The Way Home Read Free Page A

tall and strong in the shoulders, and she didn’t have to guess if his snug T-shirt concealed a set of six-pack abs to go with the biceps that bulged beneath his sleeves.
    He had such an easy way about him. A man comfortable in his own skin. A man unimpressed by himself and by the reaction he most likely got from women. But as this drew out, he also looked uncertain—and that got to her more than how physically striking he was. A man who looked like him shouldn’t feel insecure around a woman like her.
    She was no fashion plate. She didn’t have the time or, since J.R. died, the inclination to be. Makeup generally equaled tinted lip balm. The last time her plain brown hair had seen a pair of scissors, they’d been in her own hands. She kept it short out of necessity and softly curled because of heredity. She was tan from working outside in the sun, because shorts, tank tops, and flip-flops were her uniform this time of year.
    By no stretch of anyone’s imagination would she be considered voluptuous, but she was proud of her toned limbs, which he’d been eyeing. And whoa, the silence had stretched out too long again as she’d wished that she’d put on a little mascara and done more than finger-comb her hair after her shower.
    “Are you staying on the lake?” she asked, half afraid of his answer.
    “Hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. Seeing you was as far as I got with the plan.”
    Hokay. There it was. The part that made her heart pound. No more pretending that he’d come here to fish.
    And he had a plan .
    She should tell him, very sensibly, that this was not a good idea. That he should go back to Florida and leave her peace of mind and her equilibrium and her fragile sense of stability intact.
    Except the truth was, none of those things had been stable or whole since she’d lost J.R. All of those things were raw and frayed and so far from healed that she had no convincing argument that his departure would make it better.
    She really looked at him then. At this man who had blown in on that snowstorm and whom she’d never thought she would see again but had foolishly thought of so often since then.
    Too aware of his gaze on her and feeling a sudden need for distance, she moved around him to return to the front of the store. “You should be all set, then. All you need is a fishing license.”
    His footsteps made the floorboards creak as he followed. Not crowding her. Trailing her slow and easy, giving her space and time to think as she slipped behind the counter, so distracted that she nearly tripped over the sprawled pup again.
    “Jess. Let’s get this out in the open. You don’t seriously think I came all this way to fish, right?”
    She faced him from behind the safety of the high counter-top. Scratched Plexiglas covered a sales-tax chart, a map of the lake, a copy of the fishing regulations, and a dozen old cartoons her dad had cut out of newspapers dating as far back as the ’60s—all of which she couldn’t tear her gaze away from.
    Well. If she hadn’t figured out that he’d come here to see her before, the sudden rasp in his voice and the nuclear explosion taking place in her chest were major tip-offs.
    OK. So this was really happening. But it shouldn’t be. And she needed to make that clear.
    “Ty. This is . . . well . . . I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” She stopped, suddenly incapable of finishing a thought, let alone a sentence,because anything that came out would sound presumptive or cowardly. She looked toward the door, willing someone to step inside. Someone who needed fuel. Or was lost. Or wanted a lottery ticket or a fishing license. Anyone who could save her from having to face the inevitable.
    For God’s sake, grow a pair, Jess.
    “Jess.”
    The softness of his voice finally brought her gaze back to his.
    “Relax, OK? No pressure here. I know my showing up like this is way out of the blue. I know I caught you off guard. But I wanted to see you. I hoped maybe . . .