Jameson ran a frustrated hand through his hair.
Maine Lane under new ownership was a travesty. In its one-hundred-year plus existence, it had never been owned or occupied by someone other than a Maine.
Until his mother got sick.
Jonah was forced to mortgage the house to pay her massive medical bills. Treatments that were only in the trial stages, and while promising—and their only hope when traditional medicine failed—ultimately unsuccessful.
But profoundly expensive.
The price of a life, in fact.
Even if the hardware store was only breaking even, the money Jameson sent was enough to adequately supplement his income and cover the payment. Unless he’d developed a raging cocaine habit, the money went somewhere, and he intended to get to the bottom of it before he went back to Florida.
The answer was in this room.
Finding it, however, amongst the precious memories, wouldn’t be easy. Then again, Jameson hadn’t lived an easy day since he left East Hampton.
The reason was standing next to him.
“Who cooks in the kitchen?” Focusing on the source of his anger was easier than acknowledging his pain.
She gave him a half-smile. “I’m a stress baker. The oven in the carriage house is broken, but even if it wasn’t, it won’t fit a cookie sheet.”
He remembered her passion for baking. This whole thing started because of it.
A gift of hand-delivered homemade cupcakes made by the girl next door. A girl he never formally met, she was so far out of his league. A popular cheerleader who, while one year younger, ran in different circles. They became inseparable that summer. Connected in a way that went above and beyond.
In a way that bound them forever.
But she cut that cord and, in doing so, left a wound inside Jameson that would never heal.
“What do you have to be stressed about?” Disbelief laced his tone. “What color your nail polish should be?”
“Mmm, more like what wedding do I have booked so I can collect a deposit and pay my utility bill before they shut off my power and still make payroll for my one and only employee?” She arched a brow. “But I do spend about thirty seconds looking though my collection of polishes before picking my favorite red and painting them myself.”
She held up her hand, and while her manicure was pretty, it wasn’t professional.
Maybe she was telling the truth about that part.
“I’m under a lot of stress, so I bake . . . a lot. I’m also an insomniac due to all that super fun stress, so I bake at night. In the middle of the night. Which leaves me very tired the next day and with pants that are too tight, thanks to the baking.” Her smile was cheeky. “My blueberry muffins are giving me a muffin top.”
After last night and that gratuitous peek-a-boo view of her toned abdomen, he knew there was no muffin top.
“You’re a party planner?” But he knew that already too.
Doug wasn’t a baker when stressed; he was a talker. And apparently, Jameson stressed him out. Before he left his office earlier today, the man basically told him Chloe’s life story for the last decade.
Considering Jameson wasn’t supposed to care, he listened.
“Yes. Mostly weddings,” she said, walking over to the window and opening the shutter slats. More dust danced on the sunbeams. “Bachelorette parties and bridal showers. I’ll take the occasional retirement, graduation, or anniversary party because, well, I already told you, I need the money.”
This money thing, and the lack of it, surprised him.
“I draw the line at kids’ parties, though. Clowns are a living nightmare, and renting a bouncy house is a liability nightmare. One gust of wind sends a kid flying, and the Yelp reviews alone would shut me down.”
She’d listed almost every type of event . . . except one.
“No baby showers?”
Looking at a spot somewhere over his shoulder, her body stiffened. And when she finally pinned him with a glare, her eyes spit fire.
“You really are an asshole, aren’t you?”
He rocked back on his heels, musing aloud, “So, that’s a no on celebrating the joyous birth of a child?”
“I hate you.”
“I know you do, cupcake. But not as much as I hate you.”
“Why did you come back here?”
“I was born here.”
“You left here. In a cloud of dust, you were in such an all-fired hurry to get away. After that exit, I don’t know what could possibly bring you back.”
You.
“This house.” He couldn’t very well admit the cold, hard truth, could he? Not even to himself. “My house.”
My girl.
“This used to be your house. It’s not anymore.”
Just like she used to be his girl. But not anymore.
Proving her ownership, she set a key on the corner of the desk, right in front of him.
“You can stay here instead of a hotel, if you want,” she offered casually, as if it mattered little to her what he did. “I’ll have Wyatt fix the door and leave you the bill. Pay it promptly. The man’s worth every cent.”
He snorted, unimpressed at the value she placed on her boyfriend’s repair work, but she simply smiled. When she turned to leave, he stopped her with one question.
“How can you do it?” His voice was low and lethal. Reserved for enemy interrogations.
“Do what?”
“Live here.” The question had ridden him since he found her in a tubful of bubbles and dicks.
She looked around. “I don’t live here.”
He gave her a knowing look. “In the carriage house.”
Her throat moved when she swallowed, understanding what he couldn’t—wouldn’t—say in words.
After all we shared there.
“I remember how it ended. Couldn’t forget that ending if I wanted to, and believe me, Jameson, I want to. Tried to. Would give anything to,” she stressed, pointing in the carriage house’s direction. “That ending wiped away a magical beginning, don’t you think?”
“Because it became inconvenient for you.”
Her head shot back as if he’d struck her.
“Takes a cold-hearted bitch to compare one to the other,” he added. “Our beginning to our ending.” It was apples to oranges. Love to hate.
Life to death.
It took her several seconds to formulate a response, while he regretted his outburst. Almost.
“If I am, then it’s because you made me that way. And you can call me all the nasty names you want. Blame everything on me. But it can’t hurt worse than what I’ve been through, thanks to you.” She patted her chest, right over her cold heart. “Made me stronger, though. Gave me the muscles I need to carry this big old grudge for the last ten years. Feels good to finally put it to good use.”
With that, she spun on her black suede heels, not stopping until she was standing at the broken front door.
“As I said, you can stay if you want. But you’d best remember you’re a guest in my home, and if you ever call me a bitch again, I’ll knee you in the chicklets so hard, you’ll never even dream of doing to another woman what you did to me. You won’t be capable of it, what with the damage to your balls and all. You’ll be broken.”
She nodded at his crotch for good measure, and he had to stop himself from laying a protective hand over his lap.