Breathless Descent (Texas Hotzone 3)

7

“THAT TOOK YOU ALL of two minutes.”

“Try two seconds,” Caleb said, pushing to his feet and opening the door of Shay’s house, a redbrick, one-story number, not more than a mile from her office. “Why don’t you have dead bolts?”

“They were supposed to be installed as part of the deal when I bought the place six months ago,” she said. “When they weren’t, I was so excited about finally having my student loans paid off and actually being able to buy a place, that I let it go.” She flipped on the light. “But after seeing how fast you can get in, I’m officially moving dead bolts to the top of my ‘things to do’ list.” Shay motioned him inside.

Caleb followed her, his boots scraping glossy, light-oak hardwood. “A locksmith is expensive,” he said. “I can do what you need to have done. And I’ll make sure I check the whole place for safety. Doors and windows.”

“I’d say you don’t have to do that,” she said, “but I know you. You’ve made up your mind. You’re going to do it.” With a lift of her chin, she indicated the room to her left, a kitchen of rich redwood and gray granite counters. “Plenty of Dr Pepper in the fridge. I’ll just be in the other room looking up that address.” She sashayed her sweet, heart-shaped ass down a short stairwell, leaving him in the midst of a chuckle. He hated Dr Pepper, and she knew it.

Caleb took a step toward the stairs, when his eyes caught on the photo hanging above the rectangular decorative table. He remembered perfectly when the picture was taken. It was “the” day. Shay’s eighteenth birthday. Family and a dozen or so friends had gathered at Shay’s favorite Mexican-food joint to celebrate, and they’d hijacked the waiter to take a picture. Chairs were scooted close, arms draped shoulders, memories were documented.

And there he was, sitting next to Shay, in all her birthday glow, a smile on her lips as she looked at him, not the camera. And he was looking at her, too, oblivious to the rest of the group. The picture said a million words. They were in private conversation; the connection between Shay and him—the attraction—all too evident. It had been one of two big scares with Shay. The other had been at her college graduation dinner, another milestone in her life that had almost turned into another kiss. He hadn’t come home much after that. Even before the kiss they’d shared, he’d known what was between them. And he’d known it was only a matter of time before everyone else would know, too.

After ten years and thousands of miles behind them, that still appeared to be true. But they’d been kids then, young and incapable of maturely handling such circumstances. They weren’t kids anymore.

“Caleb!” Shay called. “You have a phone call.”

With one last glance at the picture, Caleb headed down the stairs to find a living area washed in the same warm feeling that was Shay, with a large, modern-looking stone fireplace as the centerpiece and a plasma TV mounted on the wall above—perfect for the UT football he’d missed too much of the past ten years. The couch was brown, as was the matching chair and ottoman, both decorated with light blue and brown throw pillows. Light blue candles. Brown picture frames. This was a home.

She held out the phone over the marble coffee table, where she’d set her laptop. Caleb didn’t miss the strained look on her face even before she said, “Jennifer.”

Somehow Caleb managed not to smile, and quickly reined in a moment of male satisfaction in which his ego screamed, hey-ho-yeah, baby, she was jealous. He’d felt that same pang of the green-eyed monster with Rick, and it was nice to know he wasn’t alone.

Caleb accepted the phone, his fingers brushing Shay’s on purpose. She snatched her hand back, and this time, he had to turn away to hide a smile.

“What’s up, Jennifer?” he asked, walking to Shay’s window and pulling up the wooden blinds to inspect her locks. Check. Need replacing.

Jennifer didn’t bother with a greeting. “Who the heck was that, and why don’t we know about her? I can’t imagine you ever letting a woman answer your phone. You’re too private. Which means she isn’t someone you just met.”

“We” meaning her and her husband, Bobby Evans, one of his best friends, a fellow Ace and, now, a business partner. “And your next question would be what?” Caleb asked, redirecting the conversation.

“Check,” she said. “You can’t talk or don’t want to. Fine. But expect the question again. I demand to know the scoop.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you,” Caleb assured her. He liked Jennifer. And he liked her with Bobby, who was the happiest he’d ever seen the man.