“Motorcycle.”
“Can’t afford an airplane?”
He grinned. She knew better. Lately, he’d considered buying one of his own. “I had some serious thinking to do.”
“Did you get it done?”
He managed a short laugh. “No.”
“Then you shouldn’t be sitting here—” she paused to take a breath “—with a wheezy old lady. Go on back to Virginia and save the world. Your work is too important to be worrying over me.”
“You’re not going to run me off that easy.” As long as he had his smart phone and a fax machine, he could work from anywhere. “I’m staying as long as you need me.”
“Are you sure about that, honey? You were always so adamant about never coming back to Redemption. I don’t want you hurt again.”
Which meant the dirty laundry in a small town wasn’t forgotten, no matter how long a man stayed away. “I want to be wherever you are. That’s all that matters.”
“Then give me a kiss and go take a shower.”
She was tiring. He could hear fatigue in the staccato speech and see the tinge of gray around her lips. Even a short conversation was too much for her fragile heart.
Obediently, he kissed her crepe-paper cheek, his insides crying like a baby, and headed for his old upstairs bedroom and a long, hot shower.
As he grabbed the banister and started up the curvy wooden staircase, he heard Annie’s voice in the kitchen. Without guilt, he stopped to listen. He’d discovered the value of eavesdropping, whether with a planted listening device or an ordinary ear.
“Oh, not again.” She sounded none too happy. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Granger. Okay, I will. Yes, right away.”
Then the receiver thumped hard on to the cradle. A whimper of dismay was followed by the scrape of chair legs and another whimper.
Sloan frowned and stepped around the wall into the warm, sunny kitchen.
Annie sat at the round table, head down on folded arms. Honey-blond hair spilled over a long barrette onto the polished oak. Her shoulders heaved.
Oh, man. Was she crying?
In answer, Annie drew in a hiccoughing breath and sniffed.
“Hey, hey,” he said softly, out of his element and unsure of what to do at this point. Give him a terrorist or a man with a gun any day. A crying woman was far more frightening.
He reached out, hand hovering above the soft-looking hair.
Don’t do it. Don’t touch her.
She sniffed again.
He touched her.
Someone was touching her.
Annie sat upright. Sloan hovered next to her chair…and his hand was on her hair.
Heart thudding erratically, she jerked away.
Sloan’s hand was left suspended in midair. He folded it against his side.
“What are you doing?” she asked. And why did she sound breathless?
“Listening to you cry. What’s wrong?” Forehead wrinkled, mouth tight, he looked as if he wanted to strangle someone. Hopefully not her. On second thought, after the phone call, she might let him.
“Nothing.”
“Oh right, sure. Peeling onions again.”
In spite of herself, Annie nearly smiled. “You were always such an idiot.”
“Another of my talents.” He handed her a napkin from the hand-painted napkin holder Lydia had bought on a trip to Japan.
Hoping to regain her composure, Annie took her time, dabbed at each corner of her eyes, dotted underneath, then patted her cheekbones.
Sloan turned a chair around backward and straddled it. “Tell me.”
“I haven’t talked to you in twelve years. Why start now?” She sounded as petulant as she felt.
“Explain why you’re crying and I’ll go away.”
She rolled her eyes. “For another twelve years?”
His expression was bland, but something flickered in those electric-blue eyes. “You’re stuck with me for a while.”
Annie’s stomach dipped. Sloan Hawkins underfoot day after day? “You’re not serious.”
“I am.” He studied the end of his fingernail. “Who was that on the phone?”
Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe this man. Less than an hour in town and he was prying into her life? “Were you eavesdropping?”
He abandoned the troublesome nail to lift both palms. “Well, yeah. So tell me unless you want a bug on the phone.”
“A what?”
He didn’t seem too happy about the strange statement, and now Annie was the one who wanted to pry. What had Sloan been doing since high school?
“I’m being an idiot again,” he said. “You need an aspirin or something?”
“No, I need for my son to behave himself.” Tears pushed up behind her nose. She was sure her eyes had gone all watery. “He’s in trouble at school. Again.”
“And? What did he do?”
She couldn’t believe this. She hadn’t communicated with Sloan Hawkins since before her senior prom and now he was sitting across the table expecting her to spill out her troubles the way she used to.
Oh, why not? No one else was listening and no matter what he said, Sloan would be gone before the week was out. He owed her a little child-rearing advice.
“Justin got in a fight.”
“Is he okay?”
She hadn’t expected him to show concern. “He won’t be when I get through with him.”
Sloan whistled softly. “Mean Mama. Boys fight. It’s normal.”
“Not at school.” Besides, what would Sloan know about normal? “He never behaved this way until—” She pushed up from the table. She was not going to talk about Joey or the divorce. Not to Sloan Hawkins. “Tell Lydia I’ll be back in time to give her her medications.”
Sloan unwound his tall body from the wooden chair. “Need company?”
Right. Like she wanted any more problems in her life. Without answering, she grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.
She
