Chapter Seven

“Sinclair, honey, will you get that?”

Shane heard the politely disguised order over the fading chime of the doorbell. Seconds later footsteps echoed on hardwood as someone—presumably Sinclair—approached the front door. He shifted the bottle of wine he held to his left hand, kept the newspaper-wrapped bouquet of sunflowers in his right, and belatedly wondered if she knew her mother had invited him to dinner.

The gleaming, black-painted door swung open. Sinclair stood framed in the entryway, wearing a dark gray sweater dress that hugged her curves, a heart-shaped silver locket on a long chain, and a look of curiosity. The curiosity faded into blank-faced shock as she took him in, and then transformed into an expression he couldn’t readily identify, but looked a lot like horror.

Nope. She hadn’t known.

Obviously, Cheryl Smith appreciated the value of an ambush, and though she’d made him an unsuspecting accomplice, he had to respect the execution. He leaned against the doorjamb and held out the flowers.

Her glance drifted down to the cheerful yellow blossoms and then flicked back to him. “What is this?”

“They’re called flowers, Sinclair. Southern etiquette mandates bringing a gift for the hostess, and Miss Nettie at the flower market told me these are your mother’s favorite.”

Her eyes narrowed. Instead of gesturing him in, she stepped onto the front porch. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mother invited me to dinner,” he replied, using the same hushed tone she’d given him. Then he held up the bottle in his other hand. “I also brought wine. You look like you could use some.”

“Sinclair!” Mrs. Smith materialized behind her daughter, her pretty blue eyes sharp, and her smile even sharper. “You may live in a barn, but you weren’t raised in one. Invite our guest in.”

“You should have brought a bigger bottle,” Sinclair muttered under her breath then fixed a smile on her face and stepped back. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t realize you’d invited guests.”

“Just Shane. It was all very spur-of-the-moment. I happened to be at city hall on Friday afternoon, and—”

“You happened to be at city hall?” Sinclair’s eyes narrowed on her mother this time. “Since when do you frequent city hall?”

“It’s a lovely building. I had an urge to stop in and appreciate the architecture.”

Yeah, she’d been lying in wait. He’d recognized as much the moment he’d stepped out of his office to find her at his door, proclaiming, ‘Why Shane Maguire, what a surprise to find you here,’ while wearing an expression conveying absolutely no surprise. Meanwhile, he’d been disconcerted to realize she’d sought him out, and within seconds, she’d very tidily hemmed him into the dinner commitment. He also recognized a command performance when he received one. The invitation was Mrs. Smith’s way of saying, You’ve been running around town with my daughter. Her father and I want a look at you.

Fine by him. They weren’t in high school anymore, and he was too old to be sneaking around behind anyone’s back. And, ultimately, he didn’t want to. He’d kept their relationship secret to be with the girl, because otherwise, it wouldn’t have happened, but now he wanted to get to know the woman, and he didn’t intend to slink around in shadows to do it.

That said, he wasn’t sure exactly what to expect from tonight. He was a little thin on dinner-with-the-parents experience. Deliver aid packages to refugees while under fire from insurgents? No problem. Set up operations on the unstable rubble of earthquake-ravaged settlements to spearhead rescue efforts? Piece of cake. Spend the evening under a parental inquisition? The idea made him sweat.

Back in the day, he never would have been allowed to mow their lawn, much less walk right through the door and sit down to dinner. In his mind, the Smiths represented a “real” family. They lived in an honest-to-God house, ate meals together around an actual table, and her parents stayed reasonably plugged in to what their daughters were up to—and gave a crap for reasons other than how big of a headache the activities might cause them. Given all that, he had to anticipate a grilling this evening, but he figured the flowers might sway things his way. Show Mrs. Smith he’d learned some manners over the last ten years. He held them out.

“These are for you. Rumor has it you’re partial to them.”

She leaned in to take the flowers. “I am. Thank you, Shane. They’re beautiful—”

“Here,” Sinclair reached for the bouquet. “I’ll put them in water.”

“Nonsense.” Cheryl intercepted, and he transferred the sunflowers to her. “I’ll take care of it.” She took the wine as well. “I need to check on dinner, anyway. Please show Shane into the living room and get your father to pour him a drink.”

For a moment, Sinclair looked like she wanted to argue, but apparently, she weighed the option of leaving him alone with her father against chaperoning him to the living room and came out on the side of playing chaperone. “This way,” she said and walked across the entryway. He followed, appreciating the sway of her hips beneath the clingy gray knit. She led him into a formal living room decorated in shades of blue and white. The sheer abundance of fabric—curtains, sofa, loveseat, wing chairs, and coordinated pillows gracing every cushion—announced a woman had dominated the decorating decisions in the room, but it fit the traditional style of the house.

A tall, dark-haired man unfolded himself from one of the wing chairs when they entered. Bill Smith. Shane wagered Sinclair got her tendency to speak her mind, and her stubborn streak, from her mother, but in terms of coloring and build, she was her father’s daughter. Same long, lean frame. Same jet-black hair and dark-blue eyes. Those eyes were calmly sizing him up, which he took as a good sign. The man had reserved his opinion until he could judge for himself.

“Dad, this is—”

“Shane Maguire,” her father finished for her, and extended his hand. “Cheryl mentioned something about a guest,” he said vaguely at Sinclair’s what-the-hell look.

“Yes, sir,” Shane confirmed and shook his hand.

“Call me Bill, please.” He gestured at the lowball glass in his other hand. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Whatever you’re having…”

“Bourbon?”

Shane inclined his head. “That works.”

“I’ll have the same,” Sinclair added. “Straight up.”

“Two bourbons,” Bill repeated and moved to a cabinet containing the bar.

A wall covered in framed photographs caught Shane’s eye. He wandered closer. The montage included some family shots, but mostly pictures of Sinclair and Savannah in various stages of growing up. His attention homed in on one featuring a chubby toddler—maybe two years old—wearing a diaper, and an assload of jewelry. Strings of pearls draped her neck. Bracelets of all sizes and styles stacked their way up her little arms. Multiple rings graced every finger. A tiara of necklaces crowned soft, dark curls. The oversize smile on her face pulled a laugh out of him. “I like this outfit.”

Sinclair groaned. “Dad, make mine a double.”

Her father strolled over, chuckling, and handed Shane a drink. “Pace yourself, kiddo,” he said as he handed Sinclair hers. “Your mom’s got memory boxes, and she’s not afraid to haul them out.”

“Jesus, save me.” Sinclair took a gulp of the bourbon.

“Dinner’s ready,” Cheryl called from the archway.

He stepped aside and let her lead them into the dining room. It looked like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. A crystal chandelier cast a gleam on an oval dining table adorned with matching china, real cloth napkins, and something even rarer in his experience—a home-cooked meal.

Cheryl directed him to a place at the end of the table. Sinclair took what he presumed was her regular spot in the chair to his right. Her father took the seat to his left, and Cheryl settled herself in the chair at the head of the table. She looked innocuous enough, with her tidy blond hair and half smile, but something in that smile told him the game was on, and he was about to square off with a master strategist. She sure as hell had an agenda for this evening, and he was on it.

He didn’t have to wait long for her first move. She handed Sinclair a serving bowl full of bacon-laced green beans and leveled her baby blues on him. “So, Shane, how are you enjoying being back in your hometown?”

He helped himself to a piece of fried chicken from the platter Bill held out. “It’s interesting,” he answered honestly. “Magnolia Grove has grown a lot over the last ten years, but it’s held on to its history. Not every community can say the same.”

“We’re proud of our preservation efforts, which you’re now a part of, right?” She gestured toward him. “You’re going to help us put the necessary plans in place to ensure we’re prepared for any emergency.”

He nodded, and accepted a basket of oven-warm rolls from Sinclair. “Create new plans, in some cases, but also coordinate existing plans into a cohesive response.”

“An important job. Big responsibility.” She tipped her head to the side and considered him. “What brought you to such a career?”

“Uncle Sam.”

“That’s right,” Bill interjected, a forkful of mashed potatoes halted on the journey from plate to mouth. “You joined the service after you graduated, correct? After some dustup with Ricky Pinkerton?”

“Yeah.” He rested his fork on his plate and owned up to this part of his past. “I needed an exit strategy. My parents were moving to Illinois, and I wasn’t much interested in going. College wasn’t in the cards. I hadn’t given school much attention up ’til then, and I didn’t have the grades or the money. After the altercation with Ricky, his parents wanted me gone, and I liked the sound of the USMC better than I liked my odds of convincing a judge not to send me to county for assault and battery.”

“The way I heard it,” Cheryl shifted her attention to her daughter, “you were acting in the defense of another. Ricky was liquored up, and had forgotten how to behave like a gentleman.”

“That’s exactly how it was,” Sinclair insisted and then shot him a look. “But as much as I appreciated you riding to my rescue, I didn’t need help. I could deal with Ricky—”

“Well, now you can,” her father said, and then pointed to Shane with his fork. “After I heard about the incident, I made sure both my girls knew how to discourage an overeager suitor.”

Was that some kind of a warning? No need. His balls retreated just thinking about the afternoon at the high school when she’d threatened to relocate them to his throat. “I’ve had a demonstration. Sinclair learned the lesson just fine.”

She swatted his arm. “I never unleashed on you, but keep talking, and that will change.”

Her father simply sat back in his chair and grinned. “See Cheryl? My work here is done.”

Cheryl rolled her eyes and then leveled them on Shane again. “How did the Marines transition into your position at Haggerty?”

Sinclair stilled, and he sensed her interest from a foot away. He would have shared the information at any time, but, for whatever reason, she’d refrained from asking.

“After boot camp, I was selected for a newly created MOS—a special unit formed to spearhead domestic and international crisis response and relief missions. I spent four years hopping from one disaster to the next, assessing needs, establishing security, and coordinating responses. Then my commanding officer, Jack Haggerty, founded Haggerty Emergency Management. When my tour ended, he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I joined his firm. With his encouragement, I filled out my skillset with a degree and certificate in emergency management. Now I’m the VP for disaster planning and crisis management.”

“Impressive,” Bill said and nodded.

He shrugged. “I fell into it, for the most part. Early in boot camp I hit a snag—or created one for myself, depending on whom you ask. Jack helped unsnag me. He sat me down and told me he thought I displayed stronger-than-average protective instincts, which he wanted, and piss-poor impulse control, which concerned him, to put it mildly. But he gambled on being able to cultivate the instincts and instill some discipline. The gamble paid off, for me.”

“And now Magnolia Grove reaps the benefit of your expertise,” Cheryl noted. “You get to reconnect with your hometown. Your”—she gestured to Sinclair—“friends.”

“Mom…” Sinclair’s voice vibrated with warning.

Cheryl ignored her daughter, and looked Shane squarely in the eyes. “Now that you’re back, will you be staying?”

…

Sinclair battled the urge to bang her head against the table. Her mother didn’t always bother with subtlety, but even the thickest blockhead couldn’t help but pick up on the underlying question in this latest inquiry. Namely, What are your intentions regarding our daughter?

Shane was no blockhead. She turned to her father and pointed at her mother. “Can’t you get a leash on this?”

“I’m definitely considering the option,” Shane replied, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Sinclair’s been showing me around, and I can’t deny Magnolia Grove has a certain appeal.”

“That’s very nice of you, honey,” Cheryl said to her daughter.

Ha. Nice was not the word. “Well, when he came to me with the request, I really couldn’t say no.”

“Of course not,” Cheryl agreed. “The least you could do is help an old friend rediscover his home. Although”—she paused and sent her daughter a mild gaze Sinclair knew better than to take at face value—“I wasn’t aware you two knew each other well growing up.”

“We didn’t.” Sinclair said the words fast, but not quite fast enough to cut off Shane’s reply.

“We got to know each other toward the end of my senior year,” he said, and offered her a slow smile. “After I broke Ricky’s nose, a whole lot of people wanted my hide, but she stuck up for me.” He covered her hand where it rested on the table, and squeezed.

She kept hers absolutely still, in a silent plea for him to stop talking, but he didn’t read her mind.

“She tried to tell everyone what actually happened, and, for what it’s worth, I think Kenner believed her. But Ricky had all his friends telling a different story, and Kenner knew I didn’t stand a chance if his parents pressed charges, so he did his best to resolve the situation in a way that didn’t leave a mark on my permanent record.”

“It was nothing,” she said, trying to end the conversation.

Her mother’s brow furrowed, and she turned to Sinclair. “So, you two got to be friends before the summer you—?”

“We were not friends.” The sharpness of her words drew everyone’s eyes to her. She took a deep breath and told herself to reel it in. “Friends isn’t the right word. We just…we hung out a few times…” Shit.

Shane turned her hand over and wove their fingers together, seemingly oblivious to how cold and stiff hers were. “I don’t agree,” he said in a low voice. “We may not have spent much time together before I left, but I considered you my best friend.”

The moment took on its own momentum, spinning her around, pulling her down like a boat caught in a whirlpool. From a place beyond rescue, she watched her mother’s mouth drop open to release a small, almost imperceptible gasp. Eyes filled with new awareness darted to Shane and then shot a silent question at Sinclair.

Get this contained. Now. She leapt out of her chair, and grabbed her plate. “I’ll help you clear, Mom.” Brilliant.

Her mother nodded and then stood as well, picking up her own plate and the basket of rolls. “Thank you, dear.”

Sinclair stacked Shane’s plate on hers, turned, and practically ran through the small butler’s pantry to the kitchen.

Her mom came in, hot on her heels, and put her dishes on the white-and-black marbled counter by the deep farmhouse sink. With a regal air Sinclair could never hope to emulate, she turned and regarded her daughter. “He’s the one.”

It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t offer up an answer. She put her dishes on the counter with shaking hands and retreated to the opposite side of the kitchen, until the island backstopped her.

Her mother shook her head. “Sinclair, for heaven’s sake, if you were seeing him that spring, why didn’t you bring him around and introduce us? You obviously had strong feelings for him, and it seems he returned them.”

“You and Dad wouldn’t have approved. You would have put a stop to it.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? His brother was in jail, he’d just gotten in trouble for punching Ricky, and he was leaving for boot camp at the start of summer. What part of that would you have liked?”

“The part where I knew what was going on with my daughter,” she retorted, color rising in her cheeks. “I would have liked the chance to talk to you about the decisions you were making, and…” She broke off and smoothed a hand over her curls, taming them as she tamed her temper. As a rule, her mom didn’t choose to belabor things that couldn’t be changed.

Sinclair couldn’t agree more. “Don’t tell Dad. Please.”

Her mother dropped her hand to her hip. “What your father knows or doesn’t know isn’t an issue anymore. You’re an adult, not a teenager he feels like he failed to protect. The issue is whether Shane knows he almost—”

“Shhh!” She cast a glance toward the door. “Keep your voice down.”

Pursed lips and crossed arms greeted her request. “He doesn’t know. Oh, Sinclair…”

“Sinclair what? It happened a long time ago.” Restless energy propelled her. She paced the short distance until she stood in front of her mother. “It’s over. Nothing came of it.”

“Not nothing.” The calm evaporated. “Don’t you dare tell me about nothings. Your father and I rushed to a hospital a continent away, in a dead panic.”

“I’m sorry.” Guilt swamped her, again, as an image of her pale-faced parents flanking her bedside swam into her mind.

“Goddammit.” Her mother rarely cursed. A rarer thing, still, for her to rub her eyes and let her shoulders slump. She blew out a breath and looked up. “I’m not trying to make you sorry. I’m trying to make you see it wasn’t nothing.” She made air quotes around the word. “It impacted you, and you’ve born the burden on your own.”

Surprise had her straightening her spine. Did her family see her as some kind of broken wing? She wasn’t. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“You keep a part of yourself closed off. It’s like you have a perimeter and nobody’s allowed too close.”

“Mom…”

“The barn? That’s isolationism, right there. And the men. Oh, yes,” she went on, when Sinclair opened her mouth to disclaim them. “I know there are men in your life, but you keep them far away.”

Heat crept into her face. “There’s been no reason to bring any of them around. They’re not…important.” Jesus. What an awful thing to admit to a parent. Feeling dirty, she automatically took a step back.

“Honey…” Her mom took hold of her shoulders to keep her in place. “You don’t give anyone a chance to be important.” Then, in her mother’s trademark way of cutting to the heart of the matter, she asked, “Did you love him?”

A lump lodged in her throat. Oversize and jagged. She actually had to swallow hard to get past it. “Mom, I was a kid. It was ten years ago…”

“Fine. It was the past, but it’s his past, too. What happened involved him, and he ought to know—”

Panic kicked in, cold, desperate, and not in a listening mood. “No, it happened to me. It’s my past. Mine. And I shouldn’t have to share it if I don’t want to—”

The sound of a throat clearing cut her off. She looked up to find Shane filling the kitchen entryway, a carefully neutral expression on his face and plates balanced in his hands. “Sorry to interrupt.”

One question filtered through her mind—How much did he hear?—before her brain cells locked up. Luckily, her mother suffered no such affliction. She swept forward. “No apology necessary.” With the deftness of a born hostess, she took the plates from him and flashed him a charming smile. “We were rudely sidetracked. We don’t usually make our guests clear the table.”

He offered up his own, equally effective version of a charming smile. “Sorry, ma’am. You can take the man out of the Marines, but you can’t take the Marines out of the man. I clean up after myself. And, unfortunately, I have to go. I have a client in Australia who discovered a data breach, and I need to jump on a call in thirty minutes.”

Her mom transferred the dishes to the counter and wiped her hands on a lemon-yellow towel. “Oh, mercy. That’s a shame. Sinclair, the key lime pie is in the fridge. Fix him up a slice to take with him.”

It took her a moment to process the instructions, but then she jumped to do her mother’s bidding as all the information filled in the bigger picture. The sooner she got his slice of pie in a Tupperware box, the sooner he’d be gone and this nerve-wracking minefield of an evening would be over.

“Here,” she practically shoved the plastic container at him. “See you later.”

“Sinclair, see our guest to the door, please.” Her mother used the same tone she’d used when telling a five-year-old Sinclair things like, Give your Aunt Penelope a kiss. Aunt Penny had been two hundred years old and smelled like mothballs. Shane, on the other hand…

“Yeah, Sinclair. Walk me to the door.” His lips lifted into a grin, but his eyes didn’t join the festivities. They assessed her with something that looked a lot like concern.

Like the diminutive bulldozer she was, her mother ushered everyone out of the kitchen. They were through the house, exchanging thank-yous and good-byes, and then she was alone on the front porch with Shane.

He set the pie container on the porch rail. “Anything you’d like to tell me?” His eyes found hers.

“Well played, with the conference call. I’ll have to remember that one.” Sarcasm was her superpower, thankfully, because the last thing she wanted to do on her parents’ doorstep was have an honest conversation with him about the past. “Good-night.” She turned and reached for the doorknob.

The next thing she knew, she was locked tight against a solid barrier of muscle while a brutally effective tongue swept the sarcasm right out of her mouth. The only things left were raw, and honest, and utterly impossible to deny. The present expanded to blot out past and future. Time condensed into this single instant, and she clung to it, ready to abandon caution and pride for the chance to wallow in want so strong it hurt, need now infused with some new, dangerously addictive promise she couldn’t resist, along with a sweet aftertaste of the past. She’d learned the hard way not to put much stock in his promises. When he finally raised his head, she went onto her tiptoes to give chase, sinking her teeth into his lower lip to punish him for…everything. Coming back. Stirring up old memories and new feelings.

A groan—more pain than pleasure—rumbled from deep in his chest, but he cupped her cheeks and used his thumbs to wipe away tears she hadn’t realized had gathered at the corners of her eyes. Appalled, she drew back, only to be brought up short by his arms. Her defense mechanisms took control of her vocal cords.

“Go away.”

He could have interpreted the rude instruction to apply just to the here and now, and the fact that he had a call to attend to, but the set of his jaw and the determined look in his eyes told he knew damn well what she’d meant. He kissed her again, brushing his lips over hers. “No.”

Oh, but he would. Eventually. She sniffed inelegantly and shoved the heel of her hand against his immovable shoulder. “If you knew what was good for you, you’d get in that fancy rental of yours and drive straight out of town.”

“Uh-uh. I only just got here.” His lips skimmed her eyelid with heart-stopping gentleness. “You still owe me four tours. Next one is tomorrow morning. Be ready at nine.”

He stepped away without waiting for her reply and made his way down the front walkway.

“Shane—”

“Tell you mother thanks for dinner,” he called from the street. The slam of his car door punctuated the comment.

Suddenly exhausted, she leaned against the porch rail and watched him pull away from the curb. When his taillights disappeared from view, she scrubbed her hands under her eyes and inhaled the cool night air. Oh, yeah. She’d be thanking her mother, all right.