“Okay.” Her mother just died, he reminded himself. Be a prince. He hated that his conscience sounded like Colleen. “If there’s anything you need, call me, okay?”

Her eyes filled.

That was the thing. Jessica Dunn did a tough-girl act like no one else. And act was the key word.

He hugged her again, and this time, she let him. He stroked her hair, and then she stepped back. “Take care,” she said.

“You, too.”

He went to Mrs. Dunn’s funeral with Colleen. Actually, most of the town went, which was a tribute to Jess more than Jolene Dunn, the sloppy drunk who never could break free from the bottle.

After the service, Connor kissed Jess on the cheek, tried not to take it personally when Davey shrank from him and wailed a little louder and buried his face in Jess’s chest. He shook Mr. Dunn’s hand. The man smelled like cheap beer and body odor, and Connor had to fight the urge to punch him. Take care of your daughter, goddammit.

Through Gerard, Connor heard that Davey had to sleep with Jess every night, that he’d had some outbursts of the heart-wrenching kind, some of the fist-through-the-wall kind, and sometimes he even forgot that their mother had died.

The poor kid.

Jessica never did call or green-light their relationship or do anything toward him at all. Connor gave her all the space she needed, watched her for signs that the time was right.

None came.

After seven months, he went again to her house after hours, and once again, she seemed almost to be waiting for him. Chico Three, who was now full grown, pushed his head against Connor’s leg, his tail wagging, and crooned in delight. It was a sharp contrast to Jessica’s reaction.

She didn’t open the door all the way. “Davey’s having a bad night,” she whispered.

Connor said nothing.

“I’m sorry.” She started to say something else, stopped, then sighed. “I’m very sorry.”

“Okay,” he said. Then he handed her the large Tupperware bowl he was holding. “Chili,” he said.

She took the container, and when she looked back up at him, her eyes were suspiciously shiny. “See you around,” she said.

“Okay.” He walked back to his truck, because there was nothing else to be done.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Four days after the proposal

IT HADN’T BEEN FAIR, Connor proposing like that. Since the other night, all Jessica had done was stew over it. For once, she’d resented the long weekend—Manningsport Day, when all the local businesses closed for some historic, unknown reason. Her job at Blue Heron Winery was the perfect antidote for personal problems, and she really didn’t want the free time.

Marriage? Seriously?

Granted, Jess realized that most people would think the whole proposal was really romantic and all, but it wasn’t fair. Connor knew the rules.

When they’d gotten together for the last time, she’d made it clear.

She liked Connor. Very, very much. But her life was not typical. She had Davey, and he would always be her first priority until the day she died, and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Who else loved Davey the way she did? Who else could take care of him? He had fetal alcohol syndrome, and, the doctors had surmised, post-traumatic stress disorder, courtesy of that asshole Pete O’Rourke, who’d made sure a little boy had seen his beloved dog dragged away to be put down.

And to someone like Davey, time didn’t heal all wounds. He still cried for Chico the Original. Still cried for their mother. Still asked if Dad would be home for dinner, though Keith Dunn had disappeared the day of their mother’s funeral and hadn’t sent a single note, or dollar, since.

Chico One... Yes, he should’ve been put down. But it could’ve been handled so much better. In Davey’s mind, it was Connor who’d caused the dog’s death. No amount of Jess explaining could undo what he thought was true, and her parents hadn’t helped with mutterings of Those fucking O’Rourkes or Why was that kid bothering the dog in the first place, huh? And so, according to Davey’s logic, Connor killed dogs. Her brother’s limited IQ prevented him from viewing the story another way.

The result was that for the past twenty years, Davey had been terrified every time he’d seen Connor. That time when Connor had come over to watch the movie...that had been the worst, and Jess understood. Davey had been betrayed. There was his dog-killing enemy, in his own house, with his sister. It had taken months to gain his trust back.

Over the years, Jessica had read enough to get a doctorate in the subject of fetal alcohol syndrome. She’d talked to dozens of school counselors, therapists, psychologists, pediatricians, neurologists. She once talked her way into a conference on the subject—her looks came in handy once in a while—and let an expert buy her a drink and stare at her cleavage while she peppered him with questions.

In the end, they all said the same unhelpful things. But Jessica was the world’s foremost expert on her brother. She understood things like executive function, processing deficiencies, impulse control. She understood that if she said something like “Don’t hit the car with that stick,” Davey might think it was perfectly okay to hit the car with a rake.

He could read a little bit, and unless you studied his face and knew what to look for, you’d never know he had any problems. People would hear him quoting endlessly from The Hobbit, but they wouldn’t understand that to Davey, it was just a cool adventure story with swords and a dragon. Themes of betrayal, friendship, the corruption of wealth, loss of innocence...those higher concepts were invisible to her brother. And because he could quote movies and he spoke fluently, people often got frustrated with him for not understanding what seemed so obvious to them.

Like Connor. He just didn’t want to accept that to Davey, he’d always be a dog killer. The day Chico had been dragged away by Animal Control had been the worst day of his life. Worse even than when their mother died.

Connor thought he could win her brother over. He was wrong.

Davey wasn’t going to change. He wasn’t able to change.

But even putting Davey aside—which she really couldn’t, but just for the sake of argument—Jessica...well, she didn’t believe Connor. He didn’t know what he wanted. Like a lot of guys, he saw her as a challenge. Once, she’d been slutty; after that, she’d become essentially celibate.

Except for him.

She was careful to keep things with Connor controlled. They’d always had a casual relationship...well, no. That wasn’t the right word. But a fluid relationship, because that’s just how it had to be. She’d always told him he was free to find someone else. He had, in fact. During their in-between times, he’d dated a little bit, and why not? She’d had to break up with him three—four?—times for various reasons. She understood if he needed to move on. She would’ve been happy to see him with someone else.

She was almost glad when he’d had a girlfriend, that redhead from Bryer. Let him move on and leave her alone and stop bringing up all those dangerous feelings. After all the times she had to break things off, she’d have understood if he one day introduced her to a fiancée.

But he didn’t. He kept coming back instead, and Jess had to wonder why. To make up for Chico One, all those years ago? To rescue her? She didn’t want to be rescued, thank you very much. A lot of people saw her as poor Jessica, white trash from the trailer park with the drunk parents and slow brother; Jess who had worked as a waitress for half her life, and yes, for about two minutes as a stripper. She could see how people had always seen her, Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman—Come here, honey, all you need is some money and a nice hot shower and some good clothes, and you’ll be exactly what I want.