Honey Pie (Cupcake Club)

chapter 5


Dylan signed the deliveryman’s invoice, grunted his thanks, then used a utility knife to slice through the tape on the box he’d just been handed. He lifted out the vintage teak dorade box with a bronze cowl vent and carefully removed the packing material. “Damn, but you’re pretty.” He turned it so the sunlight glinted off the sleek, shiny finish, then smiled as he walked back up the crushed shell driveway.

His sailboat sat on its trailer at the far end, closest to the house. “Look what I bought for you,” he said as he skirted the work bench, stepped over an assortment of tools, an overturned bucket, and Lolly, who lifted her head, sniffed once, realized whatever he had wasn’t edible, and plopped back down in the shade to snooze.

“Not for you,” he told the dog, then climbed up the ladder and stepped onto the back of the boat. “For you.” He lifted the antique ventilator in a toast to the carved mermaid mounted above the cabin door.

Two years he’d been looking for just the right piece, combing online auctions and sale listings on several boating sites he frequented. So, naturally he hadn’t found it on any of those. He’d found it on an ad for an old junker of a sailboat. In its original form, the junker had sported gorgeous hand-carved woodwork, the kind of craftsmanship rarely seen in the modern times of sleeker, faster, shinier. The owner had wanted to sell the boat “as is,” all or nothing. It had taken Dylan the better part of the past six months to wear him down. Well, that and the fact that no one else had put any kind of offer on the old thing.

Of course, he’d also advised the old man that the boat was beyond salvaging. He’d advised the owner to consider putting it up for parts as he’d likely make more money (any money) on it that way, and had been gratified to see that very ad posted just last week.

Ross & Sons had still been down near the docks when he’d first discovered the little teak beauty. His boat had been parked right out back, in easy reach to work on when there weren’t any cars in for servicing. And simply to look at when the frustrations of the job got the better of him. Someday he’d get her out on the water, but he was perfectly content to keep tinkering on the boat until he had her restored to the vision he’d pictured in his mind the day he’d laid eyes on her.

He could still recall his brother Mickey sneering at his decision to blow all the money he’d saved up for an old Mustang on a boat instead. Too drunk to hold his tongue, his old man had stood up for him, and had paid the price for it. Mickey had stopped accepting parental feedback the day he’d figured out he was bigger, stronger, and faster with his fists than the old man. Since their dad was usually on his way to passing out drunk, or already passed out, even Dylan, who was six years Mickey’s junior, could hold his own against the old man by the time he hit puberty.

Of course, Donny Ross hadn’t always been a drunk. There’d been a time when he’d been a pretty damn good mechanic and a decent man to boot. Better than his own old man or his uncle. Dylan’s grandfather, Tommy, had been proud of his son . . . but of his own brother, Uncle Dick, not so much. Then again, Dick usually had a beer in one hand and a nasty observation at the ready, so it wasn’t a surprise that he’d felt threatened by the father-son duo. Dick was a mean son of a bitch who’d never married, much less procreated—a fact that Dylan, in the short time he’d known the man, had thought was perhaps the only fortunate thing that had ever happened to the guy. In fact, the story went that Dylan’s father had been proud of the fact that he hadn’t followed the Ross family tradition, in which at least one member of every generation lost the battle with the bottle.

Unfortunately, that had changed after the sudden death of Donny’s father, followed by his wife—Dylan’s and Mickey’s mother—abandoning them, and Dick landing himself in jail for shooting a jealous husband who’d come after him when he’d found out Dick was the guy who’d banged and banged up his wife. Fortunately Dick hadn’t killed the guy.

With his dad dead, Dick in jail, and his wife gone without looking back, unable to deal with Mickey’s temperamental outbursts and having another small one underfoot, Donny had cracked.

By the time Dick had gotten out of jail, Donny had claimed a permanent place on the Ross Family Drunk roster. He wasn’t a mean drunk, just a sad, sorry, pitiable one.

And Dick was back to drinking again before his first parole meeting.

Mickey was fourteen when Uncle Dick wrapped his car around a tree . . . and he rose up to become the man of the house. Young Dylan had quickly learned that life could, in fact, get worse. He used to dream of the day he could run away from home.

When that day came, he’d stayed. Someone had to protect their dad from Mickey’s rages. With or without alcohol, Mickey made Dick look like a choir boy when it came to getting himself into trouble.

For years, the islanders thought it was Donny abusing Dylan, and that Mickey was just a chip off the Ross family block, brawling with his old man. There had been no point in explaining that Donny was as much a victim as Dylan was, and Mickey was the current tyrant in residence. When Dylan wasn’t feeling guilty for wishing his brother would do something bad enough to end up in jail like Uncle Dick had, he was feeling guilty for being so damn angry with his father. He couldn’t forgive his dad for not being strong enough to handle life, to handle Mickey. To love and take care of Dylan.

“And why in the hell I’m thinking about any of that mess, I have no idea,” Dylan said, scrubbing a hand over his face. What he did know was that fifteen years ago, this boat had been his salvation. If he couldn’t leave home and leave his dad behind, he could, at least, run away to work on the boat. Many a night he’d slept on board, behind the repair shop, lying on his back on the deck, looking at the stars, listening to the gulls, the sound of the water, and imagining what kind of life he’d have if he could do anything he wanted.

Turned out what he wanted to do was fix cars. He was good at it. Even better than his father and his grandfather. Plus, cars didn’t drink, they didn’t punch, kick, scream, or shout. They didn’t make his life a living hell. Instead they’d been the one thing that made his life tolerable. They made sense. If they were broken, it was just a matter of figuring out what was wrong and fixing it. And it felt damn good to know he could fix something. Because he sure as hell couldn’t fix his family.

Dylan had been running the shop pretty much by himself by the time he was sixteen. Mickey was never around, and only came by when he needed to take money from the office safe or steal parts he could sell for booze or drug money. He’d never had any real interest or inclination to work on cars . . . or to work at all.

Their father had passed away from a heart attack right after Dylan’s twenty-first birthday, and Mickey had finally landed himself in prison eleven months later. Only then had Dylan felt like his life was his own, to do with as he pleased. Unlike Dick, Mickey wasn’t ever getting out. Dylan had tried to see him, see if maybe hitting bottom, losing their dad, and being the only family they each had left had finally shaken some sense into his brother. Mickey had refused to see him. And, family or not . . . Dylan hadn’t tried again. What was done was done. Mickey had lasted twenty-two months inside before getting himself killed.

So, for a peaceful ten years now, it had been Dylan, the shop, and the sailboat. Well, and Lolly. Dylan hadn’t wanted the damn dog, but she’d been hanging around the docks all last summer, and as the fall had turned into winter, she ended up crawling under his bay door to sleep in the garage at night. And if, after a while, Dylan left some scraps from his lunch or dinner behind, who was to say if she helped herself to them, too?

Then the fire had happened. An electrical fire in a neighboring building got out of hand. It had been a chilly, windy night, and sparks had flown, burning bits of the engulfed building had landed on the old roof of the garage, and it had gone up, like so much tinder.

That same night Dylan had learned a thing or two about himself. The only thing he’d about killed himself to save before the building went completely to ash, was the damn dog. Even the boat, fortunately under tarp for the winter, hadn’t been the first thing on his mind when the call from the fire chief had woken him up. Just the damn dog.

Part black and white border collie, part who the hell knew what, she wasn’t the standard of canine beauty by any stretch, but that didn’t matter to Dylan. Almost five months later, her fur was coming back in where it had been singed off on her side and left hind quarter where the burning beam had fallen on her. She still limped a little and even though the vet said she likely wasn’t more than a few years old, she slept more than she used to. The vet bills had been staggering, but old Doc Jensen had asked Dylan only one time if he wanted to put the homeless mongrel down. Apparently something in Dylan’s expression had the old doctor nodding . . . and seeing to the dog’s needs.

When asked her name, Dylan had answered on the spur of the moment. He’d always given the dog a hard time, complaining that she was always lollygagging about. And Lolly had just popped out. He hadn’t even been aware that he’d already been thinking of her by a name until that moment. If anyone asked, he’d referred to her as the thousand dollar mutt—because that’s what it had cost him to fix her up. He’d figured she owed him companionship after that, so it was only fair he keep her with him so she could fulfill her end of the deal.

He glanced over at the peacefully sleeping mutt. “You’re sleeping on the job,” he called down to the dog, but he smiled as he turned back to the boat and his prized new piece of equipment. He could already envision how it would look, mounted on the—

Movement on the road caught his eye. “Well, holy hell. What’s she doing here?”

Lolly didn’t seem to have an answer for that, either, but she was a damn sight more interested in finding out than Dylan. She hauled herself up and trotted crookedly down the driveway with her tail wagging to greet their guest.

“Look, but don’t touch,” he muttered after the dog, finding himself somewhat curious about how Miss Skittish would respond to the friendly canine overture. Dylan hadn’t been a pet owner long, but he already put a lot of stock in how people responded to Lolly. Of course, she had never met an enemy. So it was all on Honey.

Honey Pie, he recalled Alva calling her, a nickname bestowed by her aunt Bea. Sounded like something you’d call a happy, free-spirited little youngster. Turned out he didn’t have any part of that right.

He watched as she rolled her bicycle to a stop—controlled this time—and immediately held the back of her hand down for Lolly to sniff. Lolly being Lolly, she simply licked Honey’s palm and barked once in happy greeting. Unlike Dylan, the dog loved company. He figured the only reason she hung out with him was to use his garage as a means to get attention from his customers. It worked, too.

Honey laughed and gave the dog’s head a good scratch. “Well, aren’t you a good girl?” she crooned. “Coming out to meet your guests.”

Lolly barked again, then trot-limped back up the drive, tongue hanging out, looking proudly at Dylan as if to say “look what I found!”

Dylan was only half paying attention to the dog. He was still hung up on the sound of Honey’s laugh. The woman he’d first met in his garage hadn’t seemed capable of such a sound, and their meeting earlier hadn’t changed his mind all that much. It was possible he’d been too busy noticing how that filmy, flowery skirt had clung to her legs when the steady island breeze picked up, making him wonder if perhaps he hadn’t been too quick to pass judgment on her body as average. Now she was wearing a green T-shirt and some kind of rolled up jean shorts, proving he hadn’t been wrong about those legs being noteworthy. “You changed your clothes.”

Her smile didn’t fade, but it did turn wry.

Damn if he didn’t like that, too.

“Yes. Seemed to make more sense in this heat. You’re working on your boat.”

He tried not to let his lips quirk, but he had to work at it. “If I want to sail it someday, I have to do that.” He set the dorade down, but didn’t climb down off the boat. “Now that we’ve stated the obvious, are you here for a reason, or were you just pedaling by?”

“For a reason,” she said, not bothering to climb off her bike. Since she had to look up to talk to him, she shaded her eyes with a hand to her forehead, which only served to make those eyes of hers even spookier looking.

It annoyed him that he was noticing that . . . or anything else about her. Batshit crazy didn’t simply change with the change of an outfit. “And that would be?”

“I went by the garage after talking with Lani, but it took longer than I’d realized, and you’d closed up for the day. Alva told me where you lived and that you wouldn’t mind if I stopped by. Said you’d most likely be working on your boat.”

He sighed. Miss Alva was going to have to make a lot more than jelly rolls if she wanted to get back on his good side.

“Since my car is going to take a while, I was hoping to get more of my things out of it. All of them, actually, if I could.”

“I open again at seven in the morning.”

“I’m taking a cab over to the county offices in the morning.”

“Courthouse doesn’t open till nine.”

She didn’t ask him how he knew that.

Just as well. If she stayed on the island much longer, she’d know all about his family past anyway, and just how often he’d had to deal with the county courthouse. And why.

“Well, okay. Would it be possible to meet you a few minutes before you open, like six forty-five, and maybe get some help driving the stuff over to the B&B? I’ll be happy to pay you for your time.” When he didn’t respond right away, she added, “Actually, I’d be happy to ask anyone other than you, but you’re the only person I know with a truck.”

He had to work not to smile then, too. “If it will all fit in your little car, it will fit in someone else’s car.”

“With some planning, sure. An open bed truck would just be a lot faster and easier. My car is in your shop. Where your truck is. Every day.” She waved her hand. “You know what? Never mind. I’ve only met a few folks at this point, and just thought . . . but that’s okay. I get it. I’ll figure something out.” She bent down and stuck her hand out. Lolly happily obliged and trotted right back over.

Traitor. To Dylan’s surprise, the dog slowly sat, favoring her hip, then lifted her paw, something she hadn’t done since the fire.

Honey, clearly delighted, took Lolly’s paw and gently shook it. “Well, at least someone has that nice island hospitality my aunt was always telling me about. What a sweet girl you are.” She gave Lolly another scratch behind the ears. “Go work your charms on that guy, will ya,” she said, voice lowered, but still loud enough for him to hear—which wasn’t by accident.

Lolly barked as if in complete understanding. And, knowing the dog, Dylan wasn’t too sure she didn’t.

“I’ll try to get Mr. or Mrs. Hughes to come over with me first thing in the morning. If it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.” She put one foot back on a pedal to turn around, which was when he noticed she was wearing beat-up red Chucks.

He recognized the classic high-top basketball sneakers because he still had his own ratty old pair.

Lolly barked once at her retreating form, then again, up at Dylan. “Oh, for Chrissake.” He braced a hand on the side of the boat and jumped down, wincing as he bent his knees to absorb the impact. “Hold on. Just—hold on.”

She skidded briefly on the crushed shells, but stopped and stayed upright, then looked back over her shoulder at him, and he felt that . . . thing again in his chest. For the life of him, he couldn’t rightly say there was a single thing about her that should stir anything in him except a great deal of wariness. Her shorts were baggy, and rolled up the way they were, as if recently hacked off, wasn’t the most attractive thing. Her legs were, well, they weren’t hard to look at, but they were almost translucent in their whiteness. Her dark green T-shirt, also baggy, bore some colorful company logo that, from where he stood, looked like a gnome . . . or something. Her hair was in a single ponytail, again. No makeup. No sunglasses, either. Just the big, clunky horn rims. Her eyes were an attention getter, but her face was as fair as her legs. He hoped to hell she was wearing sunscreen.

“Let’s just get it done now,” he said, snagging his keys from the makeshift tool bench. He slapped his thigh. “Come on, Lolly.”

More active than he could recall seeing her in months, the dog all but high stepped it over to the truck, prancing back and forth in her uneven gait.

“Lolly,” Honey said. “I like it. Suits her.” She climbed off her bike, then took a quick two steps back as he reached for it.

That was all it took to shake off the odd moment of awareness and get him right back to reality. “Just putting it in the truck bed.” Why it pissed him off that she got all freaky again he couldn’t have said, but it did. He got that it apparently wasn’t personal, but it felt insulting as hell, all the same.

“Right, thanks. And, listen . . . I do appreciate this. I meant what I said, about paying you for your time. I really didn’t just mean for you to drop everything and—”

“Get in.” He put the bike on its side in the truck bed so it wouldn’t slide. Then he bent down, scooped up Lolly as she wasn’t up to jumping yet, and set her down in the open area between the bike and the cab of the truck. “Be a good girl,” he told her and got a bark in response; then he climbed on the driver’s seat.

Honey paused for a moment, then the engine gunned to life and she leaped toward the passenger door and climbed in. “I really do appreciate this,” she said again, but one look from him and she snapped her mouth shut and put her seatbelt on. At least she understood when not to press her luck.

They drove the short distance in silence, which gave him way too much time to think about how she could go from . . . well, ravaged, the first time he’d laid eyes on her, to jumpy and nuts in his office, to essentially normal and sociable today. Essentially normal. She was still jumpy. What’s that about, anyway?

He recalled, far too easily for his liking, the way she’d looked at the bakery shops, and the way she’d trembled as she’d looked at all her worldly possessions packed in her ancient car. Maybe it had just been the fatigue of driving cross-country.

He resisted the urge to slide a sideways glance at her. He knew Bea had talked about her niece being an artist of some kind, but he’d never paid any real attention to the chatter. Just folks bragging on family, which . . . well, it was understandable why he didn’t follow that much. Her artsy side might explain her rather off-the-wall wardrobe choices. Artists were often eccentrics, weren’t they? Hell, maybe that explained all of it. What it didn’t explain was why he gave a crap.

He turned off the town square toward the channel road, then into the alley that ran between the shops. He shut off the engine, got out, and scooped up Lolly from the back. She trotted over to the back door and waited for Dylan to unlock it.

“She seems right at home here,” Honey said as she came up behind them.

“She usually comes to work with me, but it’s been too hot lately.”

“What happened to her back leg?

“I noticed the limp,” she added when Dylan glanced at her. “And the fur growing back. Is she okay?”

Given the speedy island grapevine and the fact she was stuck on Sugarberry for at least the next week, Dylan knew there was no point in changing the subject. “The old repair shop burned down about six months ago. She got caught in the fire. Beam fell on her hind quarters.”

“Oh no, that’s awful.” Honey immediately squatted down and gave Lolly some extra love, which, naturally, the mutt lapped up. “You poor thing.” She looked up at Dylan. “How did she get out?”

Dylan unlocked the door and went inside. The sun was setting and it was still damn hot. Even hotter in the closed work bay. He went over and rolled up the bay door to let the evening breeze move the muggy air around a bit while they transferred her stuff to his truck. And managed to avoid answering her question. “I’ll get the keys.”

“You know, I wondered why everything looked so clean and fresh. I mean, for an auto repair shop. Given the name, I figured it wasn’t likely a new business.”

He stifled a sigh when he realized she was following him. “It’s not.” He flipped the light on and crossed to the wall next to his desk and the row of hooks used to keep the keys on the cars in for service. He didn’t normally lock them up when they were locked in the service bay overnight, but since it looked like she had all her worldly possessions in hers . . . he’d figured better to be safe than sorry.

He snagged her key ring—it was easy to see with a big red and white spotted mushroom hanging from it—and turned to find her looking around the office.

“I’m guessing you’re the son of Ross & Sons.”

“I’m the owner, the only Ross left,” he said. And hoped like hell she’d leave it at that. She’d hear all the stories at some point, but she wasn’t going to hear them from him.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I lost both my parents. My dad to a heart attack when I was nineteen, and my mom in a car accident two years later.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, uncomfortable.

“Thank you. Aunt Bea was the last of my family, so her passing sort of brought it all back. Do you have other relatives on the island still?”

“Just me.” He would have brushed by her, but didn’t need a repeat of what had happened the other day. He jingled the keys and nodded toward the door. “Let’s get to it.”

“Right.” She went on through to where her car sat, then stepped aside so he could unlock it. “Some of it’s fragile, so—”

“Are the boxes marked?”

“Well, no. I didn’t think anyone would be handling them but me. Just—here, I’ll hand stuff out to you, okay?”

He backed up so she could step in, and he noticed her fragrance for the first time. It smelled like . . . sandalwood. Or something like that. Woodsy, earthy, with a bit of spice to it. Nothing flowery or feminine. He thought again about how he’d misjudged her based on a name. Seemed he was making a habit of it. He had to admit, the scent suited her. A little offbeat, a little bohemian, and unexpectedly sultry.

“Um, here?”

He snapped out of it and realized she was juggling a box from the car toward his waiting hands. He took the box.

“Not fragile,” she said.

“Then stack another one on top.”

She dragged out another one and carefully put it on top.

Careful not to touch him, either, he noted.

“Fragile.”

He said nothing, just made his way through the open bay door to the back of his truck and set both boxes in the open bed, then slid the top one off and tucked it up by the cab. He went back inside and stood behind her, ready for the next batch, trying like hell not to notice there was actually a very fine curve to her backside, where the baggy shorts had pulled snug as she reached farther into the car’s interior.

He was still trying like hell not to notice when she backed out and swung around with several stacked boxes in her arms, only to smack them right into his chest. “Oh! I didn’t know you’d come back. I didn’t hear you.” The boxes bobbled wildly. “Fragile!”

He had no choice but to grab her arm with one hand and use the other to trap the boxes between their bodies until she steadied herself.

Her eyes shot wide as his hand wrapped around her arm, and her mouth opened on a silent gasp.

“I’ve got them,” he told her, keeping his gaze level on hers, hoping to keep her from going into . . . whatever the hell state she’d gone into the last time he’d touched her. “It’s okay.” He heard the edge to his words and tempered his annoyance, which was really just a cover for concern. He didn’t want to deal with another one of her episodes, but didn’t want to see her deal with one, either. “I got it,” he repeated calmly and quietly when she simply stared at him, seemingly frozen in place.

“I’m sorry.” The words sounded strangled. She didn’t move or let go of the boxes.

So he didn’t—couldn’t—let go of her, though he was sorely tempted. If he’d thought her eyes were spooky before, something in them now downright gave him the chills.

“Let me go,” she said, the words tight, almost forced, but with an edge of desperation.

“Can’t do that, sugar, until you let go of the boxes. I’ve got ’em.”

She continued to stare at him, her gaze boring straight into his.

“How ’bout on the count of three,” he said, wishing like hell whatever it was she was suffering from didn’t tug at him. But damn it all, it did. “One . . . two—”

She started trembling, then abruptly jerked her arm free.

If he hadn’t been paying such close attention, he’d have dropped the boxes. He almost did, anyway. With his other hand under them, he managed to steady them, but his attention wasn’t on the boxes. It was on her sheet-white face, her eyes wide with terror or horror as she stepped back, only to bang up against the car. He couldn’t have said why, but he was pretty damn certain if the car hadn’t been there to block her retreat, she’d have turned and taken off at a dead run.

Operating on instinct or his own brand of sudden onset insanity, he shoved the boxes on top of her car and shifted his body—without touching her—so she was boxed in. Not with the intent of scaring her, but with the intent of making her feel secure.

“All right, darlin’. It’s okay. You’re fine. It’s all good, sugar, you’ll be just fine.” He talked to her much the same way he’d talked to Lolly when she’d been anxious and scared coming out of the anesthetic after her first surgery. Gently, but firmly. “Nothing bad is happening. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

He wished he understood why she went from normal chick to crazy chick like she did. It obviously had something to do with coming into contact with people. Not dogs, apparently. She’d spoken quite naturally and calmly about meeting Lani, Alva, and Barbara Hughes, too. Maybe it was just men—which meant, he belatedly realized, it was highly likely at least one of his gender had done some not-so-nice things to her. In the recent past perhaps? Who the hell knew. He was an auto mechanic. He fixed engines, not people.

Still, he felt a bit bad for being so pissed off about it all. He should have figured it out sooner. He remembered the way she’d stared at him when she’d said, “I’m not crazy,” as if willing him to believe she really wasn’t the loony tune she’d seemed back in his garage.

“I-I’m . . . s-so . . . s-sorry,” she said, stuttering the words, trembling even harder, jerking his complete attention back to the present. “About . . . the fire. That’s terrible. Who’d do that? Only . . . no, it was electrical. The storage place, next door? It was so windy. And your garage—” She gasped. “You ran in! You ran in when it was burning. Why, why would you do that? What was worth saving that you’d risk—oh no! Poor Lolly. Poor baby. Oh my God. If you hadn’t gone in—”

She was talking and looking right at him, though it was as if she could see straight through him. Or straight into him. She clearly wasn’t in the here and now, anyway, nor was he quite sure she even knew what she was saying. It was as if she was a million miles away in some other reality only she could see. Except the things she was talking about were very real and specifically about him. She had the details exactly right.

“It’s okay. Lolly is okay.” He thought if he responded rationally, calmly, maybe it would calm her. He wanted nothing more than for her to snap out of it. He honestly didn’t know what the hell was happening or what might have happened to her in the past, but at the moment, all he wanted to do was get back to the business of moving her things over to the B&B and getting her out of his personal space. Permanently. He’d pay to expedite the parts for her car, whatever, but this was way more than he wanted to deal with. “It was an electrical fire,” he told her, firmly, if gently. “Wiring shorted out in one of the storage units, and yes, wind carried the sparks and set my garage on fire. It was an accident.”

“Everyone is okay? Lolly—she’s trapped!”

“Honey,” he said, a bit more sharply than intended, but he had to snap her out of this . . . trance, or whatever the hell she was in, and he wasn’t about to risk touching her to do it. “I got Lolly out. We’re both fine. You know that, you’ve seen it with your own eyes. Remember?”

Her gaze sharpened on his. “You almost weren’t. You could have died.” Her voice was a hushed whisper, laced with trembling horror as if she were there, in the moment, watching it all happen. “That beam, the second one, caught the back of your shirt. If you’d been one second later, getting to Lolly—oh, Dylan, you’d have both been lost!”

Okay, that stopped him dead. He gaped at her, stunned, and not a little freaked out. No one knew about the second beam. Not the fireman, not the local EMT, not the vet. He’d never told anyone about the burns on his back. He’d spent the night at the vet’s with the dog, had shrugged off—rather firmly—suggestions that he should be looked at for smoke inhalation, at the very least. He’d been fine. The dog had not.

He also knew, in retrospect, that it had been a lot easier to focus on what the dog needed than to think about the total loss of the business his grandfather had started, and the wildly varying emotional responses he was likely to have about that once reality began to sink in. So he’d put off thinking, as long as he could, anyway, and focused his attention where it could do some good.

He wished he could do the same with whatever the hell was happening right that very moment.

“Honey.” He barked it this time. “Look at me, dammit. Look. At. Me.” Sometimes when Dylan’s father had gotten really wasted, he’d have these waking nightmares about losing his dad, his wife, about Mickey. The only way Dylan could get him out of it was to jerk his attention in a clean snap. A slap to the face would have done it, but nothing would ever provoke Dylan to raise his hand to anyone, ever. So he’d used his voice like a verbal slap then, as he did now. “Focus,” he ordered, redirecting her. “We need to unpack your car. Lolly is in the truck, waiting.”

“Lolly.” Honey’s head jerked, but her eyes looked a little less wild, and her voice was somewhat calmer. She finally glanced from him to the open bay door and the truck sitting just beyond it. “She’s in the truck.”

It was the first rational thing she’d said, and his relief was profound. He focused on that, and simply shoved the rest aside. For the time being.

“Yes,” he said, still forcefully, but evenly. “She needs us to unpack this car. Do you understand?”

“Lolly needs us.” Honey looked back to Dylan. Her trembling had stopped and color was seeping back into her cheeks. “She’s really okay?”

“She’s fine. She great. You’ve seen her. Petted her. Do you want to go out and see her now?”

He expected Honey to nod and maybe stumble off toward the truck. At least she’d calmed down and wasn’t freaking out any longer. Instead, she was freaking him out. She reached up and very purposefully put her hands on his face. He went rigid, his heart skipping multiple beats as he waited to see if the trance would start all over again. He was a breath away from jerking back from her touch when she spoke.

“Are you okay?” She asked it softly, quietly. Her gaze probed his deeply.

He could still see some kind of disconnect as if she was looking, but seeing something only she could see.

“Your back . . . it healed, too?”

“It did, yes,” he said, not sure why the touch of her hands should be soothing to him. He should be the one trembling or shuddering.

As she splayed her fingers out so her fingertips brushed along his temples as if trying to deepen the connection, he felt a kind of... calm seep into him. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, matching her tone, keeping his gaze intently on hers.

Then she slid her hands to his chest, and his body leaped into awareness so fast, so hard, it almost left him breathless. It definitely left him speechless.

“Only not here,” she said, still searching his eyes. She pressed her palm against his heart. “Not here.”

He had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Or how to explain the way she was making him feel. She was crazy one second, disturbing the next. Then soothing, then . . . arousing him so swiftly he ached to the point of pain with the need to pull her against him, to cover that mouth, and dear God please, make her close those all-seeing, all-knowing eyes. The compulsion made no sense, but it took every last bit of restraint and control he had not to give in to it.

She lifted her gaze to his, and those clear green eyes were swimming in tears. It was like a punch to the gut, and hurt him in ways that made no sense. He didn’t even know her. But it about killed him to see it. What the hell was going on?

His resolve began to crumble, and he lifted his hands to cover hers, still pressed to his chest. “I’m fine, Honey,” he assured her. “Just fine.”

Her hands were cold, which surprised him. They had infused him with so much warmth, with comfort. He felt a fine trembling in her fingers, and noticed the same with her lips. But she didn’t say anything; the crazy didn’t come back. And, defenses eroding more rapidly than he could restore them, he took a step in, lifting one hand from hers, intent on cupping her cheek, on wiping away the tear there . . . but she slid her hands free, and broke eye contact before he could.

She looked somehow smaller, seemed more fragile, than she had at any point since he’d first laid eyes on her. And he had no earthly clue what to do about it . . . or why the hell it mattered so much.

Something had obviously just happened. To her. To him. Between them. A whole lot of something. As much as he’d like to just walk away and pretend it hadn’t, he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Batshit crazy? Maybe. Okay, certainly. But she’d gotten under his skin. And inside his head. And into a part of his past only he knew about.

The stunning intensity of his physical response to her was part of it, too. Not just because he wanted to act on it, but because it scared the living hell out of him. Crazy had no part in his life, not for a bizarre moment in his garage, and sure as hell not for a one night stand . . . or anything more. It was not his path, not any longer, and never again. But tell that to his still thrumming body, and his hammering heart.

He needed to figure it out. Figure her out. If he understood what was going on, then he could deal with it. With her. Then he’d get as far away from her as possible. And stay there. Because crazy had no place in his life. He had to believe that. Or go crazy himself.