snapped that direction.

Delaney was on her knees, curled over something on the floor in a way that spiked alarm through Ethan’s chest. He swiped the screen aside. “Delaney?”

He was halfway to her when she straightened and glanced over her shoulder.

“What?”

He stopped, taking in the small box she’d been looking through, and let a relived breath slide from his lungs. “What are you doing? I thought you were hurt.”

She sat back on her heels and gazed up at him. “Just looking through old photos. Worst thing that could happen is a paper cut.”

Her smart-ass attitude annoyed him, but seeing her like that, looking openly, confidently up at him with that sassy spark in her eyes, flung him back to their night together. The “goddess on her knees” metaphor filled his mind and punched heat between his legs. He’d never met a woman worthy of that title—until Delaney.

Ethan rubbed a hand over his face to force the sexual images from his mind. That wasn’t why he was here.

Delaney stood and carried the box toward the long mahogany bar. She had on ripped jeans, a tank top, and flip-flops. With her hair down and tucked behind her ears and no makeup, she looked young and fresh and just as sexy as she’d been in heels and a tight skirt.

“What brings you by, Inspector Hayes?” She slid onto a stool and pulled one foot to the padded top, hugging her knee close to her chest. “Checking up on me?”

He wasn’t going to go there. “I really didn’t like the way our walk-through went.” He strolled toward the bar and leaned against it, facing her. “Can we, I don’t know, find common ground to share?”

“A Hart and a Hayes? That’s a tall order.”

She was right, which was ridiculous. This was California in the twenty-first century, not Kentucky in the 1800s.

“I want you to know that my father doesn’t have any say in how I do my job or how I run the planning department. He can ask for anything he wants, even demand anything he wants, but that doesn’t mean he gets it. I follow the laws. So if he wants something that goes against those laws, or even bends them, he’s SOL. I’m my own person, and I take a lot of pride in doing my job right.”

Her lips kicked up, and those stormy eyes of hers sparked with humor.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re adorable when you’re being all ethical.”

He lifted one brow. “Why am I sure that’s not a compliment?”

She lifted one shoulder. “Maybe your conscience is whispering to you.”

He smirked. “Truce?” he asked, offering his hand.

“Why would I believe you want an honest truce?”

He heaved a frustrated sigh and picked up her hand, pressing it to his, fingertip to palm—not at all the handshake he’d offered, but a far more intimate connection. “Because I’m not my father. And you can’t deny there’s something between us. Something...intense.”

Ethan threaded their fingers. And when he met her gaze, he found her watching him. Assessing.

“No ulterior motive,” he said. “I’ve just been dying to touch you.”

Something flickered in her eyes. A flash of something soft and gentle, but it vanished in an instant. “Don’t you have better things to do with your night?”

“I can honestly say there’s nothing I’d rather be doing than touching you.”

“Don’t you have other women you can touch?”

“Maybe. But you are the only woman I want to touch.”

“You certainly like playing with fire.” Her smile curved a little deeper. “Definitely a change from that once-upon-a-time Boy Scout.”

“We all change.”

Her gaze lowered to his mouth. “Some do. Some don’t.” Pulling her hand from his, she tucked her box under her arm and wandered around the bar. “I’m sure you have beer to brew.”

“There’s always beer to brew.”

When she just smiled, he leaned his forearms on the wood and looked around the space. She’d swept and mopped the old floor, moved the tables, piled chairs in one corner, and wiped the grime from the windowpanes.

His joy at seeing Delaney took a hit from the fear she may have decided to actually renovate. “You’ve cleaned up. Have you made any decisions? I haven’t seen anything come across my desk since you’ve been back with your name on it.”

“That doesn’t sound like the beginnings of a truce.”

“Just making conversation.”

She flicked a look at him that said she knew different, then refocused on the contents of her little box. “I’m meeting with a friend tomorrow. We’re going to see if salvage is feasible.”

Fuck. That stabbed his little bubble of hope. “Who’s the friend? How will he know if salvage is feasible? And why are you asking someone else when you could just ask me? I could go over every inch of this place with you if you really needed someone to tell you what it would take to renovate.”

Delaney laughed, the sound soft and tired. “Right, because that went so well the first time.”

Dammit. He’d really screwed himself. “You blindsided me. Now that I know you’re serious, I’d approach it differently.”

“Thanks but no thanks. I’ll know all I need to know after I talk with my guy. And you’ll know everything you need to know when it’s time for you to know.”

My guy. Ethan didn’t like the sound of that—for a variety of different reasons he didn’t want to think about. But he hadn’t come here to fight. Besides, the possibility of meeting the application deadline for a building permit with all the required paperwork plummeted with every day that passed. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, the box on her lap, and started rummaging again.

“Got something good in there?”

“Just the stuff my dad left. He lost our family home to foreclosure about five years before he died and moved in here, upstairs. I found a bunch of old family stuff down here under the bar.”

Ethan rounded the bar, pausing beside her. “Can I sit?”

She looked up at him, incredulous. “Seriously? You’re going to sit on the dirty floor of a bar while I go through old boxes?”

“Call me quirky.”

“I’ve got better words to describe you, but sit if you want.”

He sat, rested his back against the walls, left his knees up, and rested his forearms there. “What other words?”

“Frustrating. Maddening. Confusing.”

“Not as bad as they could be. Not as good as I’d hoped. And suspiciously similar to the way I’d describe you.” When she only smiled, Ethan decided it was a good time to shoot for more insight into this frustrating, maddening, confusing woman. “So, why’d you quit Pacific Coast’s Finest?”

Delaney’s hands stopped shuffling, and her gaze cut toward him, sharp and defensive. “Why?”

“Yeah, why?”

“No, why do you want to know?”

“Again, this is that thing called conversation.” When she returned her attention to the box, he said, “The success of their operation has fascinated me, and I’ve heard they’re an amazing company to work for. Makes me curious why you quit.”

“Let’s stick with alternate topics of conversation.”

That only made him want to know more. But judging by the frown carving Vs in Delaney’s forehead, Ethan knew she wasn’t open to negotiation.

She’d filled one hand with old, yellowed papers—receipts, business cards, notes—and started digging in the box with her other. A square slipped from the mountain of papers between her fingers—a photograph—and Ethan swept it up.

“What have we got here?” He squinted at the faded, grainy photo and immediately recognized a much younger Delaney. “Oh, man,” he laughed. “This is priceless.”

“What?” She turned to see what he had, then grabbed for the picture from one of her high school proms. But Ethan pulled it out of reach, taking in her outfit, her hair, the guy posing stiffly beside her. “Ethan, give it to me. That should have been burned.”

“Wow, that’s some dress.” He held it at arm’s length on his left and blocked Delaney’s reach with his right arm, whistling through his teeth. “And that hair. How long did it take you to get it to stay like that? But the makeup—that’s got to be the kicker. I bet it weighed more than that slip of a dress. I bet you were one of those girls who left their house in one thing, then changed into something else once you were out.”

“Ethan.” She rolled to her knees, pressed a hand to his shoulder, and lunged across him, reaching for the photo, half-amused, half-pissed. “Give it back.”

Oh, no. She wasn’t getting it back. Not as long as she was giving him full-body contact trying to reach it. “Who’s the guy? He sure wasn’t from our school. And he looks way too old for a prom.”

He turned his head to meet her eyes and found her right there, within easy kissable range. But he wasn’t going to push his luck. He really wanted time with her. Time to just hang and get to know her. And if he kissed her, he was pretty sure she would kick him out on his ass.

She stopped struggling and rested her flat belly against his slanted thighs, rocking with the quick rise and fall of her breaths.

“Isn’t there an age max on proms?” Ethan teased.

“Shut up.” She dug her fingers into his side—a ticklish spot she’d found during their night together—and he jumped.

“Uh-uh,” he warned. “Remember what happened last time you started that.”

Her eyes flicked to his and held. Ethan could swear he saw the memory passing through her gaze, leaving a trail of heat. Her fingers curled into fists, the way they had when he’d pinned her arms over her head the last time she’d tickled him. But then he’d been inside her, filling her, and he’d looked into her eyes as he’d driven his cock home over and over and over. Full, long, deep, and hard. Until she’d climaxed three different times. Until her fingernails had dug five half-moons into each palm. Until he’d been dripping sweat.

When he’d finally let himself come, Ethan had climaxed in a wild rush of animalistic intensity that blasted through every last cell. The mere memory had him hard. And by the way her lids grew heavy, he knew she was thinking the exact same thing. He barely resisted asking her if she was wet.

Ethan forced his brain to the present and back to the subject of her old prom date. “Did they put him through the metal detector before they let him into the dance?”

Delaney laughed and pushed away. “You ass.”

He caught her around the waist before she got too far, eased one leg wide, then trapped her between his thighs with her back to his chest. Wrapping his arms around her, he held the photo out for both of them to see. “They did, didn’t they?”

She cast a half glance over her shoulder. “What’s your point?”

Ethan laughed. He laughed long and deep, and it felt so good. Felt even better when she started laughing with him. And even better when she leaned back against him, sliding her hands over his arms.

Another photo slipped from the papers, and Ethan leaned forward to scoop it up before she could.

“Stop,” she said, snatching it from his fingers. “That’s my naked baby picture. Those are sacred.”

Grinning, he rested his chin on her shoulder and turned his head to press his face to her cheek and neck, breathing her in—musk and floral and some exotic spice. “That’s all right,” he murmured against her skin, then kissed her neck. “I like the adult naked version much better.”

Delaney leaned her head against his. “We talked about this. Professional distance, remember?”

“You talked. It wasn’t a discussion.” He lifted his head and tightened both arms around her waist, dragging her even closer. “What else have you got in there?”

She thumbed through more photos, and Ethan turned his head enough to press his mouth and nose to her hair, breathing in the soft scent of her shampoo.

“These are some serious throwbacks.” Delaney paused on an image of the three sisters around Halloween.

“This must be Avery.” He pointed toward the brunette of the family. “What is she supposed to be? A teacher or something?”

Delaney grinned, and the sight zinged his heart. “A librarian. And not just any librarian, she was Mrs. Baxter, our?—”

“School librarian,” he finished, chuckling. “Man, I haven’t thought of her in forever. That’s funny. And Chloe.” He tapped the image, indicating the little blonde. “Some kind of archeologist?”

“Indiana Jones. She was always the explorer.”

He scrutinized Delaney’s sweatshirt and jeans. “What about you? Did you put yours on later?”

“I didn’t have time to work out a costume for myself. By the time I had Chloe and Avery set, their homework done, lunches made for the next day.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t time. I just walked them around town and hung on the sidewalk with the parents.”

She didn’t sound sad or angry or even melancholy, as if a ten-year-old giving up her Halloween so her younger sisters could enjoy it was normal.

He ran his hands over her waist and belly. “I guess this was after your mom left.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t all bad—Avery and Chloe shared their candy with me.”

“Was your dad at the bar?”

She shook her head. “Passed out drunk on the couch.”

“And Phoebe?”

“She hadn’t come yet.”

His gaze turned back to the picture of the three young girls, innocence personified, left unsupervised and uncared for. “Then who took the picture?”

“Me. I used the timer.” She darted a shy, sidelong smile at him. “Before my mom left, she was always taking pictures. I remember thinking she’d eventually come back, and she’d be sad at all the great times she missed. I wanted to have pictures of us so she didn’t feel left out while she was gone.” Delaney shook her head. “So ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous at all. Your mom is the one who lost out big-time on this deal.”

She turned her head and met his gaze steadily. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Just . . . coming by. Being here.”

Ethan’s chest burned with pleasure. He lifted a hand and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Thanks for sharing those pictures with me.”

A flicker of a smile passed over her lips. “You’re a pretty special guy.”

His stomach flipped, then folded. “How do you figure?”

“I know how hard it is to come out of a fucked-up family with any sense of compassion or kindness or sense of self. And I may have only really known you for a short time, but I’ve been working with guys my whole life. So I know a good guy—a really decent guy—when I meet one. And I certainly know all about your family, so I’m impressed that you came out of it so great.”

“Thank you again.” Ethan lowered his gaze and watched as he let his fingers slide down her cheek again. “I can’t explain how much I needed to hear that tonight.”

“You don’t have to. I know I’m dredging up all sorts of hurt and hard feelings. And I know you’ll be catching shit from your family for being involved, even if it’s because you have to be.” She covered his hand with hers, pressed it against her cheek, and closed her eyes. “I know it may not seem like it, but I am sorry about that. I wish...” She sighed, opened her eyes, and smiled at him, releasing his hand. “Well, we all wish a lot of things, right?”

He dropped his hand to her thigh. “You wish what?”

She shrugged and continued looking through the photos. “I wish I could go back in time and make different decisions. Wish people didn’t hold grudges. Wish I could walk away from this?—”

When she stopped suddenly, Ethan glanced down at the picture in her hand. It was a Hart family selfie of sorts with all five of them huddled around a patch of cement decorated with handprints, the kids all holding up their cement-stained hands, big grins splitting their faces.

“Oh, man,” Ethan said. “That’s great.”

“Would have been great, if we could have stayed like that.”

The hurt in her voice touched a lonely place deep inside Ethan, the place that had formed after his family had turned on him. “Did everything fall apart because of your dad’s drinking?”

Delaney shook her head. “My dad’s drinking started after my mom left. I don’t know what started the split, though Phoebe thinks it was the crazy workweeks my dad put in at the bar. Once it opened, Phoebe said we never had any family life.” Delaney shrugged. “I guess my mom just got tired of it all.”

“I was thinking about that tonight,” Ethan confessed. “Wondering why my mom hasn’t left my dad for the same reason. And because he’s an asshole.”

She looked up at him, her eyes clear, her expression sincere. “She probably stayed for you. For you and Austin.” Turning her gaze back to the photos, she pushed them all together and straightened them like a deck of cards. “I don’t believe holding on to a bad marriage is healthy for anyone, but at least she cared about you enough to stay.”

“That makes you twice as amazing as any other woman, because you turned out this strong all on your own.”

She relaxed against him, her gaze distant. Ethan let the silence linger and absorbed the details of the moment that somehow seemed all encompassing—the beat of Delaney’s pulse in her slim neck, the length of her lashes, the slope of her adorable little nose, the fall of her hair, the delicious weight of her body against his, her scent, her warmth.

But more than anything, he soaked in the overwhelming, almost tangible comfort between them. They’d had this that night at his house. In between rounds of sex, they’d been instantly comfortable together, talking about nothing, teasing each other, falling asleep together, only for one to wake the other for more.

And, yes, that night had been unforgettable, but this, this was just as amazing in a whole different way. An even deeper way. And, God, he loved it. Loved just being with her. Her simple presence, her acceptance of his touch, healed whatever had been wounded at his parents’ house. Which was when he realized that was exactly why he’d come here tonight. Because something inside him had known she was the cure for his pain.

A bubble of anxiety welled up in the pit of his stomach. He’d never met anyone who could do that for him. He’d had a couple of girlfriends in college but nothing serious. And after his life went to hell when Ian died...

He’d never been able to connect with anyone after that. Never trusted anyone enough to give them that much real estate in his heart. Out-of-town hookups had been the answer for him. It was always easy to take a short drive to San Francisco and find a fun girl at a bar. Set out the rules up front—give, receive, and then leave without any worries, any ties. And without any of the complications or rumors that developed in a small town where his family was woven into the fabric of the community.

But Delaney was so different. Delaney seemed to shove everything else inside Ethan out of the way, making room just for her. And looking back, he was beginning to think she’d done it in high school, too, just by being herself.

“You feel good.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but the desire thrumming from the words moved Ethan.

He turned his face into her neck, kissing her there, breathing her in and letting his air out on a soft moan, his entire body aching with the need to hold her, feel her, love her. “Come home with me.”

She groaned a sound of anguish. “God, no. I shouldn’t even be doing this.” She lifted her head and straightened away from him. “You need to go.”

“Hold on.” He held tight, keeping her on his lap. “We just had something, right there. Something reallygreat. Didn’t you feel it?”

Pulling her knees up, she pivoted on her butt until she sat sideways between his thighs. She gave him that you-should-know-better look. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

“It does matter.” He took her jaw in one hand, firmly keeping her eyes on his. “It matters to me. You feel it, don’t you? You want me, don’t you?”

She covered his hand with hers, curved her fingers around his, and smiled, but it was a sad smile. A you-silly-boy smile. “Ethan. We had a night. One night we both knew would end in the morning. This”—she gestured to the bar—“has just complicated everything.”

“Maybe it’s given us the opportunity to get to know each other instead of just walking out of each other’s lives,” he argued.

Her brow fell, and a funny smile quirked her mouth. “Have you been sampling too much of your own brew? ’Cause you’re really not thinking straight.” She rolled out of his lap and dropped the rest of the photos back into the box as she got to her feet. “I’m beat. I’m going to head back to Phoebe’s. And you need to get some sleep, Mr. Hayes. Maybe that will give you a little better perspective.”

Frustrated beyond reason, Ethan used the bar to haul himself to his feet. He gripped her waist with one hand and pulled her against him, then cupped her head with the other. With her back braced against the bar, he let his body weight sink into her until they were molded perfectly together. Until her lids were heavy. Until her breaths were shallow.

“Ethan . . .”

“That’s better,” he murmured, pleased with the ache filling her voice. He threaded his fingers a few inches into the hair at the base of her skull and massaged until her eyes fell closed and a groan ebbed from between her lips. “Much better.”

He kissed her, just whisper passes of his lips over hers, even though he wanted to devour her. Even when she arched toward him. Even when his entire body throbbed with a kind of need only Delaney created inside him.

He licked her lower lip. When she opened to him, he pulled back, breaking body contact.

“Baby, you’re the one who’s not thinking straight.” When her eyes opened, searching his, he added, “Maybe that will give you a little better perspective.”

And he stroked his fingers gently down her face one last time before turning and walking out of the bar.