Over a month ago, Mr. Woodman had stopped by the McHuids’ with two boxes for Ginger, and her father had brought them over that evening. She’d asked him to place them in her front hall closet and hadn’t opened the closet door since. She didn’t even know what they contained—some clothes, maybe, her running shoes, a nightgown, a few toiletries. Because her own house had been so close, she’d never left much at Woodman’s, opting to shower and dress at her own house most days. But there would be things, of course. Leftover things that would remind her of the life they’d shared.
Placing her gloved hand on the white gate, she unlatched it and pushed it open, stepping into the courtyard that Woodman had tended so lovingly. He’d planted flowers along the footpath she walked on now—they’d be bright and vibrant in a few months—and two cheerful flower beds in front of the porch. She stepped up the three stairs and onto the porch, where they’d rocked side by side many a Sunday evening. The paint was still as bright white as it had been when Woodman painted it, and the ceiling was still sky blue, just as she’d suggested. Putting her hand into her purse, she found the solitary key still at the bottom and pulled it out, placing it in the lock and twisting. The front door opened easily, and Ginger stepped inside, where thousands of memories bombarded her with enough regret to make her tears finally fall.
***
“Fuck!” Cain yelled as he threw the wrench across the bay and popped his thumb into his mouth. He’d pinched it badly because he wasn’t concentrating. But damn it, it was just about impossible to concentrate on anything lately.
He’d pushed her too hard.
Too fucking hard.
Before driving her home two weeks ago, she’d asked him to please leave her alone, and because his head was so fucked-up over the way he felt about her that night, he’d agreed. His reality? He couldn’t honestly say that he was pursuing her only for Woodman’s benefit anymore. It had started like that, yes. He’d shown up at her door out of obligation, to fulfill a promise to his dying cousin. But things had changed so quickly; he found himself living for the moments he spent with her, hoping she’d like his place, be proud of his business. He was coming up with ways to cross paths with her, to spend time with her. He was fucking falling for her, and the timing was shit. Total shit. She wasn’t even over Woodman yet. Not by a fucking mile.
And hell, he wasn’t a grief counselor, for fuck’s sake! He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. He was trying to help her get her old life back—church, job, riding—but the reality was that her old life was gone. G-O-N-E. And he had no right to tell her how to mourn her dead fiancé.
What the fuck did he know? Maybe it was okay that she didn’t seem to acknowledge that Woodman was actually gone. Maybe it was okay that she seemed normal except when Woodman’s name came up. Maybe it was better that she didn’t face it yet if it was too painful for her.
“I don’t know,” he growled, huffing out a breath and feeling like shit.
He missed her.
That was his fucking reality.
He missed her, and he thought about her nonstop, all the time.
Klaus had visited his family in Austria while Cain spent Christmas Eve and Day with his mother, thanking the Lord that his aunt and uncle had opted for Barbados instead. He’d been to his pop’s a time or two over the past week since he’d been home, and saw her white SUV going up and down the driveway from time to time, so at least she wasn’t staying holed up in her house again, which was good. And if she hadn’t backed out of the job, she’d be returning to work on Wednesday, which was also good. But none of that helped with him missing her.
He’d tried going out in Versailles, and even met a woman who seemed pretty nice. Cain didn’t have a whole lot of experience with dating—fucking was far more his style—but he was enough of a man to admit that he was lonely and needed some friends. Cassidy was a waitress at Kennedy’s, and last week he’d taken her out for dinner, but when she invited him into her apartment at the end of the night, he did something he’d never done before—not ever in his entire life. He said no. He thanked her for the date without even kissing her. And he left.
Since then, he didn’t have the balls to show his face at Kennedy’s.
Why had he turned down a perfect opportunity to fuck a good-looking woman?
Because Ginger’s face had appeared front and center in his mind. Blonde hair. Deep brown, sad eyes. The feeling of her arms around him. The soft skin of her fingers clasped in his. She hadn’t even come to terms with Woodman’s death, let alone gotten over it enough to be with someone else . . . but her availability didn’t seem to matter. Cain wanted Ginger. And though wanting Ginger in the past hadn’t prevented him from being with someone else, now it did. He wanted her, and only her.