Molly just stared at him, heat on her cheeks.
“You know what Gramma Finnie says,” Pru said, waving her pizza slice. “‘Sometimes you say what you think and mean what you…’” She frowned. “Wait. It’s ‘sometimes you say what you mean when you really mean to…’” She took a bite, laughing. “I can’t remember. Can you remember, Mom?”
Molly couldn’t even remember her name at the moment. Had he just basically said he loved her? “I don’t know,” she managed. “But I’m sure it’s on a pillow or cross-stitched on something else up in Gramma Finnie’s apartment.”
“How long has your grandma lived there?” Trace asked, clearly eager to change the subject.
“Oh, I’ll tell you the whole story,” Pru offered.
Molly managed to chew her pizza as Pru delved into Waterford Farm history about Gramma and Grandpa Seamus leaving when Garrett was born, then Gramma moving back in after Grannie Annie died. Molly stayed standing in the kitchen, with Meatball at her feet, watching Pru’s animated hand motions and listening to her while Trace sat completely rapt. He barely ate, spellbound by the story and the storyteller, laughing at her asides, smiling at almost every word she said.
He loved Pru, that was evident in his eyes. And he…
Had that been a slip of the tongue, or the truth of how he felt? It seemed crazy, but Molly got it. She could fall in love with him. She was halfway there already. She loved his good heart and his humility. Absolutely adored his simple soul that appreciated every moment of his life and freedom. She hurt for his past and wanted to be part of his future.
She wanted this. The three of them and a dog, all cozied up in the kitchen, being a family, being whole, being complete.
Oh my God. I am in love with him.
“Isn’t that what Grandpa always says, Mom?” Pru asked, ripping Molly from her reverie, leaving her dizzy with the realization and at a loss about what question she’d been asked.
“Um…yeah.”
“I think your mom is suffering from presentation-practice overload,” Trace said quickly, pushing back his stool to come around and join her. “You’re tired.”
Of course she was. They’d slept about an hour the night before, though she wouldn’t have given up a minute of their intimate time for something as mundane as sleep. “I’m pretty wiped,” she admitted.
“It’s getting late,” Trace said. “I better take off.”
“You need to time my presentation again.” Pru jumped off her seat, waving another piece of pizza. “One more time.”
But Trace looked hard at Molly, searching her face, trying to read her expression, which was pure shock, no doubt. It was true: She was in love with him.
“I think you got this, Umproo,” he said, sneaking his hand around Molly’s waist to give her a quick squeeze. “If you practice too much, you won’t sound genuine.” He leaned closer to whisper, “And you need some rest, Irish.”
She smiled at him and nodded.
“Meatman.” Trace snapped his fingers. “Let’s go, bud.”
But Meatball cuddled closer around Molly’s feet, making them both laugh.
“He does love you,” Trace muttered. “Walk me out?”
She nodded and looked down at Meatball, who put one paw over Molly’s shoe. “But can he stay with us? I can take him to Waterford in the morning when I go to work.”
“He’ll be happier here,” he said, then mouthed to Molly, “Who wouldn’t?”
Smiling, she walked him to the door after he gave Pru a high five and promised he’d be at her presentation after school tomorrow. Outside, he hugged Molly in the driveway, wrapping his arms around her shivering body.
“Thanks for making me feel so at home here,” he said, pressing his lips to her ear, which only made her shiver some more, but not from the cold.
“Thanks for being here, for helping Pru, and for…” She leaned back to look at him. “For last night.”
“You don’t have to thank me for that. Just promise me it won’t be another fourteen years until next time.”
“Mmm. Fourteen hours, I hope.”
He grinned. “Liked it, did you?”
“I like you.” She put her cold fingers on his cheeks, immediately warmed. “I…really like you.”
“I never felt this before, Irish.”
Love? She didn’t dare whisper the word, but waited for him to say it first.
“I never felt this much hope. I didn’t know what hope was. I’ve been dead for thirty-five years, until you. And Pru. And now I’m alive again.” His voice cracked. “I love…this feeling.”
She got it. It was too soon to say anything else, and they still had a major hurdle to get over.
“I love this feeling, too.”
He kissed her, long and slow, then got into the van, gave a wave, and drove off. She stood watching the red lights disappear, shivering in the late January cold, utterly content with life.
Was that love? If so, she was in deep and had no desire to ever get out.
* * *
It was cold, clear, and dark when Trace rounded the bend at Sutton’s Mill and headed for home. He’d found a country station that played oldies and caught the opening notes of a song that took him back to high school, back to a very specific night.
When Dierks Bentley started whining What Was I Thinkin’? he laughed out loud.
How could he do anything else? The past twenty-four hours had been the best of his life. This morning, he’d slipped into his studio apartment at sunrise, having somehow managed to tear himself out of Molly’s bed. He’d showered, changed for work, and packed up his meager belongings to move them back to his house after work.
Then he’d spent the day as a full-time manager of a division of a company. He’d worked with Tashie and Bo, had two meetings with owners of potential service dogs, and helped Shane with the trainees. Like all the employees of Waterford Farm, he’d cleaned kennels, helped with the dogs, and celebrated when Garrett put on his “doggone hat” and took a mixed-breed dog named Captain Crunch off to a new forever home. Apparently, Marie had been eating cereal that morning.
The best part of the day was hanging with Molly and Pru, practicing the presentation, and feeling so much love it damn near made his heart break. That woman. That girl. Two incredible humans to love, and he did. Both of them. He absolutely—
His thoughts evaporated as he spied lights behind the trees that blocked the front of his little house. He hadn’t left a light on, he was sure of it.
Who could it be? No one knew he was there except the kids who’d worked on Pru’s project. Was it one of them? That little Cody tool looking for trouble?
Frowning, he turned into the property, the van tires crunching and the headlights landing on a bright blue car parked in front of his door. What the heck? Had Molly beat him here for a surprise good-night?
He’d stopped in town for gas, so maybe she—
Then his vision cleared. That wasn’t her hybrid. That was a two-seater sports car, although it was nearly the same color of robin’s-egg blue. A Porsche, in fact. Brand-new and crazy expensive.
He knew exactly who owned that car. But no idea what the hell Allen the asshole lawyer could be doing here.
Trace narrowed his eyes at the car and took a slow breath as he tried to imagine what that man wanted. Nothing good.
The driver’s door opened slowly, the van’s headlight beams bathing the inside of the car in yellow. But all he could see was one long, lean, shapely leg in skintight jeans and black high heels slide out, followed by another.
Oh, not Allen. His other half.
A woman climbed out of the car and stood right in the light, blond hair spilling, red lips shining, looking like trouble from head to toe.
Trace swallowed as an old fear crawled up his back. Whatever Isabella wanted, he had to handle this right. He couldn’t screw up. He couldn’t make a mistake. He couldn’t be in the wrong place at the wrong time again, just when his life was so right.
&nb
sp; Very slowly, he unlatched his seat belt and opened the door.
“Hello, Trace.” Her voice was low, sultry, and way too welcoming.
“Hey.”
She tipped her head and gave a flirtatious smile, taking a few steps forward and looking him up and down like a starving cat eyeing a can of tuna. Damn it. “Your house looks good.”
His house? She wasn’t drooling over his house. “What’s up, Isabella?”
“Call me Izzie. All my friends do.”
He cleared his throat, which was surprisingly tight, holding on to the still-open van door with that sixth sense that said he might have to make a run for it. “How can I help you, Isabella?”
She flinched just enough for him to know she did not like that subtle insult. “Lotta work been done here.”
He nodded, staying still and silent and wishing to hell that she’d state her business and leave.
“She’s a good girl, that Prudence Kilcannon,” she said.
He sucked in a soft breath at the name. Was that her business? Pru?
She closed the space and got close enough for him to see she wore carefully applied makeup and tasteful jewelry and had a dangerous gleam in her eye.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I’m sorry you don’t seem a little happier to see me.”
“I don’t know you,” he fired back.
“We could fix that.”
Oh man. Really? “Pretty sure your husband would have a few things to say about that.”
She made a disgusted face. “He won’t be home from the gym for hours, then he’ll knock back most of a bottle of red wine, eat dinner without talking about anything but himself, and be snoring by ten.”
“Sounds like a man who works hard,” he said. “And maybe you should be right there next to him where you belong, Isabella.”
Undaunted by the dismissal, she pushed her hair back and took one more step. “I’d rather be here next to you.”
He snorted. “You serious?”
“Dead.”
Oh man. “Look, you’re a gorgeous woman and—”
“Thank you.”
“—you drive a fifty-thousand-dollar car, have a nice daughter, and I presume your every need is met by your husband. What the hell are you doing coming on to me outside my hovel on the wrong side of town?”
She put a hand on her hip and lifted one side of her mouth in a smile that deepened a dimple. “It was sixty-five thousand, fully loaded. That girl isn’t really my daughter. And my husband can’t meet my needs without the help of a little blue pill. But I like the gorgeous part. Can we talk about that some more?”
Really? This was happening to him?
“Don’t look bewildered, Trace,” she said on a laugh. “I’ve been thinking about you ever since I saw you in town.” She shrugged. “I didn’t think it would hurt to give it try.”
“No harm, no foul, huh?” He shook his head. “Well, no one’s hurt, and you can go home now.” He stood his ground, pointing to her car.
“I don’t want to go home.”
He looked her right in her big blue eyes. “I don’t want you to stay.”
“Just for a minute? We can talk.” She closed the space between them, giving him a whiff of expensive perfume. She looked up at him, sex oozing from every pore. “For a while.”
If there had never been a Molly and he’d been here floating around like a lost ex-con who hadn’t been with a woman in fourteen years, Isabella’s offer would have been a sweet one. She was a pretty woman, even with a sheen of desperation. Maybe he’d have taken the comfort she offered.
But everything had changed in the last few weeks. He now knew what he was worth, and it was way more than what this woman was offering.
“No,” he said simply, still standing by the open van door, considering his options. His best option was to get the hell out of here. “I’m not interested.” He turned to get back into the van, but she grabbed his arm.
“Well, now I know where Pru Kilcannon gets her rule-following trait.”
He froze halfway into the van.
“Or maybe they drummed bad behavior out of you during your fourteen years in Huttonsville Correctional Center serving time for killing a man.”
He closed his eyes as the words hit their target.
“Because the Trace Bancroft I know had no problem getting it on with women of all ages. Kimmie McQueen for one, and then Molly Kilcannon one night over Thanksgiving break.”
He backed out of the van slowly, turning to her, words caught in his throat, fury strangling him.
“Do you forget that I was the one who put you two together that night?” She angled his head, seemingly gaining confidence with all her facts and his silence. “I’ve always known, ever since Molly came home from college that spring with some vague story about a boyfriend at Chapel Hill. I forgot, frankly, but then a few years ago, my stepdaughter was invited to a sleepover for Pru’s birthday, and I took one look at her and…” She lifted a shoulder. “If you’re looking for it, the resemblance is there.”
“Good for you, Izzie. You’re quite the sleuth.”
She laughed. “Oh, it’s Izzie now. You change your mind about me?”
“No.” He practically spat the word, hard enough to make her recoil and narrow her eyes.
“You should drop to your knees and thank your lucky stars a woman like me wants a man like you.”
Maybe he would have…weeks ago. Before Waterford Farm. Before Molly. And before Pru. Because of all of them, he wouldn’t give this lady the time of day, no matter what she knew about him.
“I’m leaving now, ma’am,” he said with quiet calm. “I think you should do the same.”
“And I think you…” She put both hands on his chest and dragged them down slowly. “Should remember your manners. I’m a guest. And I want—”
“No.” He grabbed her elbows as the sound of a roaring engine and squealing tires made him freeze, followed by a bath of halogen brights sitting high on a massive truck. Trace fought the urge to push her off him, but fear and history and full knowledge of what a push like that could do to the other person stopped him. He clung to her, fighting that urge, and in that split second, she whipped to the side, her back to the lights. As she did, he saw her reach up and rip her silky top so hard the buttons popped.
What the hell—
“Get your hands off my wife!” a voice bellowed from behind the lights that blinded Trace as Isabella stumbled away, clutching at her torn shirt.
“Oh my God, Allen! You’re here!”
“Damn right I’m here.” A large silhouette emerged from the headlight beams, nothing but a menacing black shadow moving toward him.
“How did you find me?”
“You think I don’t have a tracking device on that car, Izzie?” He stomped closer, headed for Trace, who felt every hair on the back of his neck rise. “You touch my wife, son?”
“No, sir, I—”
“He was trying to push me into that van and kidnap me, Allen! I came here to find Corinne, and he…he…assaulted me!”
What the holy hell was going on? Trace fisted his hands, tried to breathe, tried to think, tried not to relive every hellacious moment of his mostly hellacious life.
“You’re a fool, Isabella.” The man growled the words, but kept coming toward Trace, who could make out his angry features now. “I told you he’s a convict! I told you he’s a murderer and rapist!”
Trace reeled at the accusations, still shocked into silence.
“That’s why I came here,” Isabella said, her voice rising to an earsplitting whine. “Corinne said she was going to help her friend with a community service project, and I remembered he was here, and I had to come and find her.”
“Corinne’s at home.” He threw enough of a vile look at her to give Trace hope that Allen Phillips didn’t believe a word his lying wife said. “And you, boy?” He was about five feet away now, close enough for Trace to see his nostrils flare and eyes narr
ow. “You need to get the hell out of this town.”
Trace tried to swallow, bile rising. “I didn’t do anything.”
How many freaking times in his life would that be his defense?
“Oh, really? Didn’t kill a man outside a bar in Charleston, West Virginia, and spend fourteen years in Huttonsville Correctional Institute?”
Trace didn’t flinch.
“Didn’t rape Kim McQueen and run out of town when old Bart wanted to kill you for it?”
“No, I didn’t.”
He snorted. “Like father, like son.”
This time, Trace did flinch. How did this asshole—
“I did a little research on you about ten years ago when I handled Bart’s divorce. It all came back when I saw you in town. I know exactly what you got away with. I know what you come from. I know what a piece of shit on a shoe you are. And it is time for you to go back to whatever hellhole you want, ’cause you are no longer welcome in Bitter Bark.”
He was vaguely aware of Izzie sniveling and backing away, her breath heavy. But most of his attention was on her husband, who was a gym rat and strong, but Trace knew he could take him if he had to.
And then he’d have another crime on his record.
The man closed the space completely, inches from where Trace had backed into the open van door. “Maybe you want to take a swing at me, son.” He turned his jaw and offered it. “Go ahead. It’s a one-way ticket back to prison, that I can guarantee you. C’mon.” He tapped his jaw. “Give it to me, killer.”
“Allen. That’s enough.”
He whipped around to his wife. “Defending him, Izzie?”
“No, but let it go. Nothing bad happened.”
“To you, maybe. But what about the next woman? What about Molly Kilcannon? You going to rape her, too? And that sweet little girl of hers—”
Trace’s fisted hand moved like it had a life of its own, propelled from his side and through the air, landing hard enough that he heard the guy’s jaw crack as he stumbled backward.
“Allen!”
For a moment, Trace couldn’t move. His brain went dead. White lights popped like he’d been the one punched. His whole life flashed before him—the job, the life, the woman, the daughter—all gone in the time it took to throw a punch.