Jessica looked up at her. “I go by Jessica or Jess,” she said, and her voice shook the tiniest bit. “Please don’t call me Jessie.”

“I’d be more than happy to take you home,” Connor said. The urge to take her home, to his home, to take care of her, made him want to just toss her over his shoulder and carry her out.

Tom Barlow came back in. “All right, then, Jess?” he asked.

“Yes. Thank you so much, Tom.” She smiled at him, and though Connor liked Tom Barlow quite a bit, he had the sudden urge to punch him.

There were too many people here.

But Jessica needed people. Especially with her father back in town.

“We can definitely give you a ride, Jessica.” Marcy reached out and gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Listen, we all have crappy dates. You wouldn’t believe some of the idiots I’ve been out with.”

“Why don’t you have dinner with us, Jess?” Honor suggested. “We’d love that.”

“You guys are the best,” she said. “But I think I’ll go home. Ned’s missing the fire department meeting, watching Davey, so I’ll get back and he can go.”

“I’ll drive you,” Connor said.

She put her hand on his arm for the briefest second, and he caught the faint smell of lemons. “I’m good, Con. But thank you. Thanks, everybody. Sorry for the drama.”

“I totally wish I’d seen it!” Marcy said. “You go home, pour yourself a nice big drink and relax, okay? Poor kid.”

“Have a good night, gang. Thank you again. I...I really appreciate it.” She walked gracefully through the dining room. Hugo stopped her and gave her a hug, and Felicia touched her hair.

“Well, let’s get back to our date!” Marcy said brightly. “Too bad about poor Jessie—whoops, Jessica—because we were having a super time! Ah ha! Ah ha! Ah ha ha ha!”

Prudence rolled her eyes.

Because he couldn’t figure out a way around it, he went back to the bar with Marcy.

“So am I wrong in thinking there’s some history there?” she said, beaming brightly. “Between you and Jess?”

Connor looked at her a few beats. “We’re old friends.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Another hairball laugh.

“Listen, thanks for meeting me,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to get back to O’Rourke’s. It was very nice talking to you.”

“Oh, definitely! And we didn’t even get to talk about you being a caterer for the Barn events! We’ll have to get together again, won’t we?”

He hated catering. “That’s not a service O’Rourke’s offers,” Connor said. “But I appreciate your asking.”

“You bet! Well, maybe we’ll see each other around, of course we will, tiny town and all that, so until next time! Whoops, I have to race off, so busy these days, not that I’m complaining, I thrive on this schedule. Maybe I’ll go check in with Honor.”

Poor Honor. Well, she hired the woman, after all. “Good night,” he said, and left a twenty for their drinks.

* * *

BY TEN O’CLOCK that night, Jessica’s heart had stopped thudding erratically, and her hands had stopped shaking. A pint of Ben & Jerry’s Red Velvet Cake had taken the place of dinner, and rather than the big drink Marcy had suggested, she was self-soothing with a Love It or List It marathon on HGTV. Ned and Davey had been at the gym when she’d met her father, and Davey had crashed at about 8:30, thanks to maniacally running on the treadmill, which was one of his great joys in life. Ned was in his room, talking on the phone to Sarah Cooper, which seemed to be his ritual before bed.

She shouldn’t have been surprised that her father had minimized the way things had been. That was nothing new.

But good God, the words had been like a kick in the stomach.

She wasn’t sorry she’d thrown the beer. A horrible, hard part of her hoped the taste and smell of it had knocked him right off the wagon, because it would be a lot easier if he’d just crawl back into his hole and stay there. She didn’t want the New & Improved Sober Keith, doling out apologies like breath mints.

There was a soft knock at the door. Chico Three lifted his head and wagged his tail, but the dopey thing was the type of dog who’d offer a serial killer a chew toy, rather than protect her and Davey. She got up and went to the door.

If it was her father, she’d call the police.

It wasn’t.

It was Connor, holding a foil pan. “Lasagna,” he said with a half smile.

God. It would be so easy to love him.

Chico Three raced to the door and went straight for Connor’s crotch. “Would you keep your dog from molesting me?” Connor asked, his voice quiet, the smile still on his face.

“Sorry.” Jess grabbed Chico’s collar. “Be polite, Chico.”

“Can I set this down?” Connor asked.

“Of course.”

He went into the kitchen, and he looked so natural there, so familiar. Maybe he’d ask her to come over to his place. She could ask Ned if he’d mind her leaving for a little while.

And she could use that. She could use Connor’s arms around her, his mouth, his callused, strong hands. She could use some naked time with this beautiful man.

Instead, he put the pan down on the stove. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

She didn’t answer for a second, her throat tight. “No, I’m fine,” she answered.

He looked at her for a few heartbeats. “Okay.” Then he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “See you around.”

With that, he left, closing the door quietly behind him, leaving Jessica alone in the dark and orderly kitchen.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“COME ON, CONNOR! Work that arm! What are you, a six-year-old girl?”

“Easy, Yogi. I’m just warming up.” Connor stared down from the pitching mound at his little sister, who was giving him the sign for a fastball. Savannah was a catcher—a good one, and she didn’t like him throwing what she called “kitten pitches.”

However, his fastball was somewhere around 80 miles per hour, and he didn’t want to hurt her.

“Come on, wuss!” she taunted.

“You’ve been hanging around Colleen too much,” he answered, and let the pitch fly. She caught it without visible movement, her glove just closing around the ball.

“Is that the best you can do? Because my mother can throw that hard.” She threw the ball back to him. Hard.

“Okay, smart-ass,” he said. “Don’t go crying if you can’t handle the heat.”

He let loose. Another perfect catch.

She was good, all right.

She gave him a three and pointed to her left thigh. Curveball. Not a problem.

They threw for about a half hour, swapping mild insults, Con occasionally giving her a little advice, Savannah occasionally returning the favor. When they were done, Savannah took off her catcher’s gear and they started running, part of her fitness regime. Her goal was to play on the Little League team with the boys, rather than on the girls’ softball team, and speed wasn’t her thing. Since Connor had always been a pretty decent athlete, he’d appointed himself her coach. Better that than having their father give it a try, and dropping dead of a heart attack in front of her.