Come Home to Me. Brenda Novak

back and talk to Presley, convince her to let him touch her again. That was what had him so worked up—what he really wanted. But he refused to be the kind of jerk who’d push for that if she didn’t want it, too. “I’m busy.”

      “Eating?”

      He didn’t answer.

      “I have some more modeling pics to show you,” Noelle added with a suggestive giggle.

      He hadn’t been particularly impressed with the last set. She was getting too carried away with surgeries and Botox and liposuction. Although she put every dime she made into improving her appearance—and charged the rest—in his opinion she’d actually looked prettier before. That was partly what he liked about Presley. She was so natural. She looked as good without makeup as she did with it. “Not tonight. I’m tired.”

      “Come on! You can’t be that tired. I’ll make it worth your while....”

      She wanted a man in her bed. And because he’d been crazy or drunk or stupid enough to accommodate her a few times, she was coming back for more.

      Setting the pie aside, he leaned back. “You said my brothers are there?”

      “All of them except you—and the one who doesn’t like me.”

      She meant Dylan. But there weren’t many people who did like her, including her own family. Getting pregnant by her sister’s boyfriend, and using that pregnancy to wrangle a wedding proposal, had sealed her fate. Aaron prided himself on being more forgiving than most. He kept telling himself that whatever she’d done in the past was her business. But he had yet to find anything redeeming about her. “Dylan’s taken, anyway. Maybe Grady would like to see your pictures.”

      “You don’t care if I show them to him?”

      Her affronted tone made him nervous. The first time she asked to come home with him, he’d warned her that he wasn’t interested in a relationship. He’d reminded her since. The fact that he wouldn’t give her his cell phone number should’ve made that abundantly clear. But Noelle couldn’t stop herself from pushing too hard for whatever she wanted. “Noelle, we’ve been over this.”

      “Never mind,” she snapped, and ended the call.

      With a sigh, Aaron put his phone on the console, closed the plastic container that held Presley’s pie and started his truck. At this point, he knew for sure that he didn’t want to go to Sexy Sadie’s.

      When his phone buzzed, indicating an incoming text, he almost ignored it. He suspected it was Noelle sending him the equivalent of a rude hand gesture. But he couldn’t keep himself from glancing at the screen.

      Noelle hadn’t texted him; Cheyenne had.

      Putting the transmission back in park, he picked up his phone.

      Is there any chance you could get away sometime tomorrow to meet me in Sutter Creek? I need to talk to you in private. Please don’t mention this to Dylan or anyone else.

      His sister-in-law was probably trying to act as mediator. Even after two years of dealing with him and Dylan, she didn’t realize that their arguments never lasted long. He’d see Dylan at the shop on Monday, and they’d go on as if nothing had happened. But Cheyenne loved her husband so much, she had to try and make them talk it out every time they had a disagreement.

      You don’t need to get involved, he wrote back. Dyl and I are fine.

      This isn’t about Friday.

      Then what’s it about?

      I have a favor to ask.

      Of me?

      What could that be? Dylan provided everything she could possibly want. Dylan would walk through fire for her.

      I’d rather not put it in writing.

      I won’t apologize to Dylan. I didn’t do anything.

      I’m not asking you to apologize.

      Then what on earth could it be?

      Can you come see me now?

      No. Dylan’s home. I can’t get away until tomorrow afternoon. I’ll tell him I have to help Presley and meet you at JB’s Steakhouse in Sutter Creek, if you’re willing.

      This was turning into quite a mystery. His sister-in-law had never approached him in such a clandestine manner.

      Another thought occurred to him.

      Does this have anything to do with Presley?

      Absolutely nothing.

      I won’t talk to you about her.

      He was adamant that she and Dylan mind their own business.

      I promise.

      Why are you being so secretive?

      You’ll understand once I’ve had the chance to explain. I’m nervous about this. I’m only doing it because I trust you. Next to Dylan and Presley, I trust you most in the world.

      Now she was making him nervous. What could it be?

      He came up with a few alternatives, but didn’t like any of them. Especially the ones that had to do with catastrophic illnesses. Did she have cancer?

      Maybe she’d received bad news from her doctor and couldn’t tell Dylan....

      What time? he texted.

      Dylan’s planning to work on the deck he’s building in back. He should be well into it by three. Will that work?

      That’s fine. Meet you at JB’s.

      I’ll text you if anything changes.

      Sounds good.

      Thanks, Aaron. I really appreciate it.

      He had to try to clarify one last time.

      And this has nothing to do with Presley? You’re not going to warn me off?

      Didn’t Dylan already do that?

      He tried.

      This has nothing to do with her. But let me point out that you don’t really want Pres, or we wouldn’t say a word.

      He sat staring at her last line for probably fifteen minutes. How did she know that when even he wasn’t sure?

       7

      JB’s was a traditional steakhouse with branding implements on the wood-plank walls and a bar along the right side. The interior was darker than the average restaurant, particularly in contrast to such a bright, sunny afternoon, and the candles sitting on the tables did little to offset that.

      Aaron stood at the entrance for a second so his eyes could adjust. Then he spotted Cheyenne in a corner booth, looking like she was about to step in front of a firing squad. Her agitation heightened his own anxiety as the hostess hurried over from where she’d been rolling silverware into napkins. This was between meals—not a busy time of day, even on a Sunday.

      “Would you like a table?” she asked.

      He pointed at Cheyenne. “My party’s been seated.”

      She waved him past her. “She said she was expecting someone. I left a menu for you.”

      With a quick thanks, he strode across the restaurant and took the seat opposite Cheyenne, who offered him a fleeting smile. “Thanks for coming.”

      “No problem,” he said.

      She slid his menu toward him. “Would you like to order first?”