Come Home to Me. Brenda Novak

got some extra wood lying around my backyard. I’d be happy to donate it to the cause and build that reception desk you mentioned.”

      She shook her head. “Oh, no! I wasn’t hinting for you to do that. I don’t have the money to pay you. Not right now. But Cheyenne told me you’re a good contractor. I’ll keep you in mind if things go well for me.”

      He studied her. “Why not work out a trade?”

      She raised her eyebrows. “Construction for yoga lessons?”

      “No.” His grin slanted to one side. “Construction for massage.”

      How had she guessed? “You don’t even know if I’m any good.”

      “I’m willing to take that on faith.”

      She might’ve thought nothing of his willingness to do so much work in the hope that he might like her massages, but she wasn’t used to that kind of generosity. She felt certain something had to be behind this, something other than what he’d stated. And because of the exchange she’d overheard at the bookstore, she suspected she knew what it was. Cheyenne’s friends—hopefully Aaron, too—weren’t aware of what she’d done when she took off two years ago. But it wasn’t a secret that she’d never been particularly circumspect. At times she wondered just where she’d be if she hadn’t had her sister to counteract her mother’s example. At least now, without the drugs, she could see herself as she wanted to be, as she could be, and thought she might eventually get there—if she stayed the course.

      “I doubt you’d be interested in the type of massage I’m offering,” she told him.

      He seemed taken aback by the flatness of her voice. “Because...”

      She gave him a look that said he could stop pretending. “It’s just a massage, Riley. Nothing to get too excited about.”

      His eyes widened. “I wasn’t expecting... I mean, I didn’t think you were offering anything more.”

      Maybe that was true. Maybe it was her own insecurities that made it difficult to trust even a guy like Riley. But, to be safe, she figured she’d be better off carrying her own burdens. “I’d rather do the work myself. But thanks.”

      “O-kay,” he said, drawing out the word.

      When she didn’t soften her refusal or make conversation, he started for the door. “I’ll get out of your way, then.”

      She couldn’t help going after him. “Wait, I’m sorry if I assumed the wrong thing. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have too many sharp angles for someone like you, so there’s no point in becoming friends.”

      He lowered his voice as if to add gravity to his words. “Who says you have too many sharp angles for someone like me?”

      “I do.”

      “You barely know me!”

      “And yet I know I’m not what you want. I could never be what you want. If...if that’s what you were considering.”

      “I hadn’t decided. But...why couldn’t you be what I want?”

      Because she’d made too many mistakes. Was too jaded. Too suspicious and distrustful and defensive. She had a sordid past, an unfortunate upbringing, too much experience. He deserved a girl who’d once been prom queen, not a one-time addict. “I might be Chey’s sister but I’m nothing like her.”

      “The panther tattoo on your arm gave that away at first glance,” he said wryly.

      “So...why are you here? Because you’re tempted to take a walk on the wild side? If so, you need to understand that nothing comes cheap or easy with me anymore. If you heard otherwise, it would’ve been true...in the past. But I have a kid now.”

      “People change. And I have a kid, too. That’s partly why I’m interested in getting to know you. I understand what it’s like to be a single parent. Or have you forgotten?”

      The silence stretched out as they stared at each other.

      “I’ll build your reception desk tomorrow,” he said. “After I get some sleep. And you don’t have to pay me anything.”

      She grabbed the door as it swung back. “Why would you do that?” she called after him. “What’s in it for you?”

      “It’s called friendship, Presley. Maybe it’s time you became acquainted with it,” he said, and got into his truck.

      * * *

      Presley was up all night, plastering over the cracks and holes in the walls. Although intent on finishing before Wyatt woke up, she wasn’t quite that lucky. The baby monitor alerted her when he began to stir. It was early—not yet six—and she had another hour of repairs. So she took him out of the stroller, changed him and put him in the playpen she’d set up in one corner several days ago. But less than thirty minutes later, he was tired of his toys and getting hungry. She was just lifting him into her arms when Riley showed up, carrying a sawhorse.

      “Cute kid,” he said as he let himself in.

      Somehow, in her hurry to get started last night, she’d forgotten to lock the door after he left. It was fortunate that she lived in Whiskey Creek these days and not the dumpy neighborhood she’d had to brave in Fresno, or that could have been a much bigger deal. Here, a lot of people didn’t lock their doors at night—which was probably why Riley didn’t comment on the fact that he could stroll right in.

      “Thanks.” She watched the muscles ripple under his T-shirt as he put down the sawhorse. He was good-looking, and he had a nice build. Maybe he wasn’t as breathtaking as Aaron. Few men were. But neither was he as troubled.

      “No problem.” Dusting off his hands, he examined her work. “You’ve made some great progress.”

      Presley couldn’t believe he’d really come back, especially so early. “What are you doing here?”

      “You know what I’m doing here. I told you last night that I’d be building your reception area this morning.”

      She shifted Wyatt to her other hip. “You’re either a really nice guy—or a glutton for punishment.”

      “Are you asking me? Because if you are, I’m a really nice guy.”

      Wyatt, interested in this newcomer, had stopped crying. She wiped the tears from his face as she said, “You’re still going to be disappointed when I won’t sleep with you.”

      She refused to feel obligated, not when she’d warned him. She wouldn’t let anyone pressure her into making choices that were detrimental to her, no matter how grateful she felt for his friendship. That was the old Presley.

      He put a hand to his chest as if she’d wounded him. She expected him to accuse her of being too brash. Cheyenne would never have blurted out something like that. But she’d been frank on purpose, to highlight the truth: she wasn’t his type.

      Surprisingly, his response wasn’t what she’d predicted. “Who said you won’t sleep with me?”

      She gaped at him. “I told you—”

      “That you won’t trade sex for money. If I get a massage, I get only a massage.”

      “That’s true.”

      He nodded. “Then we’re fine. Because when we have sex, I don’t plan on paying you.”

      He’d said that with a straight face, but she could see a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “When we have sex?”

      “I’m not saying it’ll happen, so don’t get mad. I’m just not ruling it out. In other words, if we ever reach that point, I’m open to getting physical. In case you were wondering.”

      She didn’t know how to respond. She’d accepted long ago that she’d never be able to attract the kind