Her mouth formed the cutest little O, then she laid her fingers over it.
Big blue eyes wide and hopeful, she looked between the framed doily and his face as if piecing it all together.
“Wanna get the door for me?” For some ridiculous reason, letting himself in felt presumptuous.
Crazy, since this closed door had never stopped him before, locked or not. Crazy, since this house sat on property that was his birthright, absent or not.
But tonight, he needed her to invite him inside.
Allow him. Want him.
When she just stood there with those big, disbelieving eyes, too . . . hell, he didn’t know; too something to move, he questioned whether he should’ve fixed the frame or left it broken and walked away from the wreckage.
God knew he did it once before. And that exodus was a good reminder as to why he wasn’t welcome now.
“Chloe?” His voice was as coaxing as he could make it, to spur her into action. “Open the door, cupcake. Let me in.”
Because for the life of him, he couldn’t walk away.
Not again.
“But . . .” She swallowed, a confused deer in the headlights. “It’s not broken anymore?”
It was a timid question, and one he knew didn’t completely refer to the doily. She was asking about a subject that required more bourbon than the bottle had left.
Their past.
Something Jameson didn’t care to discuss.
“Your tape job looked like a pre-school art project. As the owner of East Hampton’s only hardware store, who else was gonna fix it? It was my civic duty.”
There. That kept the conversation present day.
“I figured it was you who took it. Who else would enter my home unannounced, and loot? I can’t figure out why, though.”
“Don’t bother asking because I don’t know the answer.”
Like their past, examining his motivations wasn’t on the agenda tonight. He wanted to drink his bourbon, eat his burger, and then leave her behind.
Shaking herself out of her haze, she opened the door, then stood back so he could enter.
“I can’t believe it,” she whispered with a ghost of a smile. It hit him right in the solar plexus. “Jameson, you, you fixed it.”
Now, that was a coaxing voice.
It could coax him out of his mind if he allowed it. Out of his misery. Out of his mission to not touch her.
Out of her mistake made so long ago.
“For my mom,” he lied.
Because old grudges were hard to let go.
Setting the bag of burgers on the counter, he hung the framed doily over the dresser, ensuring the corners were straight, his ego biting back the truth.
Yes, he fixed it for her.
He’d fix the fucking world for her. Almost died trying a few times, and not because he had a death wish, despite Easy Lee’s opinion. But because Jameson knew, despite their once-great love and now mutual hate, he would one day face her again. On this property. Possibly in this very house.
And demand the answers he had coming.
And he would damn well do it a worthy man. Not the boy she so easily walked away from as if he were unworthy.
Standing back, they admired the monogrammed doily together, a handmade lost art that somehow belonged in this tiny house constructed a hundred years ago. A rundown shack, by Genevieve’s standards.
This woman next to him, her bare arm brushing his while her sugary sweet scent surrounded him, did too. Belonged here at Maine Lane.
Once upon a time, he belonged here, too.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
He nodded, but he wasn’t looking at the doily. He was looking at her.
“The art supply store didn’t have any mat-boards in yellow, so I chose ivory to replace it. You like it?”
Bridal veil was the technical color. And he didn’t appreciate the symbolism.
“No.” When she looked up at him, he saw gratitude in those baby blues. “I love it.”
Suddenly, despite seven perilous years of war to keep America safe, Jameson finally felt it.
Worthy.
Her lips quirked. “Did you suffer a traumatic brain injury in the Navy?”
And that spitfire sass of hers he liked—no, loved—was back.
“You’d think, wouldn’t you?”
“Not sure why else you’d give me such a wonderful gift after . . .” The rest of her sentence hung in the air, and she straightened her shoulders, preparing for an ugly comeback.
“Like I said before, don’t ask.” Then he nodded toward the bourbon still on the counter. “I could use some. How about you?”
Waving a metaphoric white flag—for the time being—he grabbed the booze.
Going green, she cupped her forehead and groaned sickly. “I’m never drinking again.”
He raised a doubtful brow and waited, finally adding, “That right?” Because there was more wine in her tiny kitchen than she had fingers.
“Except on holidays. Or my birthday. Or Mondays,” she clarified, grabbing bottles of water from the fridge. “Because Mondays are sooo hard.”
Her whine was endearing.
“Nobody likes a quitter,” he replied, and when she laughed, shaking her long hair away from her face, he sucked in a silent breath.
It was a gesture so innocently sexy it made his pulse pound.
“But in case you can’t trust yourself to lay off, I’ll pass too.” Setting the bourbon back on the counter, he grabbed the food and headed for the safety of the porch swing. A few feet farther away from the bed should he lose his ever-loving mind and make a move. Because, goddamn, was he tempted.
Bourbon would only weaken his resolve, and he wasn’t a guy who liked to fail.
“I hope you’re hungry. There’s a burger in here with your name on it,” he said, shaking the bag when she stared at him through the screen door, seeming surprised he wasn’t walking away.
He was surprised, too.
Romantic gestures like frame fixing and dinner bringing weren’t his thing. Honestly, he’d never had to work that hard with a woman. Hadn’t wanted to.
With Chloe he did. Back then, yes.
And now.
“How’d your thingamajig go?”
The question brought her outside. “My thingamajig? You mean the bridal shower?”
“I mean the thing where some fool paid you an exorbitant fee for a highly processed snack cake they could buy for a dollar out of a vending machine.”
She scoffed. “They’re gourmet muffins, and not highly processed but made from all organic ingredients, by a lovingly skilled hand. And she paid in full, so I’m happy as a clam.” Standing a foot away from him, her smile was feisty. “You don’t think my muffin’s worth it?”
“I’ve spent a decade wondering if the price I paid for it was worth it.” Because that cost was always there, in the forefront of his mind. Every day.
“Not funny.”
“Not laughing, cupcake.” Even now.
Even now, when he was distracted by her wholesome, cover-girl beauty. At first glance, one would never guess at her cruelty.
She wore cotton shorts and a thin T-shirt, nothing inherently sexy, but he could see the pattern of her lace bra through it—and her pretty pink nipples, if he relied on memory—but at least they were actual clothes and not a skimpy bedtime set meant to make his dick hard.