son to school, Brynn tried remembering times she’d been as excited. Nearly every one of Mack’s games. Seated with the other wives, she’d been so proud of her man. Prouder still of her little boy and of finally being accepted into the popular crowd. Her father, an East Coast fisherman, had died at sea. Her mother, not a year after, had passed of what the aunt who’d raised her diagnosed as a broken heart. Brynn hadn’t been much older than Cayden, and at times, she’d thought the pain more than she could bear. But she had. And she’d grown and done well enough in school to earn a full ride to Notre Dame—a magical place so far from all she’d ever known, she’d been convinced only magic could be found within those creamy-colored brick walls.
When she not only met and fell in love with Mack, but discovered the sheer joy of having him love her, too, never had she felt more complete.
“Mom?”
“Uh-huh?” She stopped for the light on Elm.
“Why didn’t Dad rescue us last night?”
Her stomach knotted, and she searched for just the right thing to say. No matter how many times she told Cayden his father was gone, he hadn’t fully absorbed the fact. He was still convinced Mack would appear. As if he’d only been gone on an extended series of away games.
She accelerated when the light turned green. “Sweetie, you know why. More than anything, I know he’d never have wanted anything bad to happen to you—either one of us. But remember when we talked about how he isn’t coming back?”
Chin to his chest, Cayden said, “I thought you might not’ve really meant it. Like when we order pizza and you tell me you’re so full you’re never eating again.”
Pulling up to the curb in front of the town’s only elementary school, Brynn searched for words when there were none. “I wish it was like that. I really do.”
He unfastened his seat belt, grabbed his bag from the floorboard, then hopped out of the car.
“Where’s my kiss?” she asked.
He blanched. “It’s bad enough I didn’t make the team. I can’t kiss my mom in front of my friends.”
That comment set the tone for her day....
* * *
A THUNDERSTORM IN THE NIGHT had cleared the humidity, making for a gorgeous morning. As Tristan was on indefinite leave until he got his head back in what his commanding officer deemed a good place, he split his time between missing his kid, wondering what he might’ve done differently with his ex and working out.
Before the heat grew too bad, he figured he might as well get a jump start on at least one out of three.
His usual run took him down Mulberry Lane to Herring Park Trail. But something his mom had mentioned about Brynn Langtoine stuck in his head. That bit about her having a green thumb. Considering the fact that his mom and at least half the other gardening fanatics on their block had already been outside for hours, he figured it was a safe bet Brynn might already be working in her beds, as well.
Mack and his family hadn’t lived far. A half mile at most, at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac.
In just over four minutes, Tristan reached the simple two-story home. The front porch and an upper balcony were trimmed in black wrought-iron, reminding him of childhood trips to New Orleans. When they’d been high school juniors, Mack’s folks had gone out of town to visit his grandparents. Mack had thrown a party and midway through the keg, a few of the looser girls in their class had stood on that balcony, flashing the guys for Mardi Gras beads. Not long after, the Langtoine’s nosy neighbor, Georgia Booth, called the cops and the festivities had been shut down.
In front of the house, Tristan slowed his pace to barely a jog, striving to get a look in the backyard without being too obvious. Only it turned out he’d been right in his assumption Brynn would be out on such a fine day.
He got caught.
“Take a picture,” she called upon catching him staring. “It’ll last longer.”
“Guilty as charged.” Out of breath and laughing, he paused by the birdbath Mack gave his mother on her fortieth birthday. She’d died of cancer a couple years later. Mack had been playing ball for Notre Dame and his dad had taken off, never to be seen again. Mack’s grandparents had owned the house and when they died, they left it to him. “Your boy—Cayden? Already at school?”
Gardening spade in hand, she rocked back on her heels. “It was his turn to clean the class turtle’s tank and feed him. I took him in early.”
“Figured as much.”
“How so?” Sunlight slanted though Spanish moss-drizzled trees and there wasn’t a breath of wind. The school bus’s squeaky brakes could be heard at the corner of Hickory and Pine.
Grinning, Tristan said, “From my own days at Ruin Bayou High, I figure any kid on this street has about three and a half minutes to hustle to the front of his house. Plenty of time to grab a Pop-Tart or play a quick game of fetch with your dog. Meaning, if Cayden hadn’t left early, he’d still be here, horsing around.”
“You’re good,” she noted when sure enough, right on schedule, the bus screeched to a stop. Even from the backyard, the sound of kids bickering, stealing sack lunches and pulling pigtails carried on the morning’s still air. Soon, the rolling riot moved on, returning peace to Cherry Court until retracing the route at 3:25.
“I’ve been hustling Cayden out to catch the bus for over five months, but I’ve never timed it quite like that.”
Though he shrugged, the SEAL in Tristan was glad not to have lost his flair for efficiency. Also in his personal skill arsenal was being observant, which was how he came to notice an intimidating pile of redwood planks, bolts and faux wood-colored plastic roofs, slides and swing seats. The pirate-type fort was pretty cool—at least it would be once it was assembled. Any kid would love it. Which made him think of his own son, Jack. The one topic he worked hard to avoid.
Trying to focus on the ungodly mess of materials rather than thoughts of how Jack was spending his morning, Tristan was startled to look up and find Brynn standing next to him. Sure, he’d seen her at the ballpark, but in fading light and then complete darkness, he hadn’t really seen her.
Since she’d squeezed her considerable assets into a figure-hugging Cardinals T-shirt rather than a loose maternity top, he noted she was barely five foot tall with a mess of curly ginger hair and a baby bump the size of two watermelons. Barefoot, wearing a long, gauzy skirt, she pressed her hands to the small of her back. He wondered if her back was hurting. If so, he was sure she’d never admit it. Backlit by morning sun, her skirt turned transparent. It took a ton of willpower to keep his gaze from dropping to her shapely legs.
“Big mess, huh?” She nodded toward the unassembled fort. “Cayden’s had a tough time of it lately. Thought for his birthday, this might perk him up. D-Shawn’s Lumber wanted an extra five hundred for assembly, but I figured on saving the money by doing it myself. How hard can it be, you know?” She faintly smiled and damn if Tristan didn’t find himself caught up in her world, smiling and nodding right along.
“Um, yeah.” Unsure what to do with his hands, he rammed them in his pockets.
When she cocked her head, corkscrew curls tumbled over her shoulder. She was so pretty it rendered
