was a reasonably safe place to let her do that. The back door required a key to open the dead bolt. The stairs that had once led to the second floor ended at a blank wall and were used for display. There was a bell at the front door that chimed the instant anyone stepped on the floor mat, before they’d had a chance to even touch the door, and the windows were secured with extra locks.
As Sophy settled in, a sense of peace seeped through her. She loved every aspect of quilting, from choosing a pattern to assembling fabrics, cutting and piecing and quilting. To make her parents happy, she’d tried to major in business in college, dutifully attending classes at Clemson, stuffing dull facts she cared nothing about into her brain, giving up her social life and spending all her time studying. Quilting was the only other thing she made time for, and when one of her quilts won a major competition, she’d thrown in the business-major towel. Though there had been some lean times the first years the shop was open, she’d never regretted it.
Thanks to a Christmas gift from her sister, Miri, she wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time.
When the bell dinged, she secured the needle in the fabric, then set the quilt on the worktable. Neither Daisy, too short to be seen over the stands of fabric bolts between them, nor the customer was visible from Sophy’s location, but clearly they could see each other as Daisy greeted the newcomer.
In a particularly Holigan sort of way.
“What are you doing here?”
Giving her chair a hip bump to slide it into place, Sophy hurried down the wide center aisle.
“Maybe I came to make a quilt.”
Sophy blinked. The voice was low and gravelly and definitely male, definitely not anyone she knew. It was the kind of voice that belonged on the radio in the middle of the night with a half-moon casting slivers of light across the bedroom floor while the half-open windows provided brief drafts of air cool enough to dry the skin. She would have recognized it if she’d heard it before. She would have dated this voice without caring a damn about the rest of him.
She saw Sophy first, head tilted back, hands on her hips, then another couple steps brought the man into view on the other side of a sampler hanging from the ceiling. She stopped suddenly.
She was wrong. She’d heard this voice before, a long time ago, and it had been Reba dating him. Her rebellious stage, Reba had later called it, designed to drive Mom and Dad insane. But Sophy had always thought her sister’s laugh when she said that seemed a tad wistful.
“Men don’t make quilts,” Daisy announced as if she actually knew.
Sean Holigan. Sophy had spent maybe a total of twenty minutes in his presence in all the time he and Reba had dated. She’d practically lived on the front porch swing back then, and he’d never been invited in while her parents tried to dissuade Reba from leaving the house with him. He had always leaned against the porch railing, smelling of cigarette smoke and heat and essence of bad boy, and he’d usually ignored her with her nose buried in a book.
Naive and just turned fourteen, she’d pretended to ignore him back, but deep inside, she’d been intrigued by him. It had broken her innocent little heart when he and Reba broke it off after less than a month. Soon after, he’d left Copper Lake, followed in the family tradition of going to jail, then disappeared from the radar.
And now he was back.
Not yet noticing her, he gazed down at Daisy, the resemblance so strong that anyone could see they were family. “Men can make quilts if they want to.”
“Nuh-uh. I’ve been here a long time, and I never seen one man makin’ a quilt.” Daisy’s vigorous headshake was the final straw for the band holding her hair. It flew loose, landing on the floor right between Sean’s scuffed boots. He bent to pick it up and, somewhere in the process, became aware of Sophy’s presence.
Slowly he stood, his gaze rising with the same easy fluidity. Her feminine ego wished she’d chosen prettier shoes, was glad she wore a dress that showed a lot of leg and hugged all her curves, and couldn’t help but shiver inside as he reached her face and his dark eyes turned smoky.
She’d bet her eyes were smoky, too. In fact, she was pretty sure steam was escaping wherever it could—her ears, the strands of her hair, the pores of her arms. The handsome teenage bad boy was all grown up, sinfully and wickedly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous. His black hair was a little too long, his jaw unshaven for a few days, his mouth quirked in a way that was part smile and part sardonic curl and totally sexy.
As he finished straightening, he stretched the hair band over the second and fourth fingers on his left hand. She couldn’t help but look at his hand, noticing the absence of a wedding ring first, the scars and crooked joints of the fingers second. He’d been one of the guys who’d hung out at Charlie’s Custom Rods back then, always messing with cars. That could be dangerous work. So could being a Holigan.
It finally penetrated her dazed brain that she should say something, but before she could find even one word, he spoke.
“If it isn’t little Sophy Marchand. You grew up.”
Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and her heart fluttered. Her fourteen-year-old self was dancing in circles: He noticed me! He remembered me! He knows my name! She was searching for the woman sharing space with the girl—she didn’t want to act like a flustered kid—and thought she managed a reasonable substitute. “Sean Holigan. I didn’t know you were back in town.”
A blur somewhere on her left, Daisy said, “Hey, that’s me and Dahlia’s name, too. We’re hooligans. We like to run wild and break rules. Do you run wild, too?”
Aw, Sean Holigan embodied wild and rule breaking.
That quirk touched his mouth again. “Me? Do I look wild?”
Daisy’s gaze narrowed as she studied him. “Yup,” she concluded. “You got long hair and a beard.”
“Nah, anyone can grow hair and a beard. It takes more than that to be a Holigan. Your mama doesn’t have a beard yet, does she?” He pretended to scrutinize Daisy’s jaw. “Though it looks like yours is about to come in. There’s a tiny hair here and another over there.”
With a squeal, Daisy ran off to find the nearest mirror.
Smiling, Sophy drew him away from the door and deeper into the store. “How did you remember my name?”
“I waited on the porch at least three times a week for nearly a month, with you in your prissy little dress and your prissy little ponytail and your prissy little books. You’re the only one in the family who didn’t routinely close doors in my face.”
Though he said it lightly, shame stabbed at Sophy. When Sean had shown up for his and Reba’s first date, Mom and Dad had been arguing upstairs with her, so Sophy had answered the door. She’d invited him inside, and he’d taken maybe two steps across the threshold when her father had rushed down the stairs, ushered him back out, then closed the door. A quick peek out the window had shown that his features were bronzed, but they’d been nowhere as hot as her face was now.
After Reba had ridden off with the bad boy destined to lead her straight into hell, Sophy and her father had had a rather heated conversation about manners and being polite and standing behind the welcome they symbolically issued to everyone. The conversation had run in Dad’s favor, and that was why she’d made the point of being on the porch every time Sean
