The Summer He Came Home (Bad Boys of Crystal Lake 1)

She didn’t let him finish. Her arms were around him, and her lips reached for his. Searching, seeking his warmth and strength…his soul. She didn’t care about anything other than the man in front of her. She kissed him as if she was starving. As if he was the only thing that could save her.

His hands slid down her body, and he hugged her to him, murmuring words into her ear, though honestly, sh

e had no clue what he was saying. All she knew for sure was that the anxiety and fear that had settled into her body for the day were gone.

Seconds later, or maybe it was minutes, he gently pushed her inside and closed the door behind them.

“I meant to call earlier, but I got hung up with Dax. I’m sorry.” Cain exhaled. “After the way things were left this morning, I didn’t want you to think…” His dark eyes shone. “I didn’t want you to think that I wasn’t coming back.”

Her heart constricted. This morning he’d promised they’d finish their conversation. “Cain, I don’t want to fight.”

His hand caressed her cheek, and she leaned into his touch like a flower seeking the sun. “I don’t either. I just need to be with you.” He shrugged. “I can’t explain it any other way.” His hands crept around her waist. “This must be what a junkie feels like when they’re jonesing for a hit. You’re my drug of choice, Maggie.”

Cain lifted her with ease and sank onto the sofa with Maggie across his lap. She rested her head against his chest, listened to the heavy beat of his heart, and for the first time all day felt peace.

***

Cain drank in her scent, her softness, and her surrender.

He’d had one hell of a day. Anything that could have gone wrong did. As soon as he returned to the cottage with Dax, he’d been called to the football field because his input was needed on how the stage was to be built. Planning something on this scale should have been easy, but in a small town, nothing ever was. Too many hands in the pot led to wasted time. In the end, he’d called Mac, and the job was finalized.

Though that had led to discussions about production—sound equipment and lights—and he’d driven nearly fifty miles to the closest city in order to make sure the proper gear was reserved for the Fourth. He’d lucked out and had been able to finagle Pat Rossi—a guy he’d worked with in the past—to do sound and lights, and only had to throw in an extra case of beer to seal the deal.

He’d hightailed it back to Crystal Lake and had come straight here, anxious because he hadn’t been able to call Maggie. His cell had died, and his charger was nowhere to be found.

Cain kept her close, his hand caressing her cheek. He loved the small upturn in her nose, the way she leaned into his touch. His arms tightened around her, and his chest constricted something fierce. This little firecracker had come to mean a lot to him in the past few weeks. What was he doing? His arms tightened, his breathing quickened.

“Her name was Rose.”

“Sorry?” he murmured.

“My mother.” Maggie pulled away and glanced up at him, her blue eyes shadowed and sad. “Her name was Rose,” she whispered.

Chapter 26

“Maggie, we don’t have to…”

A long shuddering breath escaped her lips as she nodded. “Yes. We do.” She paused and nodded. “I do.”

Her eyes misted, and a sad smile tugged at her mouth. Maggie fingered a long strand of her hair, twirling it slowly as she lay in his arm. “She had dark red hair just like mine.” Her brow furled briefly as if she was remembering. “Maybe a bit lighter, but it was beautiful, and her skin was the color of alabaster.” Cain stilled, nestled his head into the crook of her neck as she continued.

“She had freckles. Lots of freckles. She didn’t care for them, I remember that. She used to put this special lotion on her face and arms every night. Something she bought from the Avon lady. It was in a green container that she kept by her bed, and I remember the writing was pink. I think she thought the cream made her freckles less visible. My dad called them magic bits of fairy dust.” A soft sigh escaped her lips as she settled into his arms. “I used to trace them with my finger. She thought I was crazy because I loved them.”

“She sounds beautiful.”

“She was. Everyone loved her.” Maggie closed her eyes and smiled. “She laughed a lot and loved to dance. We’d crank the stereo and twirl around the living room to her favorite bands, like Pink Floyd and Lynyrd Skynyrd.”

“The classics.”

“Yes. Being from the South, my dad was kind of horrified she wasn’t all bluegrass and stuff, but Skynyrd was about as country as she got.”

Maggie shivered in his arms, and he ran his hands along her shoulders, keeping her close to him.

“‘Free Bird.’”

He barely heard the words, and when she began to sing, goose bumps erupted along his skin.

“‘If I leave here tomorrow’”—she inhaled and continued, her voice tremulous—“‘would you still remember me?’”