Hands-on, clothes off with him.
It felt right at the time, but so very wrong afterward. He agreed, though they both had a hard time staying away from each other. The universe kept throwing them together.
“Why were you in Riverhead?” he asked, and it was part question, part accusation.
Her head shot back in surprise. “What?”
“I saw you, Chloe. This morning. In Riverhead.”
“Where?” Deny. Just deny. “At the Starbucks drive-thru?” Because that sounded plausible.
“At the house.”
She looked down. Then around. Anywhere but at him. And noticed the gunmetal gray truck still parked in the same spot.
“I told you,” Wyatt continued, his words firm but his voice soft. Sympathetic. “You can’t show up there like that. She’ll see you.”
“I know.” Biting her lip, she stared at his concerned face. “I can’t help it.”
“I don’t want anybody to get hurt, Chloe. This is a sticky situation for me.”
“For me, too,” she said, the memory of this morning rushing back. “And what if I’m already hurt?”
“Aw, honey.” Pulling her close, Wyatt wrapped her in a comforting hug, patting her back. “I know.”
She’d have to be more careful next time. Take better precautions to stay out of sight.
“I hate to interrupt.”
His hard voice came out of nowhere and Chloe jumped from Wyatt’s arms. Stepped a good three feet away from him.
The stony look in Jameson’s eyes matched his voice. He clearly enjoyed interrupting.
And he had that same dark, sexy stubble as last night. Same casual dress-code of worn jeans and a T-shirt. Same scowl and hint of distaste as he stared at her.
“You’re not interrupting.” Her voice wasn’t as steady as she’d prefer. “I’m on my way to an appointment.”
He spared Wyatt a negligent glance, his expression disbelieving, but he didn’t call her out. Instead, he slid on mirrored aviators and issued a command.
“Have a key to Maine Lane in my hand by five p.m. or I’m breaking down the fucking door. And I won’t pay for damages.”
With that, he turned and jogged across the street, not waiting for a response. Assuming she’d obey.
“That’s him, isn’t it?”
Wyatt’s question came long seconds later, after watching her watch Jameson get into his truck and drive off down the road. The identity of him needed no clarification, nor did his question require an answer.
“His face, Chloe.” He looked stunned. “I recognize it.”
She nodded, the reluctant confirmation dredged from deep down inside, where she was still broken and bitter. Admitting it was more difficult than telling a bridesmaid she couldn’t get a boob job.
Because it was him.
It had always been, and it would forevermore be until her dying day . . . him. A face she wanted the privilege of looking at every day.
A privilege she surrendered.
His key no longer worked.
Not in the front door, not in the side door, not in the back.
Much like Chloe made clear ten years ago—via her henchwoman, mommy dearest—he was not welcome.
While she was doing the unspeakable to erase their past, Genevieve happily informed him he was no longer welcome in her daughter’s present. Not welcome in her future. Not welcome in East Hampton, in fact, though it was his birthplace, not hers.
And now, not welcome inside Maine Lane.
Jesus, he was surprised there wasn’t a custom-made mat at the front door that read Go Fuck Yourself, Jameson Maine.
It summed up what Chloe essentially said a decade ago. That, and I don’t love you anymore.
Probably never did. Definitely never will.
The locked doors and new owner listed on the deed merely punctuated her actions from so long ago.
Symbolism.
Ripping the screen door off the hinges and kicking open the front door felt like redemption. Splintering the wood casing around what she thought was a secure access point gave him more joy than breaching doors in Pakistan to expose a high-value Taliban target hiding behind his many enslaved wives. That satisfaction was for the good of a long-awaiting nation. This satisfaction was for the good of his long-awaiting ego.
He was here, welcome or not, and while it wasn’t for any length of time, it was for long enough to leave her as battered and bruised as she once left him, and regretting she ever crossed him.
If he had to destroy his childhood home—the only thing he’d ever loved as much as he loved his parents, and yes, Chloe Morgan, too—then so be it. That was symbolism for you. Devastation all around. Again.
But this time he’d leave town on his own terms.
While dust particles floated in the stagnant air, Jameson stopped in the middle of the foyer, the open and airy dining and living rooms just beyond. Let his eyes adjust to the shadowed house. Let his heart adjust to the onslaught of memories.
Cracked wood shutters struggled to block out the late day sun along with the stunning water views through the windows lining the back of the house. Windows overlooking a yard lush with oak and maple trees, their leaves yet to change from green to orange, and robust pink hydrangea bushes, his mother’s favorite.
The white-capped waves of the Atlantic were a stunning backdrop to the landscape, the water turning indigo as it met the horizon.
The front door hung lopsidedly behind him, only the screws in the bottom hinge still biting into hundred-year-old wood casing. He left it wide open as he surveyed the house on silent booted feet.
He might not be welcome, but the fresh air was. The house had a distinct odor to it. Dusty, musty, and devoid of any real maintenance in years.
It also had a distinct loneliness to it.
Gone were the comfortable sounds, sights, and smells that reverberated through Maine Lane when he was a kid. Things as familiar to him as his own reflection. Whether he was near Maine Lane or far, they provided him a warm reminder of hearth and home.
But they were no more.
No mouthwatering scent wafting from the kitchen, a batch of his mom’s biscuits fresh out of the oven on a Sunday morning. No incoherent grumbling interspersed with quality, clear-as-a-bell cursing coming from the garage, his dad tinkering with an old lawnmower. No borderline inappropriate PDA while his parents danced to old Van Morrison songs on the back porch at sunset, unconsciously—or maybe consciously—teaching their young son what love looked like.
No priest reading last rites over his mother’s deathbed, then saying prayers about fearing no evil, his father’s low, keening sobs in the background. Also what love looked like.
Jameson stopped in the middle of the living room, his hands on his hips as he looked around. Taking in the entire two-story Cape Cod in one long, dusty inhale then letting it out on a shuttering exhale.
No more love. No more loss. No more life.
Maine Lane had been abandoned.
The house was as dead as his mother, and now, his father. And Chloe Morgan wanted to resurrect it. Talk about fucking irony.
And, to her credit, symbolism.
She owned it fair and square, according to the paperwork. A horse pill of bitter acceptance that wasn’t easy to swallow.
Owned it but had not changed a thing since she took possession.
White drop cloths covered most of the furniture while a layer of dust covered the rest. Some antiques and worth a few bucks, some second-hand several times over, and worth only sentiment. All arranged exactly as he remembered, the same as they were the day he was born.