from truly committing to this town the way Sara and so many of their friends had in the past couple of years.
There was too much at stake for April, because if she devoted herself to making a life here the way she had in California and then lost it again, she wasn’t sure she’d survive. It was easier to play the part of caretaker and helpful friend. Those roles allowed her to be a part of the community without investing the deepest pieces of her heart and soul in anyone.
Giving too much—feeling too much—left her vulnerable to pain, and she’d had enough pain to last a lifetime.
“Why do you care?” she asked, slamming the empty silverware basket back into the dishwasher and closing the machine’s door. She hated how this man riled her but couldn’t stop her reaction to him any more than she could deny the attraction she felt. All she could do was ignore them both.
He pushed the empty glass across the counter. “Just making conversation,” he said as he stood, his gaze steady on hers. There was a teasing light in his eye, and awareness danced across her skin in response. He didn’t seem upset by her rudeness or realize how out of character it was. But she knew and it scared her. “We’re the only two people here so—”
“Actually, we’re not.” She placed her palms down on the cool granite and leaned toward him. “There are two sweet, sad girls in the other cabin who are afraid to make a sound in case they get me in trouble.”
“They don’t belong here,” he said, the warmth in his voice disappearing instantly.
“They don’t belong anywhere,” she countered. “That fact doesn’t make it easier to manage. I’d think you would understand—”
“I’m here to work.” He pushed away from the island. “Not to play grief counselor.”
“How’s the writing going? Is being alone in this cabin inspiring you?”
She thought he’d walk away so was surprised at his quiet answer. “I’m always alone.”
Just when she’d worked up a good temper, one that could hold her attraction at bay, he’d done it again. Let a bit of vulnerability slip through the impenetrable shields he had to curl around her senses.
April understood alone. She knew the emptiness of loneliness but also the safety it provided. She didn’t want to have that in common with Connor, because it was a truth she hadn’t shared with anyone else in her life. If he recognized it in her...
“You don’t have to be,” she said quietly, and the words were as much for her as him. She wanted to believe them even as the fear that lived inside her fought against it.
“Yes, I do.” He ran a hand through his hair, the damp ends tousling. “I’m going to take that shower.”
“Breakfast will be ready when you’re finished. I’ll—”
“Leave it,” he snapped. “I don’t need you to wait on me.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t complain to anyone. It’s distracting to have you in and out. Leave the food and I’ll take care of myself. I’m used to it.”
He didn’t wait for an answer before stalking from the kitchen.
April blew out an unsteady breath. She was making a mess of this. Sara still had ties to Hollywood and continued to act when the right roles came along. Not as much since expanding the ranch, but the studio that held the movie rights to Connor’s books was important to Sara. It’s why her friend had agreed to arrange two weeks at the cabin for him. It was also why Sara had asked April to step in and help. April’s talent was caring for people. It was something she enjoyed and a gift she used both at the ranch and while teaching her yoga classes. She normally had an easy way with even the most demanding guests.
But she was at her worst with Connor, and she hated it. As abrasive as he could be, he was also her client, and he’d survived a life-altering tragedy that should make her more sympathetic to him.
She imagined that Connor hated sympathy—she had during her battle with breast cancer. The pitying looks and fake support from the women she’d thought were her friends had added an extra layer of pain to her life. Those so-called friends had said the right things but quickly distanced themselves when the treatments robbed her of strength, her looks and most of her dignity. Only Sara had remained at her side, driving her to and from appointments and helping her to move when Daniel had filed for divorce in the middle of her second round of chemo.
The oven beeped, drawing her from her thoughts. She removed the egg muffins and placed them on a rack to cool. Pulling a plate from the cabinet, she set the table, poured a small glass of juice, then set a bowl of cut melon next to the plate. Connor may not need someone to look after him, but that was April’s job here. She was going to take care of that man whether he liked it or not.
* * *
Hand lifted in front of the heavy oak door, Connor drew in a breath, the cold air making his lungs burn. He welcomed the sharp stab of pain because physical pain helped him remember he was still alive. It was part of the reason he worked out so compulsively—pushing his body to the point of exhaustion gave him a sense of connection to something. Also, Connor had vowed never to be weak again. His weakness was the reason Margo and Emmett had died.
What he was about to do was madness, but he knocked on the door anyway.
It took only a moment for it to open, and he was looking down at a young girl with angelic blond curls, huge blue eyes and a smudge of something across her cheek. The impulse to wipe his thumb across her face was a punch to the heart. He almost turned and ran, even though that would mark him as the coward he was. Emmett had always had a smear or stain on some part of him. His son’s favorite food had been peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, and there was normally a telltale spot of grape jelly on the corner of his mouth and sticky fingers, leaving marks on everything the boy touched.
Connor had often balanced writing with parenting duties if Margo had an appointment or meeting. His preoccupation with his work had sometimes left Emmett, even at five, to slap together sloppy sandwiches for both of them. Emmett loved being in charge, and Connor had been happy to have something to eat that he didn’t have to make. After the accident, he’d spent hours wishing he could have a daddy do-over. He would have put aside his precious words to take care of his more precious son.
“Are you a delivery man?” the girl asked when he stared at her.
He shook his head, not yet trusting his voice when memories threatened to pull him under like a riptide.
“Mommy said Santa Claus uses real delivery people to help bring toys at Christmas so they don’t feel left out because he’s got a sleigh and they don’t. Last year Santa had the delivery man bring me three sparkly ponies and a new set of markers.” She wiped the back of her hand across her nose. “Do you like to draw?”
“I like to write,” he answered automatically. “At least I used to.”
She nodded. “I’m good at writing. My teacher said my big G is perfect.”
“Shay, shut the door.” Another voice drifted forward. “It’s freezing.”
A moment later, a different girl appeared behind the little one. They were clearly sisters, although the older girl’s hair was a
